About my scribbles & doodles!

9/27/2025

Look, I write because depression makes you introspect and feel forlorn, and mania gives you that irritated urge to vomit to an unintentional, uninterested readership, so I don’t really care if AI writes fucking better; it can’t compete with a sick man with a pathology that makes me scribble nonstop nonsense. This is what people don’t get: we are organic, and although most people do stuff for means to an end—to earn a living—not everyone does; they are living their lives. My blog is like that, like taking a shit. As long as a robot can’t take a shit, there’s no comparison. I don’t want to deny the darkness inside me anymore. And it’s my sincere wish that, by screaming the clues and hints about my mental health, I might make a difference to those who don’t have a voice and who suffer silently. Perhaps, in a way, the imperfections that I try to delineate in characters are all part of me; that’s how I know they exist, and this negotiated encounter with my fears and fragility may help someone else overcome their demons. I can imagine the weirdest shit, and I say it, write it, or sketch it. I don’t ask permissions. That’s the way I roll. That’s me, in a nutshell.

I could as easily fill this blog with an oversupply of superfluous, sanctimonious, glib moral drivel that I don’t myself adhere to; instead, I have the courage to write what I think, gathered from my subjective, flawed, almost rancid thinking of an objective reality of which I am a trifling part. Trifling would be too strong a statement — given how microscopic I am, it would be almost a miracle if you ever discover any of my writing or this blog. The expectation of nuance in my writing is like not expecting microbial infections in a urinal, because that’s what this is. I literally piss my mind out when I write. I have very few filters, and I will explain in some detail why even that is sort of unnecessary in the world we have.

Although some of the material in these posts is part of my extended inner monologue, there’s no clear derivation of the deviant emotion, an autobiographical reveal, or a bona fide sketch of the repressed feeling. Maybe in a very generous, compartmentalized way, like the level of trapped mercury in a vessel. It could be measuring various things, and you wouldn’t be able to tell “what” if the labels on the unit went missing. When I draw a grotesque face, it may be an indication of my emotions, but it’s not connected in a meaningful way, and taking it literally at face value and making a judgment would be silly. If we can’t laugh at our own confabulations, then we risk misunderstanding our own place in the universe and starting to take things too seriously. And it may hurt our anthropocentric ego, but putting human faces on animals can have lurid results, I’ve noticed.

I know the content isn’t politically correct. I’ve always had an issue with being family-friendly or with euphemisms. You can’t please everyone. There are far too many egos in the world. There’s always someone wanting to bloody your nose over something, no matter how soft your language. It’s easier on them when I get into a character. An insult from a salacious cartoon distraction isn’t that corrosive, especially if you can’t think. People struggle incessantly with the truth, boxed in their views by the pastry layers of deceptions and delusions—the sociopolitical and religious, the economic, and, most importantly, the moral. I’m quite sure they have naturally reserved their love for mealy-mouthed, spineless pleasers and would harbor large dollops of ill will against me. They’d rather be in the dark than put up with the light. Light has the irritating habit of exfoliating assumptions and revealing stark realities.

To be politically correct would be akin to feigning blindness or several incapacities, for which there are many willing, healthy volunteers in India. They are elected in a theater that fills the building called Parliament, a printing press, and a stage, and the actors are all diligently playing their roles as jesters on the provided theater stage, secure without the existential angst outside. Whatever is written and implemented by the rich and powerful is printed in this prolific press, and the people of India are allowed only to choose the punctuation on a shelved promise proof that’s never printed but held on year after year as something to be desired but yet to be arrived at.

But unfortunately, if you bloody my face, it’s blood loss in vain. I represent a category that doesn’t mean any harm—couldn’t, by definition. Think of my blood loss as a waste of time. I am just a mere speck of frivolity that still shits his pants when hit with the most common stomach flu. How can I be a danger to anyone, necessitating a broken nose? The world has become so incongruous that even the harshest, most lurid, satirical exaggeration of it fails to deliver the bitter irony of the reality I see around me. And people are so resistant to the truth that a comical inversion only serves to elicit a superficial, obvious reaction, thus failing to deliver the punch. In effect, cringe stays cringe, unable to deliver the payload, because that requires a thinking mind—perhaps one that’s a little bit mad.

