I realize and remember that there is no alternative to hope.
Even if you have to wait to begin hoping for something better because your mind feels like ice.
What you can’t throw away is the awareness that there has to come a time again, when there will be a thaw. And then wait for that time.
The alternative is to wait for nothing, which is death, and that is not an alternative.
… truth is that it is just one of those insanely detailed pencils-drawings that had a certain energy a long time ago, but no longer feels fresh.
Even so I don’t want to forget it.
I want to use it as a reminder – and then as a motivation to start again.
With something that is just as detailed and has just as much energy.
For now this one is frozen in time.
Like a shadowy slice of the past – almost literally – that is just there, always unfinished and kind of broken.
Right before I myself was almost broken, in a whole other story of life.
There is a strange fascination about that, and perhaps it is okay therefore to leave it.
Perhaps it is okay that some things are reminders of just that.
This one I may hopefully be able to revive, too – some day.
A hiatused project called “Their Promised Land”, a graphic novel about the US Civil War.
A young southern girl escapes a raid on her home plantation by Federal soldiers and flees into the wilderness. She is helped by a runaway slave. She heads for the front lines to try to find her brother who is in the Confederate army, hoping he is still alive. During the road trip she has to disguise herself as a boy in order to avoid getting captured or raped. This is one such time, just after the Second Battle of Manasses – where she still does not find her brother. But lots of trouble, of course …
I hope to be able to do this someday. There is something both magical and terrifying about the US Civil War. And plenty of stories.
I don’t mind reviewing old art in order to ‘catch up’ to a certain date. In fact, I think this is just the right thing to do, if I am to go through with The Lines project for a whole year.
I want to feel like I never had to start it.
Older lines … a drawing of a 16 y.o. Carrie from my Shade of the Morning Sun-stories. I feel like I want to return to these stories, too – and soon.
And that is always a good feeling.
It is amazing what imagination can be packed in a few blurry lines, which may look like Petrograd through the winter mist of 1921 to me, but everything else to anyone else. Or just lines.
Welcome to The Lines