Thinker

A sketch of an old fellow I will eventually do in colored pencil. He's sitting on a bench with his dog on a leash at his feet. I like the far away look he has. It makes me wonder where his mind is.

Oh Pear

Tripod

Designed with CAD. Made in my shop. Colored in Photo Shop.

Just because.

Rwanda

My daughter went to Rwanda recently and visited a school. Shown is a teacher and his classroom.

Jimmy Crack Corn

There is something to be said for perfectionism. It gives the ability to pay close attention to detail. You see things that others don't. If they do, they don't care. The good, the bad and the ugly are relative. I notice alot of bad and ugly in my stuff, be it art or life. I've been told I shouldn't. I still do. It comes from trying to be what others want. It's all perceived. It's not real.

So, in an effort to be more in reality, I've stepped out of my obsession and created some imperfection. A quick sketch in oil pastels on basic printer paper. And, well, I don't care. Mostly.

Pensive

Another Englander as seen in Lewes. I caught her in a thoughtful moment. It's my attempt at colored pencils with need for improvement. Just playing around.

Old Friends

This didn't copy well into digital but here it is anyway. I've grown tired of it. There's more to do to it but I'm done, at least for now. I know it looks like they're floating on a hover bench. Maybe I'll fix it later. Click on it to get a better view. Size: 18" X 23.5"

I was wandering around Trafalgar Square about this time last year when I saw them. I had to take their photo but wasn't sneaky enough to not be noticed by one of them. I kept thinking of Paul Simon's "Old Friends" as I worked on it. You can hear it here.

Winter Tears

Maryon

 From a class done back in ought seven.

On Portobello Road

You can get anything you want at Alice's.

Arlo's restaurant info here.

Me and God

I grew up in a family that required I be a survivor. It was rough and I came out of the nest confused about love and who I really was. Trusting others was next to impossible and the few I did eventually rejected me. I decided along the way I needed no one. Asking for help wasn't necessary. I could do life by myself, thank you very much.

I was also raised in a religious denomination based on the debit and credit system. If you were indebted to God you did good stuff to break even or add a little to your account. I never felt I had any credit. I  thought I wasn't good enough to get on the plus side. I was always afraid the Big Man would send some of His boys to rough me up for payment. Even though I've been a church goer most of my life, I didn't think God was in love with me.

It's getting better though.  It's taken alot to know I'm loved not only by others, but also by Him. I'm starting to get hold of that. Trust is yet a big deal. It's tough but I'm starting to take His hand more often. I'm still fiercely independant and will try to solve life's problems on my own. I'm finding though that things seem to go better when I get Him involved.

Honfleur Blues

Snow Scribbles

Feed Store

Rhodies

I have quite a few more hours left on my next drawing, so 've decided to post some various photos that appeal to me. The drawing might be up in two to three weeks.

Memories

I wonder how many words I've said in my lifetime. I wonder if any had impact. Gibberish first came out, the equivalent of Wingdings. I'm sure I was expounding on great truths but no one seemed to care. If waa is a word, I had a lot to say. Crying was a big part of my first vocabulary which greatly affected my listeners. 

I've always been a quiet sort. Never had much to say in conversations with groups of people. I like to listen in that situation. Depending on the person, I can keep it going but I'd just as soon not have to talk. I usually take on the role of an interviewer. The greater part of the exchange is done by the other party. I guess that would put me below average in total verbal output as compared to the rest of society. There were, however, too many times when I should have kept my mouth shut. 

I did quite of bit of corporate writing. It was meant for that small world only. It was technically oriented and, for all of humanity, could be read to help one fall asleep. However, the stuff I wrote touched many in that small society and the effects are still evident. Many people are using the things I documented, but things don't last nor will my writings.

It's very interesting to me that for all the communication done throughout history by innumerable billions, most all of it has been forgotten. Life comes along and scribbles over it. Perhaps I  should cry really loud all the time. I'd definitely have a long lasting influence.

Brownie Lust

A park bench group I saw in London. Still looks better in the real.
      

Restoration

The healing of the wound

Is much more painful

Than the wounding

                 

The Spitfire Grill

On Drinking

I remember going to a college kegger once and arriving a bit late. As I surveyed the crowd, a friend came up and called someone over for an introduction.  I noticed as the guy walked toward us that he'd been at the pump a number of times. We shook hands, he smiled and immediately puked on me. Shy and self conscious as I was, I thought I might have been the cause. However, since no one had ever blown chips on me after meeting, I figured it was him, not me.

I don't like drunks throwing up on me or throwing up as I watch. Something comes over me and I want to actively join them. Maybe pubs and bars should have those little bags they use on airplanes. They could hand them out to those who've had too much just in case. I think I could handle seeing somebody fill one up. I would think it a courteous thing to do. I'd look away after though. They might spill.

I went to alot of keggers and parties during my stint at the institution of learning and did my share of imbibing. I have a strong stomach and rarely empty it the wrong way, but when I did in those days, it was always private. Puking in public is embarrassing.

