Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2020-01-30 07:07 am
white_oleander) wrote2020-01-30 07:07 am
Room 210; Thursday Afternoon [01/30].
Between generally avoiding the room to stay out of Sabine's way as much possible and simply not feeling ready to force herself to climb over this particular emotional mountain, the wall on Astrid's side of the room had remained back for nearly a month now, but she was finally ready to get started on the painting she'd been sitting on for a while now. Today seemed a good day, since she knew sometimes Sabine worked on Thursdays, and there was something comforting in the ritual of pulling out all the tarps and sheets and covering their things, of pulling the bed away from the wall and setting out the paints, cracking open the door and the windows to let out all the inevitable fumes, though it was never enough, and you were always just a bit lightheaded by the time you finished.
It would be a process; she'd have to white-wall over the black, so that the deep blue she'd chosen for a background would set, and then she could started on the figure on one side. A woman, in close-up, done in pop art style. In fact, the figure was incredibly remnicent of Lichenstein's Drowning Girl, a connection Astrid hadn't made until after she'd started, and so now that blue background would become waves, because it fit in with her theme. And the dark haired woman she was painting would resemble, she knew, Audrey Hepburn inmeta for Breakfast at Tiffany's, and that was partially by design, Claire's personal design, perhaps, only this woman was far more skeletal, far more macabre, Breakfast at Tiffany's meets Night of the Living Dead, with sunken cheeks and deep cavernous eyes, onto which she placed two large, bright shining gems of blue.
And then the speech bubble, which swept across the top of the wall, and she had to grab a chair to actually reach it, where she'd eventually paint out, in careful comic-like script, the words TWENTY-SEVEN WORDS FOR TEARS!!!, the exclamations calling up the dramatic tilt of the woman's posture.
It only took up about a third of the wall, with a great space left over her bed, where she would eventually put up the tears she'd cut out and painted, like polka dots on the background, each one representing one of those words.
She felt, out of all the work she'd ever done, all the drawings and paintings and mixed media art, this was one of her greatest pieces. It was genius, she thought, even if no one would ever know why, and that's part of what made it so ingenious, she felt, and the fact that it was imperminant, that it was only a matter of time before she slathered more paint over it and covered it for good, never to be seen again, was what made it so heartbreaking and so important and so perfect.
But, more than anything, she was actually finally doing it.
[[ door and post are open, but some SP may apply, because I know how my Thursdays usually wind up going -_- ]]
It would be a process; she'd have to white-wall over the black, so that the deep blue she'd chosen for a background would set, and then she could started on the figure on one side. A woman, in close-up, done in pop art style. In fact, the figure was incredibly remnicent of Lichenstein's Drowning Girl, a connection Astrid hadn't made until after she'd started, and so now that blue background would become waves, because it fit in with her theme. And the dark haired woman she was painting would resemble, she knew, Audrey Hepburn in
And then the speech bubble, which swept across the top of the wall, and she had to grab a chair to actually reach it, where she'd eventually paint out, in careful comic-like script, the words TWENTY-SEVEN WORDS FOR TEARS!!!, the exclamations calling up the dramatic tilt of the woman's posture.
It only took up about a third of the wall, with a great space left over her bed, where she would eventually put up the tears she'd cut out and painted, like polka dots on the background, each one representing one of those words.
She felt, out of all the work she'd ever done, all the drawings and paintings and mixed media art, this was one of her greatest pieces. It was genius, she thought, even if no one would ever know why, and that's part of what made it so ingenious, she felt, and the fact that it was imperminant, that it was only a matter of time before she slathered more paint over it and covered it for good, never to be seen again, was what made it so heartbreaking and so important and so perfect.
But, more than anything, she was actually finally doing it.
[[ door and post are open, but some SP may apply, because I know how my Thursdays usually wind up going -_- ]]
no subject
Still. Foomy had spent the last few days taking care of Miss Dozy and his ailing human and, since she was in a fitful sleep, he'd wriggled his way out through the bottom of the door and rolled on out for adventure.
Or, at the very least, visiting someone who wasn't coughing and making sad dying noises around tissues and a pile of blankets.
He burbled a greeting, from near the door, considering all the coverings everywhere.
no subject
And, by now, she figured she should be used to that little burbling sound whenever she broke out her paints, because it seemed to be becoming a habit, though there was a whole lot of data to go off of. Either way, she turned her head and found almost the suggestion of a smile, feeling oddly glad to see that little blob of whatever-it-was.
