Written on my veins.

My hands are permanently covered in constantly changing thoughts. My arms keep secrets up my sleeves. My wrists host small reminders. Each time I wash my hands, my ideas wash away, and I have a limited amount of time to do something less ephemeral with them. Yesterday, faded notes reminded me to coat my silkscreen with emulsion, pin fabric, read more about the Cottingly fairies, look at lenses, and "2." And when I took my  shower last night, the last of my thoughts washed down the drain, all except for the number 2, which remained boldly placed in the center of my hand. I have no idea what it means, or what it refers to. And I usually don't write numbers when I mindlessly doodle (usually, I draw owls or narwhals or ghosts). So I have no idea what it means.

I have lots of ideas. I don't know how, but I feel like I almost always do.  Some ideas are more exciting than others. I have so many different styles of stop motion I want to try, so many different techniques of shooting things frame by frame. And new lenses coming next week to play with! One day, I will make something spectacular. And it will start off as a little idea, written with a ballpoint pen on exposed skin.