Complete Inktober 2023 Sketchbook Pages

I completed Inktober 2023. I definitely didn't draw every day in the last week, and had to play a little catch-up, and I didn't post every drawing. You can find some on my Instagram @BacchusBlam.

Here are the prompts:

Some of these stayed in the idea-doodle phase, but I'm counting everything you see here as "Inktober-complete".  And now here they are: the good, the bad, the ugly, the brainstorms, and the underdeveloped doodles. I've included some detail pictures of a couple I haven't posted elsewhere, but also the full pages. 

You can click on the images to get a closer look without overlapping text elements. Enjoy.

"Celestial" (above) is based on an old sketch from a previous sketchbook that I redid for this challenge.

Hallow

golden resinous autumn light

fills children’s candy pails

with sweet sad nostalgia

to rest in a chest until grown

Quantum Meridian

mood mournful as that waxing crescent moon 

on a hazy birthday night in July

bare minded blindsided by the news

did you hear old Cormac died

a little more than a month shy of ninety

out alone i hope without hope 

for some dimension

where his soul alive still resides

spooky distant double still fighting

writing himself back to life

"Who Says That?": Some Thoughts On Sharing Thoughts

No poem tonight. But I do have some things on shared language and meaning I wanted to get down.

I worked and taught on a four-year state college campus from 2008 to 2014. Sometimes, while hanging out with peers and coworkers, whenever I would volunteer a real and thoughtful take on something in response to a question or as part of a conversation, I got used to hearing the response, “Who says that?” or “Who talks like that?”.

Often, I would respond, “Me. I do. I just said what I said”.

I felt like I wasn’t being understood which made me question my identity, and my mental capacity on more than one occasion. Eventually, I decided it was best to give short inconsequential answers, or to just listen to the conversation without participating. I started to feel bored and boring. And I was.

I did eventually make friends with people who genuinely wanted to talk and share ideas. But still that response haunts me: “Who says that?”.

There’s no faster way to shut down a connection with people than by gatekeeping against the very language they use in conversation. I strive to be generous and authentic in my interactions with people because … well … life is short, and I would rather make a meaningful connection with someone, and be present in the moment than only swap quotes, gossip, and entertainment news (not that those don’t also have their place).

And of course, there’s nowhere in the world where authentic communication is less welcome than the workplace. This adds a special extra layer of hell for me every day. My desire not to engage in small talk strikes some people I work with as rude, others as arrogant, and others still as unprofessional. I don’t consider myself any of those things, and I can’t control the way others judge me, so I just carry on with my day hoping that it passes by faster than not.

In order to adapt to these COVID-influenced times, I’m sure I have become more introverted than I was. After all this, I certainly started to think of myself as an introvert. However, I no longer believe that’s true. The role has been placed on me, but it’s not how I would have it. 

I still dream sometimes of a successful life as an author and an artist that would allow me to throw lavish holiday parties for all of my friends and acquaintances, with food, drinks, music, dancing, games, conversation, and plenty of rooms for people to crash overnight.

I recognize that culture probably isn’t going to change, but I encourage all of you reading this to allow yourselves to be vulnerable and share thoughts and ideas that extend beyond whatever viral topic has seized the moment. Be present where you are, with those you are with, and remember that our experience is unique even while we share the language we use to create and represent it for others.

Above all, that’s what I mean when I say: 

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

From This Remove

From this remove the calm

she sought seems more like death;

the cool retreat a lure

into security;

a trap for those who plan

to change the world and then

retire, rather than

to marry down and sink

into obscurity.

