Hi there, you’re receiving this because you subscribed to letters from marn, in which I write to you as I would a friend, separated by pandemic, about making art while trying to be a person. See my work on noisybeak.com and instagram:noisybeak
Break the glass
A koala clown followed closely by a koala spaceman. There has been no gap in making beakies until I decided it's time for a standard koala. I've been staring at a black nose on a standard-koala-grey body, nothing's changed. What standards are there in qualifying for a koala? The fears took root and expanded. How human is human? What is a good person? Whose opinions are these? Are they even good? What is good? I felt nauseated on a boat in the water in a fish bowl that's my head. There's no way to move except to break the glass. Have a bowl of chips, hear the crunch in my ears, close my eyes, the only standard is the moment.
A middleman to hear ourselves
Made a kiddy version of my husband so he can hold him and look him in the eyes that everything will be alright.
Beakies made with no standard in mind surprise when they reveal themselves
Percy battling the human version of my husband in chess.
This beakie came from the stars.
Applause everyone. Pincushion Carl found someone like him.
Not a beakie, but the hand of their maker. Using the hand with a sprained pinky to see a fabric brace for the said pinky.
Dis/appearing
If I stopped writing this letter, stopped updating Instagram, I could disappear from the world in which my friends have not met me in person. I could disappear from a world I’ve constructed in my consciousness. I, conversely, appear, even to myself, because of the links I’ve created and nurture.
My sentiments better expressed in No mere acquaintances .
Angel Olsen’s some things cosmic is ringing in my head.
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What remains locked
In the last two week of lock-down-again, I missed conversations with strangers, missed getting inspired by the textures of vegetables in my hands, I missed the bustle outside the window. On Friday the restrictions were lifted. I feel an unease I identify as guilt, for still being in my pjs not going out when I could.
As many different parts of the world we live in are lifting restrictions, testing new rules of engagement, some of us who found refuge in the quietness and isolation:
Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence.
Rabindranath Tagore
I shall.
Knowing that when it’s to much, I could hide again as long as I have an alarm to kick me in the rear.
Time does what it does
I was pretty pissed off. I typed the whole email and ready to attach photos, when my phone switched to night mode, everything disappeared, and displayed autosaved 1 minute ago, of a blank screen. I had to retype from memory. Memory was never my strength. The events conveyed remained the same. The telling in this second version is different. Lighter. Time heals, occasionally, damn fast.
Now that I’m beginning to resume the consistency of this letter, the structure is dropped. No standards, just moments.
Thanks for sticking around. Heart this if you enjoyed reading so I know to continue—appearing. marn