I’ve been reading Chuck Palahniuk’s Diary, and if you have ever read any Palahniuk you know it’s really wierd, and you’re not sure what’s going on, but you can’t put it down. I love this part of the book:

When they were in school. Peter used to say that everything you do is a self-portrait. it might look like Saint George and the Dragon or The Rape of the Sabine Women, but the angle you use, the lighting, the composition, the technique, they’re all you. Even the reason why you chose this scene, it’s you. You are every colour and brushstroke.
Peter used to say, The only thing an artist can do is describe his own face.”
You’re doomed to being you.
This, he says, leaves us free to draw anything, since we’re only drawing ourselves.
Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china patterns you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand.
Everything is a self-portrait.
Everything is a diary.

And I truly believe those words. But what then do all those doodles by the phone, in the margins of text books, what do they say about me? After reading those words I took out my sketchbook and scanned the last couple pictures I drew.

Bananas. Cats. Feet. Plants.
I still don’t know what they mean, but I guess they mean me.
Bananas. Cats. Feet. Plants. Kylie.

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