New sketchbook time again? That it is. Credit to one of my workmates for inspiring the title here, hehehehe. It's been a busy few days here at Bleu HQ... '^^ :-)
This is just a doodle, nothing special. Basically Tam and Keefe in a nutshell. I am THIS CLOSE to finishing Unlocked, which makes me sad and happy at the same time. Sad, because I am going to have to wait who knows how long for the next book to come out. Happy because I can now look at and watch whatever I want without any spoilers. So yeh. If you need something to do, go read Keeper!
I keep coming back to this Vice headline I saw and took a screenshot of this time last week, which inspired the title of this piece. Seems like a relevant metaphor to me (and others I know) for so many reasons right now! Thankfully nothing too traumatic in my case...
I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root.
And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty.
This is compulsory education, after all.
So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past.
“Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge.
The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence.
Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen—
my scribble’s soft insurgency.
The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn.
Columns and corners chant structure.
Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter—
their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward.
I begin to draw.
Not their tardiness, but their motion.
A shoulder. A blur of sneakers.
A tilted head chasing freedom.
Feet flickering like seconds.
Each mark a pulse.
Each smudge a breath.
My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing—
trembling gently through the mundane.
This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed.
It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation.
It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock.
I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you).
Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic.
Not for polish—
but for presence.
This is how I remember I’m still alive.
Still growing.
Still watching.
Still choosing to see.
Because sometimes mental health looks like
a piece of scrap paper,
a moving pen,
and the simple, sacred act of
marking time with wonder.
