Friday, 14 December 2018

Cute dream about being a sociopath

Had a great stoream tonight, almost a full movie. It was action and drama, but it was also realistically about me :D At first, not quite sure how, but somebody close to me was somehow involved with an international assassin/rogue agent – in the dream, like in a movie we meet him a character and find that he’s not a very nice person when his handler tells him he better stays known as British at the airport, meaning he better not gets found by the police and to achieve this, he uses silencer to shoot and kill several blameless police officers who are searching side passes. This man’s name is Mateo. He’s a young, handsome person, but a quiet, uncomfortable one. Why he is after someone I know I am not sure, but I get in his way and tell him that I can take a job if it means letting go of the leash of my friend/family member and as long as the job is about stealing books. He takes me to a forest where a rich man’s house is supposed to hold one. Yet instead of a simple lift job, this book is actually heavily guarded and the security are used to attacks, so they kill anyone whom they catch without any questions. I argue that I am neither trained, equipped, qualified or agreed for this kind of a mission, to which Mateo says I’ll just have to figure it out. We drive to the city, which is Paris or Bordeaux or one of the large French urban clusters; he is staying an African man in a small apartment when he is in this town and this African man is super friendly, they seem to be unusually close. The African man is slightly overweight, but he continues to admire the parts of his body that are fit and keeps fishing for (manly) compliments. He treats me less like a hostage and more like Mateo’s associate and seems to be a nice person. Though by now it’s evident Mateo is a sociopath and incapable of feeling anything, a handicap he regards as somewhat an allergy or something, he does not appear to be particularly antisocial. Sponging off his sociopathy, I sit next to him, watching him get stoned, saying I was hoping we’d at least fuck before we both get killed in a suicide gig. But he dozes off and I wander around the building, which is in a downtown, artsy district. I go through a small museum restoration studio and to a shop and conference depot, where two elder women, who are also acquaintances of Mateo, manage part of the museum. We go to have lunch in the park, talking – they can see I have some background in art history and are interested in my opinion. I complain to them I did not agree to work a violent job, but they have little to do with that, so they only offer advice that I flee, as he would not be interested enough in me to pursue me. Taking the advice, I wait until the museum welcomes a foreign female guest, which Mateo has been asked to take shopping for expensive gifts down the district. I see him in one of the elegant tiny antique shops and comparing him to the rich woman he is in the company of, I agree that although he is not very masculine, he does have a curious appeal to him (he is of Middle Eastern ancestry, so his hair and eyes are dark brown and he has red lips.). Using the crowd as a screen, I begin to walk towards the end of the shopping passageway, not looking back. By now, though, I am aware he’s sensed (if not seen) me and has begun following. I know as well that as soon as I start running, he will be able to pick me out of the crowd, same as cops can spot you, even if they couldn’t tell whom you were before. At the very edge of the shopping passage I charge and make for a sprint across the plaza. Mateo has the advantage of stamina – even though we start equally fast, the plaza is too long and I begin to tire. He catches me and we return to the African man’s flat. He lets me know that I will be invading the rich man’s house to get the book tonight. I ask to go to bed with him, even though I am really not turned on. He asks if I’m afraid and I say that I am worried he’ll disappoint me, the image of him having been built up so high by now. He retorts if shouldn’t I be worried about disappointing him? Then he chuckles: no pressure, eh? We have very brief, lacklustre sex, during which basically I am turning my head away, eyes shut and mostly holding my breath while he takes about a minute to get it done. It is the least sexy sex I’ve ever had. I wonder if this is how all sociopaths feel all the time. His condition unceasingly being contagious, I have by now also stopped perceiving the guards in the rich man’s house as people and see them only as moving pieces of a puzzle, or a rudimentary computer game, which I would not be above harming for my own gain. The dream ends when we drive back to the forest and I am looking at the lit house, almost all windows, costly looking, seeing plenty of armed men inside, moving a little bit like a complex lock for me to solve.

Booklet of paint

Made myself a chart booklet, because a lady on YT said if you're stuck while working, making charts and tests helps keep you warm. I now know what transparent and opaque means, in relation to w.c. quality :D It didn't use to matter, because I always used w.c. as one would use tempera anyway, my drawings having been too small and detailed for making the most of some proper waterworks.
       Schmincke not having Vintage Rose color, which is one of my fav, I made a few gouache alternatives into a macaroon tray. There was a cheap 24 piece w.c. set in a shop today, but having bought it, it's a bit of a beginner issue to the quality I'm operating on these days. Not the worst, but not the world leading either. But Drej was right about buying fairly cheap brushes sizes 1 and under, because it doesn't matter how good the bristle is, pushing that miniscule tip around paper that rough fucks it up within weeks. So it's just as well if you buy a one dollar brush or twenty, if you can use it for really thin line, as long as you can. 

