I need help in Anatomy!!! :O


I managed to subscribe to the new Autodesk Sketchbook and it is pretty nice! I have more to post of art, but if you are interested, I post some of it also on my tumblog.

The first picture features from left to right: Diana, some random girl who has a weird nose XD, and Meriwether Lewis looking pretty moody. The black and white sketches are of Meriwether Lewis with black hair rather than brown, simply because I have read books which portray him with either fair, brown, or dark hair. It gives me artistic license to experiment with his hair coloring. Ha.

I CANNOT wait until I start at UD and get some real anatomy classes. I’ve only taken “art appreciation” which offers hardly any help in this respect, thus my tragic proportions in human figures. 😦 😦


Not that kind of horse

6051e418cbd6bf0a65544866f95ec654I love Omnibus. I mean, these huge literature textbooks my mom discovered a year ago when I came back from private school after a semester. Just as a sidenote, I absolutely loved the Literature sessions in English class at the school, and Paideia (which is Greek for “the study of society”–or in other words, the study of such subjects, rhetoric, theology, philosophy, which makes a well-rounded classical student). I loved the Latin class, because it introduced me to this much beloved dead language which entrances me, and comes to me when I’m reading. (And I love the idea that if I ever got thrown back into ancient times I could converse with an Ancient Romans–I LOVE LOVE studying ancient Rome, some of it).

Back to Omnibus. The creative writing assignments always exhilarate me. For this particular assignment from this past Spring semester, my sister and I were assigned to write our own journal entries from the POV of a soldier during the War Between the States. I forgot the exact guidelines, but here it is for now!

Every moment of the advance, every scream of a cannon overhead, every burst of musketry—cab0a2656a6570f030d4b44ac80c3bdaevoked a new memory, a new image. Those images rendered themselves with the preciseness of a master artisan, gloriously depicted and I couldn’t put them out of mind. The faces! O, the faces of my comrades, soot-marked and pale or sallow-skinned, all of them faced towards me intently. They watched me for each signal and gesture. I might have been a hunted animal, they the prey. They depended on me for their triumph, their lives. So I inhaled, and did not look at them. I forced myself into a solitary world, a universe where I alone existed and moved. No one else checked my motions. Only I judged myself by myself, and my fear of other men did not possess me.
            There, far ahead, I could make out the stirrings of the opposite side, coming upon us from a stone barrage on the field rise.
            I started, for they rose out of the misting grounds like strange inhabitants of the earth who had not been buried very long. Their faces stood out to me, white and yellow dots of flame with dull navy caps hiding their expressions. I put my hand upon the pistol at my side, and I heard the imitating rustle around me. There! I had just signaled a battle. I nearly guffawed, wildly and stupidly. What would my father say to this, back at home with his bristling brows and thin mouth? He would never believe it of me. I am his youngest, his coolest son, not at all the war horse of my brothers’ ilk, but the mild-mannered pasture nag who dislikes activity. Nor was I the plow house, which was my laborious mother. And now I believed that I had become a god, Zeus with his lightning bolts, who signaled the thunderous roars to begin.
            I cursed softly, which always puts Ma out of countenance. “Here comes Hell,” I heard a boy hiss close by.
            “The Yankees are bound for that place,” came another fellow’s voice. I dared to look around at them, and noted their nervous movements, their meaningless gestures which they could not help. I stared at my own hands, and found them clenching the butt of my pistol. No one fired yet. We waited, waited, as those heavy-footed Yankees remained in a frozen line behind their wall. My own line paused, and gazed out across the narrowed width of field at our targets.
            The kid who foresaw Hell’s coming suddenly raised his musket. He pointed it with a jeer at the starred and striped banner over the blue caps.
            “Not yet!” I snapped quietly.
            His grin froze, and he reluctantly lowered his gun.
            When? When? But there came a messanger from the general, who informed me to wait for a follow-up division. Why? We were here, so plain in view. Those behind the barrage would not wait.
            They didn’t.
            I, supposed to Zeus, became a dethroned monarch, who lost command. I could not shout out at the dull-blue idiots over yonder to wait till I signaled the thunder and fire.
            They did it themselves, they fired into us.
            Men around me crumpled, and a shard singed my epaulet.
            The skin burned beneath. It seared as if scalding tongs pinched the skin beneath the cloth.
            Suddenly I stopped being the indolent field-nag. I became a bull, abandoned to rage, to animal wrath. I stepped forward and the men behind me surged, and we spilled forward in a single tide, a grey tide like the ocean caught beneath a silver moon.
            We went ahead in bounds and strides and sprints, no careful tread demeaning the ground we walked. O, caution drowned beneath us, beneath our pressing vehemence. We came athem, those nameless, faceless dull-blue caps beneath their flamboyant banner. I raised my pistol and shot till it fired no more. And then I knelt, one knee catching a piece of shrapnel. This made it awkward to hold the kneeling position, but I didn’t care. In heaven’s name I say that I didn’t care. It drove me on again with the suffusion across my eyes like a scarlet film and through it I watched the navy caps blurr and discolor, and some of them disappeared before my sight. I shot at each cap and hoped the bullets would pierce the cloth and the bone beneath. Better them than I, for I had a purpose. I write it here, for it is truer than ever, as I am able to pen it. I do admit it, I will admit it in the face of my father and brothers, though I will have nothing to say. They will see it for themselves—they will see how the plow-horse has one leg less than before, and he is all the better for it. He learned to defend, to run, to survive, and destruct anyone who would make a poor beast like myself its prey.


