busy at work ✏️🦝
#art #artbearine
06.03.2026 23:37
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busy at work ✏️🦝
#art #artbearine
This shit diabolical🔥🔥
long and slow day at the office today, i missed drawing with this brush
commission for Eve & Spire, based on their webcomic!
Tiger and Panda #dogdraws
Thank you :) <3
They always scared me deep down when I saw them, but I realized something:
We are not so different; their stripes, their claws and teeth, their strength - they are mine. What I thought was black and white was orange and black.
All this time I had been looking at my reflection.
I was the beast.
I don't know what compelled me to make that choice back then, but I never forgot about it. Now, it seems like lions and tigers follow me everywhere. The more I tried to ignore them, the more persistent they became. Stalking me in shadow. In another dream months ago, tigers slept outside of my house.
#dogwrites
I remember years ago when I was very young, I had a dream that I was traveling on an empty road in the middle of a desert and I came upon a lion in my path. In one hand, I led a zebra by a lead.
At first I was scared of this huge beast in my way, but I exchanged the zebra for the lion.
I left this world as a lamb, and I will come back as a lion #dogdraws
gouache painting of apple flowers
it's in progress and it has been since august
Blackhead, Monhegan - 1916
https://botfrens.com/collections/173/contents/3105003
as change. I didn't regret the decision to take hormones. I wouldn't have survived much longer without passing. And the surgery was a gift to myself, a coming home to my body. But I wanted more than to just barely exist, a stranger always trying not to get involved. I wanted to find out who I was, to define myself. Whoever I was, I wanted to deal with it, I wanted to live it again. I wanted to be able to explain my life, how the world looked from behind my eyes. Yet I was so afraid to come out and face the world again. I wondered why I had to choose the opening years of the Reagan administration and the rise of the Moral Major-ity to demand the right to be myself. Would they arm villagers with torches and stakes and stalk me through the countryside? Would I stand alone, handcuffed in a precinct cell, with no one to turn to if I survived the nightmare? But then I acknowledged that no matter who had been in the White House, it had always been hard to be me. Between a rock and a hard place-something told me this lifetime wasn't going to get any easier. I'd already been through a lot though, and it didn't seem to me it could get much worse. Once again I couldn't see the road ahead. I was still steering my own course through uncharted waters, relying on constellations that were not fixed. I wished there was some-one, somewhere I could ask: What should I do? But no such person existed in my world. I was the only expert on living my own life, the only person I could turn to for answers.
Rereading Stone Butch Blues
This fits with Aleksandra's reporting about Kansas preemptively tracking trans people in the state ahead of the law's passage
bsky.app/profile/tran...
I am deeply ashamed of sincerity because it opens me up to being hurt in the worst ways possible; I can hear a voice in my head tell me "any moron can write some cheesy love poem and slap it in a book titled in lowercase Helvetica font!"
But like, what's so wrong about that? My 8 is 8ing again
It's actually not lost on me how I am repulsed or more perfectionistic with my more emotional writings; I equate vulnerability with mediocrity almost. Even if it's not bad writing
Forcing myself to be more vulnerable by posting the writing I'm most embarrassed by
"las primeras flores" I take my vow of silence, withholding the words I would never dare say; swallowing them whole, letter by damned letter, chunks of them sinking like stones in my throat. And they sit in me, a lion pacing in a cage too small; it’s my burden to carry—but I do it for you. I can never say it: “I love you”. Those words leave a foul taste in my mouth; neon pink frosting that’s way too sweet. A poison—bile that slowly builds with no release, something my body can never purge. It’s an illness; it’s visceral, it’s in my veins. It’s no use, I already tried to vomit it all out to no avail. And so I'll take these words to my grave if I must; my body will rot with them, six feet deep in soil—we’ll decompose together, this love and I. Don't look for me, don't unearth me. Pay no heed to the roots that have taken hold inside of me. Let summer's warmth fade and give way to the coming cold, and let the snows of winter cover all that remains of me in the quiet whites and greys. And by April, I come bearing flowers and fruit. I cough; petals fall from my mouth. A flower falls to the ground at your feet, first of many. Of different colors, different varieties—before we know it, we stand in the midst of a garden we never intended to grow. My words fail me; they suffocate me. I choke when I try to speak. Instead, I pick a flower and offer it to you, and a small part of me hopes you'll put it in your hair.
a poem from the perspective of a character who never intended to fall in love #dogwrites
This work from 1832 depicts the courtyard of Corot's home in Ville d’Avray, the town and surrounding countryside were the inspiration for numerous works, including the first painting he made on returning from Italy in 1828.
"las primeras flores" I take my vow of silence, withholding the words I would never dare say; swallowing them whole, letter by damned letter, chunks of them sinking like stones in my throat. And they sit in me, a lion pacing in a cage too small; it’s my burden to carry—but I do it for you. I can never say it: “I love you”. Those words leave a foul taste in my mouth; neon pink frosting that’s way too sweet. A poison—bile that slowly builds with no release, something my body can never purge. It’s an illness; it’s visceral, it’s in my veins. It’s no use, I already tried to vomit it all out to no avail. And so I'll take these words to my grave if I must; my body will rot with them, six feet deep in soil—we’ll decompose together, this love and I. Don't look for me, don't unearth me. Pay no heed to the roots that have taken hold inside of me. Let summer's warmth fade and give way to the coming cold, and let the snows of winter cover all that remains of me in the quiet whites and greys. And by April, I come bearing flowers and fruit. I cough; petals fall from my mouth. A flower falls to the ground at your feet, first of many. Of different colors, different varieties—before we know it, we stand in the midst of a garden we never intended to grow. My words fail me; they suffocate me. I choke when I try to speak. Instead, I pick a flower and offer it to you, and a small part of me hopes you'll put it in your hair.
a poem from the perspective of a character who never intended to fall in love #dogwrites
If you have not read Persepolis you should, it is an extremely powerful graphic novel thats available for free on the Internet Archive: archive.org/details/pers... Though I would also highly reccomend supporting Marjane directly and purchasing it as well.
Like please I'm straight up begging you it's a very simple and very direct and sobering read that will inform you on how to act during this age of growing authoritarianism.
Picture of Marjane Satrapi alongside a quote from her. The quote reads: The world is not divided into countries. The world is not divided between East and West. You are American, I am Iranian, we don't know each other, but we talk together and we understand each other perfectly. The difference between you and your government is much bigger than the difference between you and me. And the difference between me and my government is much bigger than the difference between me and you. And our governments are very much the same... - Marjane Satrapi, Iranian-French graphic novelist
Thinking about this quote from Persepolis creator Marjane Satrapi again.
Georges Beuville
elionina #dogdraws
elionina #dogdraws
pup outfits!
i had no idea this guy was so hot. who said that www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dbts...