Unfit

a miscut puzzle piece with place might still

be forced to fit in fear against its will

and trembling there in tension hold that place

disfigured frenzied strain upon its face

Courage In The Second Act

if fortune favors brave ones

i was brined lily-liver no onions

could hardly stand to raise my voice

humor canned with a flavor so bland

in truth in youth given no choice

now middle-aged and how cagey

no longer the bold man’s foil

but bald man toiling and mortally coiled

no longer scraping for stage lights

off stage left gone pear-shaped

more stubborn than i was 

at times i itch to fight

when i know what’s right and what’s rich

when to flex or be flexible

to pretend to flinch or ditch

how fearless i feel now thumbing my nose

snuffing the day facing oncoming night

tell me no heaven nor hell and just nothing well

that’s alright

everything’s alright

A Little Abstract Rhythm Exercise

bad as a mad hatter 

boring hater hive mind

that hungry fish can easily eat a man alive

in five seconds flat

the aliens arrive holding hands 

leading humans in excited bands 

to the promised land of Hanuman

xenophobic rat catchers clatter rackets 

scared back at the blast zone

fast as a cast on a dry bone

cyclones clone that bloated span

Frederick Arthur Bridgman runs the rest

crack-crack two in the vest

lay down now

take a rest

Deep Field

after years lenses

cut polished and set

grant the perception

out away clearly

uncountable swirling

motes shining

in ancient starlight

so much of that dust

that still forms my skin

Children Make The Bravest Songs

children make the bravest songs

words and ideas full of eclectic grit

bordering on vision

whole vocabularies of belonging

modeling minds and hearts

like promises at the crossroads

where we must turn

Little Piece of Heaven

alien twilight estranges me

around every corner a shadow lurks

every night is a knife

mornings a red weeping wound

sleep in its closeness to death

should be no balm

but that passage to the lands of dream

is enough of heaven for rest

Any Other Night

i want to hurl my laptop like a shuriken

        stick it smoking in the wall

slam my fist onto the table ‘til it cracks

pour kerosene on all my sketchbooks

        light a match and watch them go

        also throw my paintings on that pyre

all the time invested money spent

what a waste in the face 

of this temporary tension

what a shame to have frittered

that unrequited time

fantasies misplaced

someone else’s dreams no doubt

that made their way to me

delusions of a life

it seems clear can never be

just fill my fucking casket 

with paint i didn’t use

        the books i'll never fill

the words i didn’t write

goodnight 

Of MIce and Mania

the drumming in my chest beat on at an illicit pace

from folly fled i wait awhile my head among the stars

the urgency of solitude writ on the mountain’s face

and light creates a tiny vault where field mice nest in yarns

unsold at June bouquets overly wilted still new

we ate nuked beignet and danced the crumbling crescent blue

and rested in the doorway while soul flowers reimbue

our champagne skin with rouge and lift our luminescent plumes

our movements less than glamorous still self-assured then came

surly as sick infants aching morning fate at home

some foul perfume clung to our clothing cloying nicotine

i’d sooner dance the nude down main than smell that nectarine

lone peace will truss us in a trice soon life is marmalade

our nature leaves us at excesses’ mercy unafraid

The House On The Hill

from the silent rooms only

    dust and a generation 

    of stale cigarette smoke

cobwebs in corners

a cold woodstove

yellow residue on walls

stained curtains

in the bathroom 

    a glass holding dentures 

a broken coffee cup in the kitchen sink

the grass now too high

the gardens overgrown

the trees along the driveway

    recovering nicely in the melt water

    without the winter influx

    of road salt

a house built

land sculpted and tended

the realization of a dream

    ashes in their mouths

Skipping a Night

Howdy y’all.

I’m still not feeling a hundred percent, so I am skipping a formal post for tonight. 

It would mean the world to me if you would peruse my previous posts. They go back over two years. And why not leave some comments on a few you like?

Otherwise, have a good night.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Being Human

desire for certainty 

may or may not be balanced

with an unwavering suspicion

for alleged absolutes

i feel like these are fine features

to hold in tension with intent

to undermine the lies

we most want to believe

confusing though it may be

to be a human being

Ten Minute Free Write (Slightly Edited)

We aren’t afraid that the wind will carry us away. We are afraid of you and who you could become if you only gave a single shit. Every word you write brings you closer. Every picture you draw or paint, one step closer. 