Done on my little Samsung Galaxy Note, with ArtFlow! Abby got Frozen for her birthday, and we recently watched it with our brothers and Grandma. Despite its flaws, I love this movie. And I’ve been introduced to a new possibility. Elsa and Hans! Frozen 2? Redemption of the beautifully wicked Hans? I think yes!


fanguuuurling over the beautiful art of Frozen. I was breathtaken when I watched it in the theater 😶

Elsa from Frozen! Sorry for its backgroundlessness. I’m going to get to hard work on that when my cintiq gets here, for it will be a whole lot easier than getting out oil paint and water paint and everything else (although I DO want to learn how to use those mediums. Badly.)

The Window

//Listening to “My Immortal” by Evanescence//

//My stomach growls//

//Decides to fangirl//

So, I started this series of sketchy drafts of a story I really, really want to make write. It would a pet project, oh yes, but it would just be fun to work on when I’m trying to escape writer’s block. Here is the basic intro/explanation for it:

This small novel was derived from the originality of a train of thoughts. I suppose they are not so original, as they are inspired by one man in history, whose personality and presence in history books has made such a lasting impression on me. I began to speculate on what Meriwether Lewis would be like as a modern man in modern American society. If he were suddenly displaced from his own era, saved by the Grace of God, and allowed to “start over” in 21st century America. In my mind he developed as the intellectual, smart, arrogant, materialistic graduate of the Ivy League, strong supporter of the Left-wing movements, and as a Jeffersonian-Republican-bordering-on-Libertarianism, he would probably be an East-Coast Democrat. I can quite see him as a rationalist, a scientist, who is often coldly evaluating, passionate and stubbornly defensive of his opinions and views. It would be funny, interesting . . . and endearing to use a generated world-melding (in this case, Time melding) plot, wherein a horde of Lewis’s contemporaries and himself are stuck in the 21st century, and for a while do not even realize it. Gradually, as his life tangles and twists, and curves back around in the direction it was going just before he “disappeared” in October, 1809, something begins to happen. A strange young woman walks into his life, the only one who knows who he really is. Strangely enough, Lewis and Clark of the history books have melted into the background, overshadowed by Zebulon Pike. Why? Because the peculiarity of this time warp has caused it, that’s why. But Lewis and Clark really did exist. It’s just that Lewis and Clark themselves don’t remember it. Their lives have suddenly been moved to the 21st century. And it will take a lot for them to start remembering their real lives back in 1809.

