10/10 Alanis Morissette, Jagged Little Pill
Daily drawing 680
I was challenged to choose 10 music albums that defined my musical buds and I decided to draw them, in no particular order. Maybe it’s not the best one, but it’s most certainly one of the most meaningful for me ❤️Alanis
Hello again, Gale. I've mailed a photograph of the window with this letter. I hope both reach you safely on Par Tritus. Eclipse City thrives, contrary to Luncara's beliefs. Tell James that I've missed her. But the Jagged sets and my light is spread thin, so I must conclude this letter. Best wishes to you, James, and the king. Sincerely, Cyrus
So why didn't Empress Electric make it back from their first tour? The answer is simple. The daffodils. Without Gale to tend to them, to keep the Jagged at bay, it began to wake up. Few are aware that the Jagged is all that remains of Fate. Now he's waking up- and the whole realm will feel his betrayed wrath without the Sisters of Subconscious to protect them. Radiation is coming.
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.
Behind the Russian Church there is an abyss.
The moss and the rubbish are slippery and jagged old tins glitter at the bottom. For hundreds of years they have piled up higher and higher against a long dark-red house without windows. The red house crawls round the rock and it is very significant that it has no windows. Behind the house is the harbour, a silent harbour with no boats in it. The little wooden door in the rock below the church is always locked.
Hold your breath when you run past it, I told Poyu. Otherwise Putrefaction will come out and catch you. Poyu always has a cold. He can play the piano and holds his hands in front of him as if he were afraid of being attacked or was apologizing to someone. I always scare him and he follows me because he wants to be scared.
- Sculptor's Daughter by Tove Jansson
#dailydrawing #tovejansson
Ink on ultra white background highlighted in blue. Inspired by the challenges in life and compartmentalization of each challenge to better manage them all.
