Sleeping till dusk wasn’t such a good idea after all. A quarter past four in the morning and I’m listening to “Best Friends” by the Perishers. Whenever I listen to the few songs that I have from this Swedish indie rock band, or to “Those Eyes” or “When the Weather is Fine” by Thirsty Merc, I’m always reminded the cold mornings in Launceston spent walking on Invermay Road up towards the university.
Waking up in a three by three metre bedroom which once was a dusty room with nothing but a desk and a couple of boxes, in a house at the back of a red paint shop in the industrial suburb that is Invermay. Reluctantly pushing the sheets aside only to get out of bed and step on the cold carpeted floors. Stepping out of my room and towards the bathroom to get ready, less than 10 steps away.
“Is it hard to be unknown? Is it dull to be alone? I’ve heard you’re turning into stone. Well, I’m on my way home." – On My Way Home, The Perishers.
Seeing my own breath as the double brick walls of the house built in the 1880s, just stood there all around me looking all strong and sturdy, but did absolutely nothing in insulating the house. Shivering as I headed towards the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of Nutri Grain, only to find myself shivering even more while having it with cold milk.
It does not matter which month of the year it was. No, the seasons didn’t matter all that much down in that island state. I recall having to put a jumper on even when it was only the end of February, the end of Summer, the beginning of Autumn.
“One may think we’re alright, but we need pills to sleep at night. We need lies to make it through the day, we’re not okay.” – Pills, The Perishers.
Taking at least twenty minutes to walk up the road to the university gym didn’t help much either. But it was these tracks that kept me moving, as odd as it sounds. They just fitted with the cold mornings so well.
But once in a while, when I’m not having to drag myself out of bed, I’d feel good about waking up early. The walk up the road would be totally different from the previous walk. With beats from Paramore, I’d march up the road, all pumped up and excited to work up a sweat, before grabbing a Subway sandwich on the way back home after.
Seafood Sensation. It always had to be seafood sensation on an Italian herb and cheese bun with tomatoes, onions, capsicum, and some olives. It always had to be a mix of Cheddar, Swiss, and Tasty cheese. I’d tell myself that the sub would taste better with three cheeses instead of one, when the real reason was that I never knew, and still don’t, know the difference between the three. Top it off with some sweet chilli sauce, salt and pepper, and you’re good to go.
“It’s you, why’s it always you and never me? I’ve never dared to let my feelings free; It’s you, why’s it always you and never me? I’ve never cared about honesty.” – Trouble Sleeping, The Perishers.
Perhaps this is the reason I stopped blogging this way. It always just takes too long to think of what to type, and how to type it out. Then things just got in the way. From events to travelling to everyday happenings, it became all about the pictures. Words became nothing but brief descriptions of the pictures, which were exactly what they were, photo captions.
I’ve just come to the realisation that I miss using words. Everything’s so abbreviated now. BWK for brickwork, DWG for drawing, SPEC for specified, and the list goes on. I miss writing. I miss sketching. Everything for the past few weeks, or this past semester, have been so digital. 3DS Max modelling and animation, Google Sketchup modelling, Adobe InDesign and Photoshop, AutoCAD drawings, one after another.
Don’t get the wrong idea, these programs are great tools to have at your disposal, but that’s all they are – tools. What really matters is what you’ve got inside you. Your thoughts, your ideas. From there, all you really need is a pencil you took from a hotel room sometime last year, and a free notepad you got with some gift bag from some company sponsoring something at university.
The many pencils I purchased back in February are still wrapped up in plastic somewhere. I don’t need them. But I most certainly thought that I would. Thinking that there would be alot of sketching going on this year. Sketching for ideas, sketching to past the time.
I miss sketching. I’ve already mentioned that earlier. Just sitting somewhere and focusing on something, translating that from one medium to another. I remember standing in a deserted alleyway on an Indonesian temple ground, sketching its boundary wall in the shade. Watching as every stroke of the pen left a white marking on the black-paged sketchbook.
The feeling of satisfaction you get after having spent at least half an hour working on it, then only to realise the many flaws that exist all over the page. It’s only a few days later do you look back at that page and say to yourself, “Hey, that actually doesn’t look too bad. In fact, it looks pretty darn good!”. It’s these imperfections that make them perfect, or so to say.
“You are your toughest critic; Don’t look at your work after you’re done with it, look at it a few days later”. Words from Ian Clayton – painter, funny man, hat collecter, and lecturer at the University of Tasmania.
(to be continued)