I’ve already written quite a bit for it. *Blushes*

And maybe, I’ve even gone on Pinterest, and found a dreamcast for it. Gosh. What is wrong with me . . . I can’t even . . .

But namely, I discovered Tom Mison (Sleepy Hollow), and I did experience a frantic moment when I lost my breath for several minutes . . . .

tumblr_lrwgbazDQa1qekb10o1_500-2I began to write. And it flowed out, me grinning at the laptop screen, because, well, I relish this little fan-fic. The only fan-fiction I’ve ever written has been for my historical crushes. Yep.

“There is definitely a resemblance,” Lewis said blankly, staring at himself, painted in oil.
                “Yeah,” said Mr. Payton, with a small grimace. “It’s pretty spooky.”
                Lewis looked at him quickly. For the first time in a while he thought over what he was going to say next. And then—he said it. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to take inventory of that painting.”
                “Thought you’d maybe like to buy a print of it in the gift-shop, show it around to your friends,” Mr. Payton mumbled.
                “No.” Lewis struggled to steady his voice. He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. His mind reeled, and almost went off balance. “Three hundred?”
                Mr. Payton stuck out his lower lip. “I might get yelled at.”
                “Make up an excuse,” Lewis snapped. “It was a mix-up, or something.” He felt himself begin to shake and sweat, though. His rough voice might not hold out. “And the other one—with William Clark.”
                “Not that one!” Mr. Payton’s right eyebrow went up high on his forehead. “The Clark family comes in here regular—they’d throw a royal fit if his portrait disappeared.”
                “Oh, and my—um, the Lewis family wouldn’t react?”
                “I don’t here of many Lewis’s coming into this museum. The curator, he says most of them living out West now.”
                “Oh.” Lewis felt himself deflate.
                “Look, you seem like some pretty important man, sir, but I’ve got to get back to work. The boss, he gets around this place, I’ll tell you—”
                “I’m not that important. And you’re an a-hole if you tell me that three hundred dollars doesn’t mean anything to you.” A hot flame of desperation began to work its way up Lewis’s spine. It spread sort of like a rash over his face—an odd, chemical rash he could not control. He thought, ‘I get frustrated rather too easily, I guess.’
                “Offering me three hundred dollars to lug an old painting to the basement? If you don’t call that—”
                “Never mind.” Lewis scanned the portrait again—and again. A part of him wanted to turn and hurry from the building. Another part of him wanted to stay and stand there, gaping at the uncannily similar man who was supposedly dead. Dead for two hundred years. 1809. And now, it was 2009.


