god

well I’ll be damned

| cclelandnissen

Sooo, this drawing is of a character in a song, or what I’ve perceived to be the character anyway.

Some songs are written in such a way that the whole story reveals itself to you in your mind, you know? I’ve been wanting to draw this character I tend to envision for awhile now, but I never felt like taking the challenge, I guess. It feels rather satisfying to see him finally take form!

Styrofoam Boots : Modest Mouse

Well all’s not well
But I’m told that it’ll all be quite nice
You’ll be drowned in boots like Mafia
But your feet will still float like Christ’s

And I’ll be damned
They were right
I’m drowning upside down
My feet afloat like Christ’s
I’m in heaven
Trying to figure out which stack
They’re going to stuff us atheists into
When Peter and his monkey laugh
And I laugh with them
I’m not sure what at
They point and say
We’ll keep you in the back
Polishing halos, baking manna and gas

Well some guy comes in looking a bit like
everyone I ever seen
He moves just like Crisco disco
Breath a hundred percent Listerine
He says looking at something else
But directing everything to me
Anytime anyone gets on their knees to pray
Well it makes my telephone ring

And I’ll be damned
He said you were right
No one’s running this whole thing
He had a theory too
He said that God takes care of himself
God takes takes care of himself
And you of you

Word Association

| cclelandnissen

Just a cool breeze
with an artificial coconut scent.
Body Glitter.
Shitty apartment,
Next to a corn field.
Hawiaan-themed bedroom,
Darkened.
Caved in eyes and
Crooked Teeth.
I can tell you are unsafe, so
How’d I end up here?

Body Glitter.
Lip Gloss.
Jean MF Watkins and
All that Bacardi.
Car crash.
Glass sparkling.
Crying,
Glitter tears.
Screaming at the sky.
Glitter stars.
Looking for God
No one answers.


Staring at the ceiling.
I mean nothing.
Grandpa’s house.
Ice Cream, silent ‘r’
Strawberries from the garden.
The hot sun,
Whiskey and ice cubes rattle.
The dead snakes,
The ones still alive, slithering in blood.
That hot rotten death smell.
His watch,
Ticking with his heartbeat.
His funeral.
That light you saw,
It was real.
You’ve seen it once before
And one time after.

Only once you saw it before,
At that open casket
He didn’t look like himself
That can’t be him.
His dad held his body and cried.
Screamed with a reddened face.
“My boy. Not my boy.”

What is this? Who are we?
I thought we all went to heaven once, but that wasn’t true,
I thought nothing happened then, but that ‘s not true either.
If the truth is only what we make it, how do I know it’s true?
That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?
I don’t know who I am.

One gramma fat and a
Tweety bird balloon.
How long can skeletons survive?
That gross look of sympathy.
Humiliation.
Self deprecating jokes, body shame and
Cancer eating monsters.
I really thought I could save you.
I wanted so bad to save her.
I prayed more than anyone had ever prayed.
I begged.
Pleaded.
That smiling little girl.

“There is no God,” she said.
But we already knew.

The process I used here was to first get into a meditative state.

Once I felt grounded, I took note of my surroundings.

Then moved on to how I felt in my body. How it felt to be in my body.

Once I finally reach a state of, well, I’m not sure what its official name is, but I describe it as a place where it is absolutely silent. My inner stillness, if you will.

Here I sit. and once I pick up on something, like a word, or phrase, I allow my mind to take off without limitation. Whatever comes up, goes down on paper.