silver linings on the setting sun
"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." -- Oscar Wilde

nyc transplant, canadian soul. sporadic brushstrokes, occasional penmanship, continuous wandering.

somebody reblogged my loki + sherlock comic again and now it has 200 more notes

it never ends

tags: what

serious asian problems: trying to figure out what to feed your sister’s non-asian friends when they stay for dinner

A reckoning of our time alive. 18x24, acrylic on canvas.

Seagulls on the shoreline at low tide

(Oregon Coast)

#canadianproblems

  1. U.S.-only shipping
  2. U.S.-only free shipping
  3. $[too much] flat rate shipping to Canada
  4. Books. Who decided that stacks of paper glued together should cost more above the 49th parallel?
  5. VPN servers and pretending to the internet that I’m still across the border
  6. Amazon in Canada
  7. Everything that sells stuff that is still stuck in the day when the Canadian dollar was 0.70 to the US dollar okay we are done things should cost the same now

tl;dr the US makes consumerism easy and material convenience is addictive.

solid slabs of concrete don’t amount to
a city of coldness; tight spaces and
slivers of sky can’t block out the air.
(I breathed freely here.)

on foreign words like foreign roads
I stumbled over jagged edges 
(it let the breeze into my veins, but it was me
that kept it in.)

isn’t it ironic that the shortest things 
carve the deepest
I heard that from a dusty grey crow
perched on a linden tree. 

so let’s lick the foam off our coffees, I’ll drink
the foam off my beer (and raise a glass
to the man with the guitar on the Pankow train.)
we were painted like the walls, reckless. 

(cut me now, I think I’d still bleed prussian blue.)

Formidable, formidable
Tu étais formidable, j’étais fort minable
Nous étions formidables

As of yet untitled. Acrylics. 

temperate rainforest.

Here among the stone and shale
I missed the sharp salt of the sea
but you are rain, and you are spring
I drank you in; and you drowned me.

For I was raised in cedar bark
in salmon streams, on eagle wings
leaves may curl, but not pine, not I
drenched deep to my soul in green. 

Pinks and reds are fleeting dreams
whispered the wind between the trees
but trust the ground beneath your feet.

In this earth let your roots run deep
and wrap me up in mist; you’ll keep
these trails to home forever green.

new york city x04

Under a deep indigo sky the beast bares its belly in slumber; for a moment, the city rests its claws, lowers its spines, slows its breath.

A filigree tension hangs in the eerie quiet, suspended between the exhaustion in my lungs and the solemn stares of a few strangers. A span of only a few hours stretches miles of distance between us and the hordes of faceless masses, and I wonder if they too are spinning stories about the people who take buses before daybreak, if maybe he is going home and she is only leaving, if she has only gotten up, if he saw the last sunrise too. 

The pigeons— long awake, not bound by paint lines and pen lines— seem to fly a little faster, or is it that I’ve found myself moving in slow motion? Without the drowning inundation of noise and movement and light my words are heavier. I fall silent instead, as if a wrong step would crack the brittle-cold air and pour dawn into the streets. 

I raise my eyes to the sky, where already night is in retreat against pink-stained clouds. It is always the city that catches you unawares, never the reverse.

SH