Automatic drawing with pastels, done during therapy. Somehow a lot of the blues in the original drawing got lost in the phone camera snapshot, but really, it’s not important because none of it in this case was intentional. Talk, make lines, talk, put down colors. Triangles. I think one of the offices they use there is bugged, but not the one we were in that day.
Sandwiched in between AmeriKKKa burning and a holiday that means nothing to me—certainly not a maudlin inventory of “gratitiude”, not when there are fleeting glimmers to appreciate in every day of the year, even the ones bogged down with the acrid fog of depression or anxiety. Sandwiched between a day of religious fundamentalists and genocide and the real life Hunger Games called “Black Friday” when a blood sacrifice or two will be made to the Gods of Commerce. And thinking tomorrow of making yams for Abuelita, and she’ll likely ask again for me to play my violin for her and once again I’ll literally fiddle while my culture’s corpse burns.