Tuesday, 11 December 2018

Could not sleep AT ALL, some full moon shit or something (though Coke and cocoa peppered with coffee might also have had something to do with it ...) I know I had plans to draw all night, still on G's graveyard shift turn, but G couldn't sleep either, so he ordered me to bed at one. The day itself was miserable - an elder gentleman whom I was very fond of passed, a sudden shitty disease and that just pulls the rug out from under me every time, I hate hate hate death. There is no silvery cloud garden for me in my beliefs, no 70 virgin fuck-boys, no conscious make-over of the soul in another carbon frame. Deterioration, disease, death. Then no more. No person, no laughter, no more stories in their voice, no unique reactions or commentary on something you're dubious about. He had two amazing hunting dogs, clever as all, on their tiny short legs, walking them to the hunting ground usually on the same leash - they were adorable and the best we've had in the group. 
      I know you're supposed to remember people fondly and be grateful for the time you've been given to share with them. Well, remembrance is over-rated and gratitude is fake, time is always too short. To think I've lived more than half in the best of scenarios is too frightful not to cry. 
      So, could not sleep and was not allowed to draw. I've switched from the 'unable to copy Pinterest stuff' to 'able to copy Pinterest stuff', which is a step up. No wonder I am so obsessed with making paint - it's as close as one can get to painting without actually having to paint :D I wanted to read an eBook, but I only like horror lately and I'm not allowed to read horror when I'm in such a bad mood. The sex was not working either, we tried for about half an hour and it was fun enough, but gradually we just receded to embracing and then kind of dozing off - but not really sleeping either. I remember thinking G's alarm will go off at just before five, so then at least I'll be able to get up. Guess I finally managed to get some shut-eye towards morning, as I do remember the alarm, but then the dog woke me and she usually yelps at nine. In all, a miserable, sleepless night. 

Sunday, 9 December 2018


These are from Lettersparrow, me thinks...

I have fallen completely in love with the concept of these tiny fuckers: it hadn't occurred to me until I saw this on Etsy, by chance, really, (it was probably even advertised to me) - that you can create your own watercolors. In fact, it's exceedingly easy: all you need is the pigment and the medium. Both readily available at Schmincke. Had I seen them a month ago, and if I managed to order from China the tubs and half-tubs and the cutesy miniature tin boxes, I'd be selling these now on the fair. The 'travel' packages of paint. Completely useless as anything but gifts, of course, but just soooo damn inspiring. I've tested some of my existing watercolors for mixing (you certainly end up with a whole lot of browns), but even just with the primary colors and black - yellow, red and blue - and of course gold, you can make a massive pallatte and A LOT of it, as making it for just one tub would be kind of a waste. It's the same with handmade paper - when you're at it, you make a lot of it, because it's too messy not to prepare for bulk. What I'm saying is, I could totally do this. I couldn't sell them, because I fucking suck at selling even the loveliest of things, but I could do this. Ultimately I'd graduate to making my own pigments out of nature. Trick is in the grind. 

Friday, 7 December 2018


In the story I'm writing now, the stolen treasure is seed. Yuh, it is a double entendre, but it's not the porny seed that ultimately represents the spoils - it is a seed of a world tree, only one known left (because those fuckers are so old nobody even knows what brand they are.) Which got me thinking, 'seed' regarding trees is a very confusing term. It's not really a seed, is it? It does not require an egg to form baby tree, it's long been pollinated already during wood-in-bloom. It's much more of a nut or a pod or a stone at this point. English is a very cutting-the-corners tongue. Pips and all. Anyway, I put daisy SEEDs onto the paper. Technically, unless the ink or chemicals in the goo or ironing killed it, if you plant the lot, daisies will grow out. How adorable is that? :D

Making my own paper

Unused fair stuff

Monday, 3 December 2018

Pussy versus inertia

Incidentally sucker-punched my cat  O.o I wasn't planning on it and even if I did it would not work as flawlessly, but the cat is okay now and we can all go back to laughing about it ... 
       Thing is, Bishop tends to jump on people from the ground up. I know this and when I saw she was going to try it (I am wearing my hoodie now, in winter, but in summer my back is a map of ill attempts at climbing me by a retarded fucking feline), I wanted to raise my hand in a 'stop!' motion. Alas, she's already leaped at a praiseworthy 45° trajectory, elegant as only cats can be, at my face, which is around 5 ft up. My hand was still facing downwards at this point. Knuckles, meet kitty snout. Kitty snout, meet knuckles. Poor thing was punched so hard it fell out of mid-air like a log, like a statue in a still frame, arrested. Didn't even have time to meow or land properly. It took a little while of comforting and soothing her, though I suspect she'll be averse to leap assaults for a spell
       Out of courtesy, because we are decent human beings and do not condone jabbing animals, we left the room to piss ourselves laughing.