I see denotative art as therapy, both through the use of words and lines. The limitations of language are constricting, but art can act as a safety valve and cure the constipation. It’s better than slamming the door; I’ve found. There’s a lot we can’t effectively articulate that finds expression in the simplicity, vividness, flexibility, and strangeness that only art can provide—the best tour guide when you’re shopping outside the status quo. Those long, muted conversations, the inarticulate madness, the silliness, or some glimpses of the grief I carry are what this blog is trying to capture.

I, for one, don’t usually have a future onlooker in mind, except for a future me. I draw because I like to draw. I cherish the “I” part of art, and my unconcern for the “we” insulates me from the emotional afflictions that encumber people who use art to draw attention to themselves.

In any case, I am much better off as a person misunderstood and an invisible, ignored nonentity who aspires to an ambition—equally misunderstood and, from an outsider’s perspective, utterly futile. My sketching, like my limericks and verse, is all amateurish fare, except that, unlike other polite, conservative people, I’m quite intrepid. On the surface, what might appear to be crass and misanthropic has a deeper groove. The pain in my life, as told by a contrarian and an iconoclast, is still an oversimplification of what is going on in my head, but at least it’s the beginning of a conversation. And like William Blake, I’ll go unnoticed until much later, when historians will start examining the discarded fossils with an investigative lens.

But again, it doesn’t matter. It probably won’t matter. Everything I have is digital, and unless you’re noticed, you’re deleted. Or someone with the chutzpah, realizing I’m dead, takes on the ownership and makes the best of it. I mean, if life can be shit when I’m alive, it can sure as hell be shittier when I’m dead. He or she has my blessings; go on, fuck me in the future—I don’t mind.

The worthiness of art is a matter of consensus—usually and historically, something the artist hasn’t ever a chance to profit from, because that appraisal frequently happens posthumously. More than the art, it’s the quality of uproar you’re able to generate, or more appropriately these days, fund, that determines whether an artist, in his lifetime, is able to climb out of obscurity. Distance in time or space, as an amplifier, often adds an element of mystery. If anyone pays attention, these are often grafts to bolster missing information. And when you’re dead, whatever you are can be flexibly redefined to suit the fancy of the benefactor. You can’t protest. Thus, a caveman struggling with his art may be in the news for etching an alien.

And the reason is not so much that we don’t care but, more pertinently, that we aren’t quite sure if what we think in our heads is really all that. Consensus, however you manage it, gives you the statistically kosher answer. The first one to compliment something ill-defined could make you the black sheep of the flock. What dark meanings or ulterior motives lurk behind the patina of lust isn’t always clear. When we see something that doesn’t immediately make sense to us, being the practical people we are, we dismiss it. No one in Van Gogh’s time believed his art amounted to much. And he constantly struggled with poverty.

You can often have majestic masts but get nowhere. Mine is such a ship. I’ve hit the doldrums, and without a wind beneath my sails, I’m as good as rotting. Incidentally, it seems I have a knack for driving into the doldrums.

And art for me is sort of an expression of a compulsive tic — a compulsion to exfoliate what’s beneath all the makeup, usually always a remarkable skull. It’s often whatever is itching my curiosity. It’s something I have to force out of my head or risk a rattle or jingle that’s difficult to cure. I just start a doodle and keep at it until I want to do something else. It’s that simple. I’m not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t make a living off of it. It’s just a tic that helps explore the ingredients in the constituent wandering thoughts, the mysterious vagabonds that visit my mind to console the otherwise lonely, barren, and empty landscape. Desolation is kindred; all my guarantees I find in absences.

These are thought experiments that usually deal with the unpleasant and the unremarkable. It helps to distance myself from me, find the brakes, attenuate, and soothe. Perhaps the art is the curated fulmination of a closet thinker presented as is. Filaments of figment, visualized babble, and fiction concocted — and sometimes stranger than that. And that is why I can’t put labels on them with an intellectual identification of what their meaning is without overanalyzing them to shreds. Sometimes I do, and then it’s just a post-hoc postmortem of something that wasn’t really behind the inspiration. Most of the labels do have a post and a title on them that express, as the case may be, a need of the moment, although it’s not always causal by creation. Or sometimes they are, but I’d be wary if you attach too much attention to such things.