#phoebepheebsphibs feeling poetic

[phoebepheebsphibs]

I was thinking about artwork that I’ve seen.

I dunno I felt poetic

I was thinking about artwork that I’ve seen.

Drawings where the linework was so fluid it melted seamlessly into the colours, as if it were all one thing rather than layers piling one on top of the other. The shading was fantastic and gave it magic and depth. The lighting turned it into something beyond beautiful — powerful, warm, and comforting. It had background art that transported it into places of wonder. It had special decorations and detailing that would take a lifetime to uncover. It was so real it moved. It breathed. It lived.

And I wondered if people looked at art the same way I do. If people see stories in the ink blots. If they hear music in the color scheme. Do they feel warmth in the expressions, do they find wonder in the brushstrokes, do the ink marks glisten and gleam and glitter like gold?

And I wondered if people knew they were art, too. If they knew that their freckles are strategic paint splatters, made to add depth and decorum. If they saw their scars as storylines, markers of where they've been and how far they've come. How their eyes are jewels and gemstones, they sparkle and reflect the light of the sun, moon, and stars. Their smiles and frowns are strokes of a brush with precision pigment, and tears and laughter are a symphony. Can they see the extravagant and extraordinary dye used in their skin, in their lips, in their blood and tears? Have they seen the delicate weaving and braiding and crocheting of their hairs? Their joy shines like magic through their pores, their fingers are tools and their voices are instruments. Their names are reflections of their person, the title of their artwork. Do they know they are masterpieces?

And I wondered if people…

If one person would ever look at me like that. If someone would see my lighting, my shading, my composition and negative space. If my lineart was seamless, if my colours clashed or blended in a lovely way, if my details drew them in, if I was intricate or creative or magic. Could they notice how I sway when I get tired, like I'm slow-dancing to a lullaby, or how I click my tongue and hum when I'm bored… How my feet turn in, how sometimes I stumble on my R's, how my eyes resemble sunflowers… My freckles go down like connect-the-dots in a constellation on my arms, my nails are nibbled down, my hands are covered in ink, my ears covered in headphones secured within a song… My shoes are decorated with charms, my jeans are old, ripped and cut-off at the knees, my sweaters are warm and oversized, I hide inside them like a picture in a frame, snug and silly, flapping my hands underneath the long sleeves. Do they hear how I sing constantly, how I talk in every accent I can get my hands on, see how I add extra U's to words like “colour” or “honour” or “favour”, how I talk to myself in the woods where I write my stories, how I still believe in magic like Ents and Faes and the Loch Ness monster and miracles... could they see all my quirks and flaws and what very few redeeming qualities I find in myself, and could they see them all as paint? As pencil marks? As ink and dye? As gloss and varnish? Could my rambles sound like music? Could my smile be glitter? Could my voice be winds and strings and brass? Could anyone look at me and see the artwork?

But mostly I wondered if I would ever be able to look at myself like how I look at the artwork.

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Let me introduce you to my friends…

I dunno I felt poetic

Let me introduce you to my friends…

There’s the wind, who whispers secrets to me as I pass him uphill. He loves to chat, he sings to me and I duet. He can be cold, and pushy, and want to direct you in any way he chooses, but he loves to dance and always knows how to cheer me up.

I have other friends, the rain and water. Calm and sweet, gentle as a lullaby. They love to dream. I love to dance with the rain, jump and laugh and run into their arms. The water offers me a looking glass, and we play together in shallow pools. Sometimes they can get fierce and aggressive. The water played too rough with me once, and the rain brought the lightning to a fight. But afterwards they always apologize.

Then there’s the trees, my favourite friends. They often give me gifts, such as twigs and branches and leaves and blossoms. They are such good listeners, and they keep me safe and comforted in their embrace. I love my trees, because they are the audience for my stories. They never judge, never interrupt, and never grow too old. My trees used to carry me high into the sky, and we’d sit and gab for hours. Now I cannot fit into their branches, so we stroll together in the wood.

I also have friends in the bugs, of course. Tiny stinkbugs that love to sleep on the ceilings when it is too cold or too hot outside. They are quite silly. And the ladybirds, gentle souls who never trouble me. The spiders are interesting tenants, though… the wolf spiders seem to never get our eviction notices. But the orb weavers keep our yards decorated during the late summer and early autumn. Quite remarkable artists, they are… and of course the caterpillars and butterflies. Ridiculous people, charming but eccentric. And the snails, my precious darlings with their lovely homes. I often find them after they have moved out, and the house is empty.

The sky is a lovely friend, too. I love her watercolour set, she paints so extravagantly. And at night she brings her own friends to see me.

I adore the moon. We share a name, her and I! Her looking glass reflects the sun, another grand friend of ours. I love to see what dress the moon wears, how she has changed during the day and what she will wear tomorrow. I’ve heard she has a man, but I’ve never seen him for myself. I have seen her rabbit, though.

The stars are sweet acquaintances as well. I do not know all their names and home addresses, but I know the Dipper siblings, older and younger. We chat when we can. They have bright and winning smiles.

And lastly, I have some rather odd friends; I hope you won’t judge them too much. They are ridiculous and rude at times, but they typically mean well. They can be boisterous. More often than not they don't appreciate what they don't see or hear or understand. They like to pick on my bugs. They complain about the rain's visits. They tear down my trees and twist their arms. They spit in the wind. Some of them are good... but they don’t always notice my friends… sometimes they ridicule us. They tend to not believe in magic, so they cannot hear my friends. They are not all bad… but they make the mistake of growing up and forgetting.

Humans, they call themselves. We get along all right.