He tried to act normal, as he smoothed himself over on the threshold of the little house. He promised himself that he would thank the gods every day on New Year’s Eve for a friend like William Clark. And then he laughed at himself.
                “Open the damned door, somebody,” he said through gritted teeth, as water droplets spattered on his forehead. His seventy-dollar coat from his designer on Pennsylvania Avenue was becoming damp, quickly.
                At last the door opened, and there stood the Clark’s trim housekeeper. Her lips parted into a polite smile, and she stepped aside for him to enter. He handed her his coat, and turned his head to survey the quiet foyer.
                “Mr. Clark is in the living room, with his baby boy, and Mrs. Clark is in the kitchen.”
                “Thanks,” Lewis said briefly, and headed towards the dim living room. All of the windows were opened, their maroon curtains setting a wine-red glow upon the leather couches.
                Lewis peered around the high coffee table and pack-and-play to where a large, red-haired man and plump, red-haired baby sat together on the floor. The baby leaned against his daddy’s chest, a complacent smile on his face. It didn’t go without mentioning to say that the face of that baby matched his hair. Lewis could not help but grin at the scene, although he lowered himself down several feet away on the couch. He squeezed his hands, twisting them back and forth, and didn’t even catch himself like he tried to do, in public. Somehow, he felt that he could be sincerely nervous or tight-strung or critical with Will. Will would understand.
                But the strange thing was—Lewis could never bring himself to discuss his love life—he couldn’t start talking about it now. Especially now. He resented the fact that he usually spent his Sunday nights at the Clarks, for lack of anything better to do. It truly hurt to admit that, and he rubbed his knees, while simultaneously rubbing at his brain. His brain could ache from all this reflection. It was aching. And Lewis wished vaguely that he had not gone out the night before.
                “Ribs for dinner tonight,” Will said, looking up from baby Merne.
                Lewis permitted the corners of his mouth to turn up. “A delight,” he replied.
                “One of your favorite things.” And then Will laughed.
                “I just can’t imagine you telling the Senator and his friends about you eating such a finger-food. They’re the kind of people who take mimosa and shrimp, or tofu.”
                “I have certain . . . digressing . . . tastes.”
                “Digressing!” Will gave a loud laugh, and baby Merne looked up with startled eyes. “I’d call ‘em revolutionary.”
                Lewis might have been sarcastic towards anyone else who laughed at him. But he just smiled and chuckled with his friend now. They always shared a moment of hilarity. It was nearly a tradition between them.


Lewis groped for some form of control of the situation. The only thing that he saw, possibly attainable, lay in her extreme sensitivity. But he had never been too adept at reading women. Somehow, he always mistook a glance to be a stare, a smile to be a telling expression of come-hither interest. Well. This young lady took herself seriously. He thought so at first, in spite of her timidity, her quietness, and the way her eyes frequently brightened with whimsical sparks. He opened the door for her, a gesture that he hoped would impress her.


“Memorium Press?” The very name was blatantly old-school. Lewis could barely suppress a smirk, even though he couldn’t take his eyes off this quiet young woman. Everything about him struck him as Conservative—her jacket, her black skirt, her blouse with its flowing front. Nothing showy, but it all came together, the colors complementing her dark eyes and hair, her creamy olive skin emphasized by the blackness of her skirt.
                “Yes—Memorium Press,” her tone was low, but firm. She gave a quick smile, thus showing the twin dimples in her cheeks.
                “So,” she exhaled, and it struck him that she was nervous. Very nervous. “I asked for an interview.”
                “I can,” Lewis said, in his warmest voice. She glanced at her hands, then right and left, and at last back up at him. Her thick black lashes fluttered. Lewis wondered if that was purposeful, but doubted it when her expression became sober.
                “Really? Oh, thank you!” She said coolly, and shook his hand. For some reason, he bowed slightly, and crimson rose into her cheeks and temples.
                “Tonight? I could take you to the new club that just opened on Congress Avenue. It would be no problem.” He decided to disregard her obvious Conservatism. No doubt, she was strongly Republican, some little girl from the Mid-West. He could tell as much by her accent.
                She gave a quick nod, and her flush deepened. Lewis decided to take command of the situation. “I know what Memorium Press puts out,” he said, rubbing at the leather of his jacket’s sleeve. “I daresay,” he grinned, in his most charming way, “that you will be fair, and not present me in a slanted light.” He tried to sound almost jocular, but she most seriously replied,
                “Oh, of course Mr. Lewis. Memorium Press is determined to present things—as they are. No personal bias.”
                Lewis could think of a sardonic response, but he refrained. He did not want to turn her off. If she was as honest as she said she was (and working for such a factual newspaper) she might very well describe him as a derisive egotist, one of those cocky Government bigheads. Sometimes he might have to slip into that role, but he wanted (women especially) to see him as a dedicated scientist and man of exploration. And of course—a man who was getting ready to settle down, still in the public life of course, but with an attractive bride to show off, some kids to boast of, for their intellectual competence–this lacking brought him up short
                “That is good to hear,” he said warmly. “I haven’t heard of Memorium Press yet, so excuse my—ignorance.”
                Her lips curved, for she caught his sarcasm.
                “I’m only interning for them right now,” she said frankly.
So they sent a little intern across my path—far too impertinent and full of themselves to send one of their better journalists. An intern! She’s just a kid—a college student. His warmness began to fade, maybe a little too rapidly.
                She lifted her head. “I’m a college senior—this is one of our credits, to graduate. Intern at a newspaper, local—well, Memorium Press is sort of local.”
                “Patrick Henry.”
                He vaguely remembered hearing that name. But he was wont to shrug it off. He studied the young woman a bit more closely.


