My sketchbook is a place time goes to die. When I don't even know what I'm doing anymore I set myself in front of it and let it soak up my confusion until my mind is all dried out and ready to remember having a life to lead.
My sketchbook has never had a purpose. I have never made plans for what I would like it to be or what I might do with it—I have never considered its audience, publication, marketability, or success. To share it at all is an afterthought. This is probably the only reason I'm able to produce it.
For a while now I've had a couple new pages prepped for the web. I let them sit thinking instead I should share something useful, interesting, or productive. My sketchbook somehow doesn't seems like any of these things. To share it feels like broadcasting to the world that I just spent several hours of agitation privately daydreaming to myself.
Why waste anyone's time? I'm so full of passion for the many serious problems troubling me and my world that to even write of them—well, I try to compose something only to find out the microphone's picked up nothing but oversampled noise—I'd been screaming the entire time. The thoughts I record are inaudible save as an ear-splitting pain certain to make anyone clasp their ears in agony. I have so much to say that it's a struggle to say anything at all!
Amongst the six pages I'm posting today (85-90), there's this one quotation in big pink bubble letters: “Personally I think my sketchbook might just be the only worthwhile thing I ever do... Although I'm quite fond of my novel...”
I really worry this might be true. Don't I have anything worth sharing besides the silly cartoons populating my imagination? Or the book I filled with whatever ridiculous nonsense popped into my head? Don't I have any politics? A philosophy? A faith? Am I really doomed never to make anything of substance?
As much as I love the nonsensical logic of my dreams, I have a great longing for the solidity of an absolute truth I know doesn't actually exist.