Ride on the wave of creative parlance. Make the joke heard wherever you go. Someone will laugh. Someone will feel a little lighter even in the heaviest times. 

You are your mind and your body. There is no escaping this container until you breath your last. Rockets could blast you to the moon and in its weakened gravity you would still feel unfit so make the most of the time you have left. Do you not wish to experience joy again? 

You do! You long for joy as you never have before. You’re not chasing it because you feel you can’t, but reflecting on past joy is not sufficient in the long run to sustain you. Make the art your life. Give yourself wholly over to creativity and destroy all within you that restrains that flow. You can be free and embrace yourself wholly. o you know this? You are free to fully be yourself and you never need be embarrassed or ashamed.

The world will accept you for who you are. Let the judges judge. It is there way. The judgment is merely an expression of what they themselves cannot allow, but they have no power over you. They have no power over your life and that which you love cannot be taken from you.

The hope you had as a child manifested in all you have received. All those things you thought yourself capable of, you are now capable of. Allow yourself the freedom to express every thought and every emotion through your art. Allow yourself to love unconditionally. Beat back the frustration that manifests itself from a desire to control. There is nothing to control but yourself. 

Direct those energies instead into creation. Invest the energy of anger into your greatest works. 

Throwing things, smashing things, shouting through gritted teeth – all this will get you nowhere. Have compassion and listen. Be the person you know you can be. Be who you would prefer to be and reject all other ways that came before you. 

All lies before you.

Wholly

I was with friends and my kids were there

and we were dancing and  laughing and listening

to this beautiful joyful music.

Integrated.

Man, I mean truly happy.

Do you remember what that’s like?

You said,

        Some people haven’t forgotten

yet.

Anxiety

Every day I want you gone more.

Detritus clouding the very air I choke upon.

Leaving me shaking without respite

    from my evening release to Monday morning.

You tyrannical despot, I can’t 

    keep carrying your empty weight

    without breaking down in decay.

I’m meant to be free these days 

    not harangued in your hazy admonishments.

How do you cling so when I fight

    from just after waking ‘til long in the night?

Go! I beg for reprieve.

I’ll open a window.

    Will you fucking leave, please?

No. I’m saturated to bone with you.

Longing for distraction, reaching for my phone,

    drawing, painting, writing this poem.

There. For a moment, 

    we’re square.

Post-Human

old operating system overtaxed

attempting to run new software

perpetual updates

overheating burning out

in hardware mostly unchanged

for a hundred thousand years

Forms of War

the wide dusted world

abandoned and lurching

him mellow and pouring 

there unseen in shadows

retrofitting schools to serve war

yes war that hungry creature who

rolled crushing in a steel helmet

olive trench coat open and nude

while planes knocked churches 

ass over tea kettle whistling

and in horror we leer

but the smoke clears etcetera

the dust settles and so forth

we winners made wealthy

wage obscured wars

curated and fenced the remaining wonders

then pay to take pictures 

holding horns of stultifying drink

memories fading in the dusk

The Autumn Question

the autumn sun was gleaming

on the red and rusting leaves

but someone took the wonder from my eyes

autumn blew a cooling breeze

while the sun was warm and sweet

but my skin was numb to all qualities of air

world weary wandering frail and worn

once sparkling senses now used and dull

Shakespeare’s prince echoes the only question

Connections

Winds to womb to light,

then, to sturdy form.

Same for spore and seed;

fungus and tree;

you and me.

