Ten days back (April 7th) was my 30th birthday! Been up to my eyeballs in photography projects since then and only just got some breathing space to draw... always good to be back after a break, however big or small.
Brows, Upper Lids and Lower Lids. What are options to combine? I try to understand what Mr. Boxhead could express ;-) I have only chosen symmetrical expressions and keeping eye direction fixed.
Imagine a slime from an RPG game, like from Terraria or Dragon Quest. This little guy is like one of them --- but he's colored like neapolitan ice cream! He's cold, too --- but certainly not as tasty. It even has a rolled wafer in its back --- a useful weapon to fend off against foes! These guys want to be on your side, and will try to protect you.
I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root.
And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty.
This is compulsory education, after all.
So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past.
“Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge.
The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence.
Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen—
my scribble’s soft insurgency.
The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn.
Columns and corners chant structure.
Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter—
their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward.
I begin to draw.
Not their tardiness, but their motion.
A shoulder. A blur of sneakers.
A tilted head chasing freedom.
Feet flickering like seconds.
Each mark a pulse.
Each smudge a breath.
My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing—
trembling gently through the mundane.
This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed.
It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation.
It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock.
I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you).
Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic.
Not for polish—
but for presence.
This is how I remember I’m still alive.
Still growing.
Still watching.
Still choosing to see.
Because sometimes mental health looks like
a piece of scrap paper,
a moving pen,
and the simple, sacred act of
marking time with wonder.
Sunday afternoon sitting on the porch just doodling. I'd been drawing my neighborhood all day so I stopped and had a beer, and just started in on this.
