Childhood Beliefs #1
I didn’t know Wales was a county, so when my parents told me Nana was “going back to Wales” I thought she would get off the plane at the ocean and ride away with her whales.
I’m currently collecting and illustrating weird beliefs that my friends and family had as children; this is one of my own.
I had to take some photos of some This One Summer original pages so I thought I’d share them here.
Thanks again so much to everyone who has come out to our events, including the recent signing in LA. It means a lot. <3
(You can click on the images for a slightly enlarged view)
Jillian Tamaki is beyond words.
I am glad to be in Canada & Toronto, which are fairly welcoming places and have not banned “homosexual propaganda”, but I do sort of wish we could have a more inclusive and less corporate queer propaganda week. Still, Happy Pride.
In her work ‘Portable City’, artist Yin Xiuzhen collects clothes worn by people in different cities and uses them to create miniature models inside a suitcase. The suitcase also plays a tape with the local soundscape.
this week i reread bottle rocket hearts, realized i’d fulfilled all my expectations for myself i had as a 14 year old and then made a mix to have queer montreal feelings about.
This is really great.
TAKING THE DAY TO DO “DATA ANALYSIS” INSTEAD OF BENCHWORK
Take the shards remaining in an emptied bag of frozen corn,
the tepid mucus seeping from a can of kidney beans.
Combine beneath the history of suppers
stained into your microwave’s resolute metal.
Do not be jealous of your family’s lost recipes, the ballpoint
fading from neglected index cards. Do not resent the hurry
of mass-produced pierogies. When you spill the salt,
simply toss it away. Learn instead the names
of the spices in your grandmother’s kitchen,
that room you watched stripped bare for auction.
Allow onto your tongue the tastes you refused as a child:
the bitterness and heat, the smells too strong,
the textures too unlike sandwich bread.
Remember the wide woman whose forceful forkfuls
you pursed your lips against, who tried to teach you
that blandness is the flavour of assimilation.
Invite memory over for dinner.
It will arrive split among several bodies.
You must feed them soup to encourage speaking,
to bring stories steaming from their scalded tongues.
Serve dishes as their prompting and their punctuation:
promise sweet endings, acknowledge bitter contrasts,
choose sour truths over salt and pepper nostalgia.
On special nights, guided by dessert or by wine,
you may find that the guests around your table
have filled you more than the meal.