|Stuff on my ceiling
||[Oct. 6th, 2012|11:27 pm]
My house was built in the mid-80s, and therefore has a textured ceiling. I remember right before the ass fell out of the housing market and every TV channel had a reality show about flipping houses, textured ceilings were regarded as the decor equivalent of pubic lice. I think we're far enough away from that time where I can now admit without shame that I have always liked them. For one thing, they look like they were kind of fun to make. Especially when I was a child and enjoyed playing with goopy, sticky stuff. For another, they serve as my personal Rorschach test. I can tell a great deal about my state of mind by the shapes my brain creates from the mass of squiggles above my bed. Sometimes it's a riot of butts, boobies, and penises. Other times I'm menaced by innumerable Boschian grotesques. One day I looked up and clearly saw a skull with an eye patch, and a vulture wing with long robes flowing behind it. It was so vivid that I was compelled to draw it.