For My Sister

looking back to when i was small

praying and laying alone at night

in the bedroom at the end of the hall

afraid of the dark watching the stereo light

throw glow down on the living room floor

missing my sister who slept there sometimes

though not for a long time 

not anymore

Moonlighter

men’s pangs dance them into poaching curses

my pale guide you see this evening isn’t ideal

alas just float still and perfect reflect and feel its tone

witness love’s splendid seemingly joyous revelries

unique as the moon the cool lot await some large truth

but only penitence for posturing forms a bridge to grander hours

only wait to open the gate or find yourself in a mess of toil

or as bored children remain in the house doused in somber fantasies

gaze in malaise out the window at autumn’s spreading blemishes 

converse with liars and tired hypocrites in plastic

all the while my blessed soul impiously 

presses itself ever closer to the core of the moon

On Not Posting For Inktober and “Social” Media

So the last two nights I have drawn something for Inktober based on the prompts, but opted not to post the drawings to social media. I want to make sure I draw something every day, but I am not pressuring myself to post if I don’t think what I produce measures up.

For the prompt “Map”, my initial idea was to create one floor of a D&D dungeon and then include some lore about it so people could use it as a one-shot, or a filler area in a campaign. But then I decided to get fancy. I wanted to draw a scene from the movie Goonies where the four boys are together looking at the map. I tried to do a quick and precise drawing, but by the end it was just a mess. Good practice, but not worthy of posting.

For “Golden” I did a quick doodle of a frog coming through the surface of some water holding up a golden ball like in the children’s story about the princess and the frog. But it was more like a practice drawing I would do before spending hours on a finished piece, and I just don’t have that kind of time.

Today’s prompt is “Drip”, and again, tonight before bed, I’ll sit down with my sketchbook and do some drawings in my sketchbook of a faucet with a drop of water falling from it, but more as an exercise in making the background fall away while making the faucet and the water in the foreground look very in focus.

Lately, with the idiotic shenanigans happening with Twitter, the many Twitter-like services that have spawned, the garbage fire of Facebook, and the almost total lack of engagement on Instagram, I’m coming back around to feeling like social media is an illusion of connectivity I can do without most of the time. I’ll post when I post and that’s it. I don’t think I need to try any harder than that.

I hope you’re all having a restful weekend with friends and family, or by yourself if you need the solitude to recharge.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

What Lies Before You

before you there was only the vague shape

your mother contained the shape of you

manifesting first as a mellow roundness

and then as a conspicuous protuberance

and in time emerging you took your true form

sliding into the air like a glove

that received you and lovingly wrapped you

composed of others’ desires and expectations

with who you would become before you

The Last Tryst

i overcame my childhood fears of night

after midnight out my window softly

ran rutted roads through forests fields and dark

eight miles to the farmhouse where you waited

in stillness with such anticipation

and led me by your sleeping parents’ room

to your bed that smelled of rose and lilac

faint the hinges’ creak as you closed your door

your feet made no sound across the old floor

nimbly your fingers my buttons your gown

your mouth on my neck your hand on my chest

pushed me back into bliss and down in down

Don't Look Back

impulses overwhelmed 

with fears in your way

don’t try

to make the past complete

find your focus

setting expectations correctly

and telegraph in play

with a visceral grip of pens

write your fate but know

the headman’s axe

finishes the sentence

The Continual Story of Civilization

turning the truth over on your tongue

see now a camel caravan of magicians

attesting to the desert in front of you

containing the ruins of great cities

beneath the ashes of millionaires

In The Balance

someone said yes there’s war

and in other places peace

but when you zoom out you see

both are needed for harmony

how does the man

holding his bloody son’s corpse

zoom out

when do the orphans

of territorial conflict

get to take a wider view

when places are made possessions

their substance resources

to put up for profit

there is no harmonious whole

there are murderers

plunderers

suffering people

and those sheltered enough

to ignore 

how their shelter 

was made

Pause For Refreshment

Hi all. 

No poem tonight. I'm taking the night to refill my creative tank. I spent the last couple days working on plans for Inktober (which hopefully I will complete this year) and I just found out about a month-long zine challenge that I might try (even though I've technically missed the first day). Prompts and info for that can be found here:

https://www.instagram.com/chborozinefest/

Here's my drawing for the first day of Inktober. I used Tombow brush pens, Faber-Castell India ink brush markers, and Pigma Micron Fineliner pens. The prompt was "Dream".

Be good to each other.
~Bacchus