"Hi," she said, from where she was standing on a chair to get the higher spots on the wall, a little easier to reach now than before because of the height she'd gained over the past half year. "Come on in, but be careful. There's not much of a mess to worry about, but I'd like to keep it that way, too."
And then she'd have to decide if she should keep painting, or use this as an opportunity to take a break.
no subject
He beebled his understanding, bouncing in place briefly to better observe the layout of the coverings, and then, after a quick roll about, bounced up to land upon a bedpost, one near Astrid.
Foomy made sure he was steady then gleefully bubbled his delight up at Astrid. He hadn't been sure he'd make it! But he had!
no subject
Since he'd rolled himself up to a spot nearby, she figured she could still keep working, though she hopped off the chair and went to clean her current brush in exchange for another one, so she would be working on a spot a little closer.
"Anything exciting?"
She of course knew that she would't be able to understand any of it, but that wasn't the point. She just liked listening to the little burbles and the tones, and it helped make her feel a little less lonely without any real effort or dedication on her part required.
no subject
Foomy did not have exciting, not right now, as this visit was literally the most exciting thing he'd done in days, but since she'd asked…
Look, it was probably better for both of them that Astrid couldn't understand him right now, as he launched into a burbling litany of complaints about Miss Dozy, his human, having to look after both of them, and how he blamed life, the universe, and everything in it for this sad, pathetic state of affairs.
He had feelings on this, Astrid. So many feelings.
no subject
And she actually did listen, for the most part, as well as one could listen to chirps and burbles that they couldn't understand, as she painted along the lines of the figure's slim, sloping shoulders. She even let out a few thoughtful hums and encouraging "Is that so?"s and "You don't say?"s here and there to show that she was, in fact, actively listening and interested in at least the sounds he was making at her.
"That does sound pretty eventful," she concluded, when she figured he was done, before prompting what she figured would be the next bout by asking, "And what've you got going on for next week?"
no subject
He beebled a few more half-grumbly complaints about his past week, before he shook himself out, in a wiggle of jelly, then began to talk about where he thought the next week would go.
It all depended on his human, of course, but he was used to her schedules by now and he was pretty sure they had more filming to do for her channel where he was a star, as Sir Foomy the Brave, and then there'd be experimenting with more spells because while the false Princess Ce'na was getting better every video it still wasn't the same as the real one had been and so his human kept working on her spells for that, and her class had her pretty distracted too and then there was the way that sometimes for hours on end they just listened to other people talk about things he didn't understand, magitek and enemy movements and Lucis. Then his human would spend hours plinking at one of her machines before she'd collapse on her bed, pick him up, and they'd go find food and something, anything to do.
He chattered on about how he liked it when his human took him along on runs and endless trips to the gym, but always, always at incredibly weird hours, at times when no one else, not even the squirrels would notice, and how she was always careful to never get caught. He didn't really understand the reasons for all of this, but he knew it was important to his human, and if Astrid understood him, he wouldn't have said a thing.
As he wound down about his plans for the week, really, he realized he was mostly talking about his human. But then, his own plans were tucked up and around and between her plans and he was terribly fond of her.
no subject
Could little blobs of jelly lose their voices? He didn't seem to mind and she doubted he would be looking to slow down any time soon. Plus, she trusted that he'd bleeble something out if he was done talking, so she went ahead and asked.
"Any new songs to share?"
no subject
Foomy flailed at her.
If she looked over at him, she'd see him doing his very best to mimic picking up a cup and drinking from it.
no subject
"Is that....drinking?" she asked, feeling uncertain about the guess, until she ventured further. "Are you thirsty?"
Well, he'd been hungry that first time, with the crackers, so why not thirsty, too? Especially since he'd been burbling so much.
"Right, of course," she reasoned, and then looked around to see if there were any cups of water that weren't being used for paint or paintbrushes, and finding none. She turned back to the blob. "I'll be right back, then, I'll have to go get you some water, okay? Is water good? Or would you prefer a soda? Juice?...milk?"
She realized that she wasn't sure exactly how to tell what he'd prefer even if she'd asked.
"Okay," she said, "beep when I hit the one you want, okay?"
And she slowly listed them off again--water, soda, juice, milk--and waited for the telling beep.