flashes, flashing, flare (lighting up the night with my lamp and racing pen)

For lack of a better title, that actually sounds like a title. Because the post title I’m using sounds nooothing like one. Whatever.

this usually doesn’t happen. I mean, I’m usually not alone in the bedroom, but this weekend is an exception. My sister Abby (who shares a room with me), has flown away to TeenPact, leaving me here, to be a hermit, basking in solitude (JUST kidding, my sister. I miss you.)

My lamp is on, and there’s no one to tell me to “turn the freaking lamp down”. (But she doesn’t say freaking, usually).

My headphones boom “Neon Lights” by Demi . . . I have a Modern/Contemporia folder on Spotify . . .

I am in the blogging zone, a place of digital sunshine, flowers, and graphic exclamation marks. So. Here’s to kicking blogging-block to the curb. Farewell!

And . . . oh noes . . . my headphones are dying. Shucks.

54b2bde28d0068918dca0b604e9672fa (1)And now, here is some of my writing snippets that I’d care to sprinkle on now, as a (possible) blogging finality for the night. Probably won’t be the last word from me though. Shucks again.

It was an old joke that must have been over-exhausted by now. Even the puppet felt limp with it as Lydia pulled it out of her basket and examined its velvety material, the little bunny ears flopping forward on her palm.
            Grandmama tautly watched Lydia from her seat on the couch, shoulders bent forward. Not in the elderly stoop, but in the manner a person assumes when prepared to jump in, start commenting with enthusiasm.
            Lydia did not want to look up. She continued to watch the way the ceiling light glinted on the bunny-puppet’s velvet body.
            Lydia’s lashes stirred slightly, as with her slight effort to look away from this joke of a puppet. She would have to slip it on her hand.


“Darling, I couldn’t wait for you.”
Her voice pierced him, although she never spoke. He could read the words in her eyes.
His throat slowly began to swell, until he could not even imagine speaking, until the pain constricted his every other sense, even his vision. Her face became blurred, her pile of hair an inky smudge over her brow. And her eyes! Like caverns, and his dizziness prevented him from seeing their spark.

The following was inspired by these lyrics:

//You’re trying to save me, stop holding your breath

You think I’m crazy, yeah, well that’s my plan//

(“The Monster” by Rhianna and Eminem)

and these:

//But you tell me to hold on, you tell me to hold on,

But all innocence is gone

What was right is wrong//

(“Bleeding Out” by Imagine Dragons)


“Look, something’s coming! Okay? Something’s going to happen and we can’t do anything about it.”
            “We can’t?” He sounded, for the life of me, like a dazed child. Tears suddenly burnt my eyes.
            “Yeah.” Because, I realized just then that he was lost, confused, and his ties that rooted him to past entangled every part of him. It became so disgustingly clear to me and I couldn’t stand to look at him.
            All at once it was like I was the older one. I the firmly-grounded, while simultaneously my heart orbited out into oblivion wildly—he stood so near. His breath touched my cheek as his fingers brushed my arm.
            “If i have done anything to give you cause to—to run away . . .”
            Why on earth was he saying that? Something in his eyes frightened me. I did want to run away now.
            I shook my head mutely.
            A slow smile crossed his face, startling.
            “The day ought to be fair, sweet—sweet, pungent of other greater things, and you must think me clumsy.”
The tremulous music of his voice flowed down over me to the ground.