It’s the last Friday of the month, and I am, once again, in front of my computer, downloading more student papers to check over the weekend. I can’t remember the last time I went out on a Friday night with friends—then again, I never really liked going out on Friday nights because then every joint is packed and buzzing, and it seems impossible to have a decent conversation, if not find an empty seat. So if I’m not working on a Friday night, I’m usually running around the campus or walking home for a quiet evening spent reading, writing, practicing yoga, or chatting with D. But since D (and most everyone I know) is busy and unavailable these days, I have taken up drawing again to unwind.
I like drawing because it puts me out of time (or the awareness of its passage, at least), and, unlike reading or writing, requires focus but not mental effort. It’s all shapes and shade and lines—I let my hand move, and my mind float. I let my hand move, and my heart feel, and not think too much about it.
I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember (my first intelligible drawing, I think, was a stick figure doodled with a permanent marker on a wall in my grandparents’ house when I was about three years old), spurred by boredom and a childhood spent watching anime. But I’d never really made it a point to draw regularly, to practice. I just doodled—on scratch paper, notes for class, in the margins of photocopied readings. But about a month and a half ago, I felt terribly upset and had no one close to me and close by to vent to (it is always a bad idea to rant on social networks about personal matters. Anything you put in writing can go around, documented verbatim, and menace you). But I did have a pen and sheets of paper. I could’ve written something, except that some feelings are too tedious for words. So I drew. And drew some more. And now I keep a sketch pad, and my pencils sharpened.
If one upholds one’s distance and revels in solitude, then one must learn to devise myriad entertainments for oneself.