so what if nepeta grew up
a message from mother nature
Super secret sketchbook sketches.
Erik Johansen’s pictures are worth more than a thousand words. The German born, Swedish based photographer enjoys nothing more than manipulating the mind with his tantalizing visual imagery. His vivid imagination and surreal forms create brilliant pictures of surreal moments, all with a hint of the believable. Originally a computer engineering student, Johansson currently works on personal projects as well as commissioned ones.
i like the sound of tall douglas firs creaking when it’s very windy out
i like the smell of fresh rain on grass and pavement
i like the sweet yet sulphury smell of blooming flowers at the end of a spring evening , when the air is still warm
i love seeing trees in fog with very little brush surrounding them, like lonely watchmen keeping guard of a forest
i also like when fog settles low on the mountains so you can just see the tips of them peeking out from underneath
i like the stillness of heavy snowfall, how it all comes down around you so violently yet is nearly completely silent as everyone retreats into their warm houses
i like the sound of torrential rain on leaves
i like the periwinkle sky of a hot summer at 6 in the morning, that tells you in advance that it’s going to be a beautiful day
i love the feeling of being barefoot while walking on green grass
i love dust particles that shimmer in sunlight through your window
i love the look a deer gives you before fleeing when you walk past it, when it sits there and stares at you, not sure whether to run or not. i love that connection between two animals
i love the smell of my mom’s lotions when she holds my head in her hands
i love the smell of my city in the summer at night - exhaust, cigarettes, ocean and chinese food - all mixed into one charming pungent scent that sends memories rushing at me all at once
i love little things like this, it makes me realize how many things there are to be happy about
This guy at my school shows up every day with like a fake wolf tail clipped to his back belt loop, and I always see him running from class to class and jumping over things and he looks so happy to exist and sometimes he brings a lil wolf puppet with him and he makes it run along next to him on the strings
I’m just like u go wolf kid live ur dreams
I get a little OCD with my palette.
Mama is Kari. The tabby is Grant. The cream-colored is Adam. The kitten with the dark splotches on the head is Tory, orange splotches is Jamie.
“Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..” but what I’d really like to say is: “My name means island of the ships but once I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck- not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.” I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s. They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special. The doctors, they want facts not details. “I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“ The right or the left? Conversation over. The teachers, they want interests, hobbies. You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do? The adults are a spew of questions. What school do you go to? What classes are you taking? What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend? No, stop. People my own age are the worst. “I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.” Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know, done it? I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2 my goals at a stop light at traffic hour, my medical history on a billboard for the world to see. But what about me? Where’s the chance to say, “I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets, and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down so I can swim with the stars. I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it. It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome. I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years, each a story I’ll never know but sometimes I create my own.” No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.”