Bring back the analog!

Although I’ve shared something digitally every day this week, my hands-on self is bringing to my attention how much I miss doing analog work. By that I mean using tools like paints, markers, and paper.

Earlier this year, I used to get up in the morning to look through physical copies of magazines and would black out poems or write in new cartoon captions. Since I haven’t been doing much of that lately, the missing analog has become more evident.

Maybe it’s just that I miss my creative mornings, but I also know that using analog tools is cathartic for me. It helps me feel as though I’m creating, that I’m actually making something.

So, in order answer that call, I took my Posca markers earlier this week and started drawing what was in front of me. What resulted was a very Rugrats-esque depiction of my office supplies and wristwatch.

I was actually very pleasantly surprised and, now seeing the Rugrats logo, I might go back and fill the shapes in with that iconic purple and teal.

quick thoughts

Unit B6(12)

Speaking of productivity, I just finished watching The Little Prince on Netflix.

The idea of “growing up” and what that all means has caught my attention today.

According to the film, us adults are “a bit odd” as many of us fixate on things that really aren’t “essential.”

Watching the film this time around, I identified with Mr. Prince, the grown up version of the Little Prince, who finds himself sweeping chimneys and disconnected from his younger self.

He’s forgotten his youthfulness and sense of wonder. His whimsy is no more and has been replaced with obedience and boundaryless work. All of his previous light has been dimmed in pursuit of pleasing Mr. Business.

But there is hope. He ends up finding his way back to himself and remembering all that was once his. I hope I do too.


The flight that was

I made it to seat 34E, three rows from the back of the plane, to find that my entire row was empty. It was a relief since the rest of the plane was full, but I knew that my neighboring passengers would soon arrive. Only one of them did, and her name was Terra.

She was sweet from the start, bearing with me as I switched seats in order to leave an empty seat between us. We reveled in the extra space and later clinked our plastic airline cups in celebration of it. We started our seven hour flight off well.

About midway through our trip, the pilot turned the seat belt light on and announced that we would be experiencing “moderate turbulence” for the next fifteen minutes. Terra turned to me and wondered what that meant.

As though he had heard her, the pilot then added that “moderate turbulence” could be “enough to slosh water in a cup and make you feel a sense of weightlessness.” Neither of those were comforting, and Terra and I looked at each other with concern.

Terra, after a moment’s quiet, held out her hand and asked if we could hold hands to face the fear together. Little did she know that I was about to ask her the same thing. We clasped hands, and I closed my eyes.

I imagined us riding a bus through a rural highway. The sun had just set, leaving residual light and letting the temperature fall just slightly. The headlights were turned on and illuminated the rows and rows of pines on either side.

A jolt brought me back up to the sky as I was still holding on to Terra. A surprisingly familiar song came to mind, one I have not heard in years, that I decided to hum. Its familiarity helped me hold steady.

Throughout our turbulence, I thought of the end. I pictured my friends, the beloved people I know, and how they would take my passing. I thought of losing myself, no longer existing, and how I would miss the chance of being alive.

I thought of losing the ability to write, to create things from my own hand, and how I still had much to give. Deep down, I did not want it to be the end. I felt as though I was only beginning.