Goodbye, dearest blogspot.

I've had this blog here since 2007. I won't get all mushy about it, but it's time to move on, to have a blog that's better integrated with my website, etc. I do hope you'll follow me. I know it's annoying to resubscribe, to change your bookmarks. It's a little annoying for me too, and I'm not yet warmed up to the new spot. But this is a good change, I think. 

http://cassandrawarren.net/blog

Overhauls.

I'm currently reworking my website. Two things related to this:

1. If I move my blog over to wordpress (so it is more a part of my site, rather than an separate addition), would you follow? I'm torn, because I would prefer to integrate the two better, but I've also been here on blogspot since 2007, so I'm a little attached.

2. My site is going to have both a portfolio page, and a page with sketchbooks/art journals. I've spent my evening going through many, many old journal pages, to decide which to share and which to keep hidden in the depths of flickr (or, not scanned at all). Here are some old favorites:

Quietly.

Grey Easter arboretum adventure.

Arnold Arboretum, Jamaica Plain, MA. April 8th, 2012.

The sun rose and set on the wings of the robin.

I have only written two poems in April. Thus far, the count for the year is 32, which means I still have a long way to go. Writing is sometimes difficult for me, it requires that I dredge up some past or some emotion and sometimes all I want to do is go through a week of being blindly human. Going to work and coming home and cooking meals and petting my cat and laughing with friends, without any pesky remembrance.

Then I'll see someone on the train that we both know, and want to ask how you are, but I can't and that makes me feel close to violently ill, and I'll come home and won't let myself write about that. Sometimes, I'll write poems that are lists of things that I'm not allowed to tell about.

Spring is nice, the blooming is important. I've been drawing robins again, because I've decided that I want one tattooed on my chest, the right side, because I've had this Leonard Cohen lyric in my head for three years now (this is also why robins often appear in my sketchbook pages, and sometimes with a few of the words):

I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best
I can't keep track of each fallen robin

Honesty is a strange and delicate thing.

Message.

New York & an early spring.

I've been trying to write this post since Sunday. Life has been very go go go, and I feel like I haven't stopped moving in weeks. Last week alone was both amazing and difficult. Monday was the anniversary of my step dad's passing, Wednesday I was tattooed late into the night, Friday I was off to NYC, and the time in between was full of work/chores/plans/life/etc.

I keep wanting to talk about New York, but there are no words good enough. It was exactly what I needed. Seeing Sophie and Iain was the best possible thing at the best possible time. It was a lot of exploring, a lot of conversation, book-talk, girl-time, hugs, green tea ice cream, a strange party in Williamsburg, and feeling both out of my element and right at home all at the same time. I came home Sunday night, jumped right back into work Monday, and while I've had some time this afternoon to enjoy the weather and try to relax, my brain is busy and this evening I have an art date and important-secret-plan-meeting.

The above photos:
1. Getting tattooed by Molly.

2. Iain, the very edge of Sophie, and a cat we met in Chinatown.

3. Where we sat and ate ice cream shortly before walking across the Manhattan bridge.

4. What was at the time a smaller OWS protest in Union Sq. If you've been following at all, you know that earlier this week there was hundreds of people there (I think maybe there still are).

5. Yesterday, tights for the first time this spring, boots folded down. This was at north station. As an aside, someone was selling daffodils there in the morning, and I was disappointed that I couldn't buy some, as I'd have to take them to work with me.

6. I need to spend a moment on this, because this book is far more beautiful than I expected. I knew it was going to be great, because I'm pretty familiar with what Iain and Jon (the photographer) do, but the book itself was.. being pushed into a cold pool? Being punched in the gut? Like someone took a big spoon and stirred up my insides? It did something, that's for sure. I knew it was special the moment I held it in my hands, because even the cover feels unique and soft and homey, but I didn't let myself read any of it until I was back on the bus for the long ride home. I was drawn right in, but ended up having to put it down because I was overwhelmed with the amount of emotion in it, and the memories it was bringing afloat. You should consider giving it a look. Iain's also doing one last reading tonight in NY, 6pm, the band shell in Prospect Park.

7 & 8. Pineapple and I on the porch today, basking in the warmth and listening to birds.

9. Brooklyn flea market finds.

10. Last night's commute home.


I'm going to try really hard to post some art soon. All I've been managing lately is pencil sketches, flash practice, and line sheets. Bad, bad, I know.