I didn't do alot of drinking after I was married and now hardly at all. I can feel a bit foggy the day after and at my age, I don't need some of my brain cells misfiring. However, I really like wine, and if ever I meet a bullfrog named Jeremiah, I'd split a bottle with him. I'm certain I wouldn't puke.

Blocked

I took my last post down because I couldn't get the drawing to photograph or scan right and it wouldn't fix in Photo Shop. It's way better in the real. I was also going to post a bunch of pictures from my England trip but had nothing pertinent to say. I've started another drawing that I'll stick up here in a week or two. In the mean time, the brain fog needs to clear.

Yikes!

I remember playing in a hay field when I was a wee lad of 5 or 6 or so. It had been mowed but wasn't bailed yet. I had a great time running and jumping in the piles and rolling around in them. I picked up a load of grass to stack on another to make a softer landing pad when all joy suddenly drained out of me. A snake jumped and slithered out of the arm full I had. Not having ever seen one in my short existence, it scared the holy livin' stuff out of me. My legs must have been a blur as I ran home to mom and breathlessly told her what happened. She laughed and said it was just a harmless garter snake and was nothing to be afraid of. Yeah, well, she wasn't there to see it and I strongly felt I shouldn't have gone through the experience. Snakes, I decided were something to stay away from.

A few years later in adolescence, courage had entered my veins and garter snakes were game to hunt down and scare girls with. Us neighborhood boys would compare sizes and types and decided that Red Racers were the fastest and scariest as opposed to Yellow Racers or ones that had no stripe at all. Although I don't remember, I think I tortured a few and ran over some with my bike. As I grew older, snakes became uninteresting. 

Now that I'm well into adulthood, they have gone back on my list of things to avoid, especially in the desert. We've lived here in Phoenix for a couple of years and I've felt comfortable in not having seen one, that is until a week or so ago. I was minding my own business, doing something in my studio when my wife started yelling "Snake! Snake!". I didn't think it was going to be a big deal and calmly went to check to out. There, just below our patio door was Diamondback rattler, about eighteen inches long, in the shade trying to get out of the 110 degree sun. Ya know that sensation that comes over you that's called the creeps? Eeeeew. Chills!

Teddy Roosevelt had a deathly fear of rats. I read somewhere he couldn't stand the thought of them. To conquer his phobia, he caught one, cooked and ate it and was never troubled by them again. I thought I might barbecue a rattler and have it on a baguette but I'm not that freaked by them. Besides, my mouth has never watered over rattlesnake meat.

Anyway, even though it gave me a few tingles, I did the manly thing and killed, beheaded and threw it in the garbage.  I'm fairly certain our snake is now in Hell. But now, I've decided to chant, "Scorpions, Spiders, and Snakes, Oh my!", on walks just to keep myself aware.

Integrity

Integrity is doing the right thing when no one is looking

Still Here

It's been a while since I posted. I think I may be losing interest in doing a blog. Frankly, I've lost interest in alot of stuff. Maybe I need my meds changed or to evict a demon or two. Enthusiam has taken a holiday and so will I. I've much to blog about but not now. I'll be back later. Probably.

Patience

The virtuous stuff  that makes you patient, the stuff that sloshes around some place in our brains, waiting fluid, or whatever it's called, has been all but   neutralized by adrenaline within me. I hate to wait. I've been that way since I was a kid and life for me has been a series of speeding from one event to the next and having to anxiously wait at each stop anticipating when I could move on. I don't know why I'm wired that way. It really isn't much fun. I'm sure that life would be better if I'd take the time to slow and smell something. I don't want to. I'd rather move along and take the smells with me. I've grown better though as I've aged but my wife must continually tell me that we're not in a hurry.

I've been fortunate that I haven't been ticketed much for speeding. I usually drive over the limit wherever I go. However, I'm invariably slowed by something in the way. More often than I like, I get behind a school bus, truck or someone who doesn't care about my self-imposed life schedule. Traveling down the highway, staring at a semi's rear wall of sheet metal is such a joy and, if traffic is slow in my lane, I'll switch to find the new lane slowing and watching cars I was behind pass me. I must wait, until life lets me by.

The supermarket is no exception. I'll get in the shortest line and someone ahead will cause a delay as  other lines move on efficiently. I remember once I thought I was lucky and found a lady in the express lane with no one behind her. I stepped up to her just as the cashier anounced the purchase sum. I'd be on my way in just a few minutes. The woman pulled out a coin purse and proceeded to pay in change. As she  counted, each click of a coin against the counter pierced my ears and seconds slowed to match her pace. I was watching grass grow. It took forever. I've decided that whatever line I get in, no matter where, my presence will slow it. Fast food is for others. I must be cursed and I'm certain Providence is behind it all. Too bad I'm a slow learner.

We met the lady I've drawn in a small gallery in Hailsham, England. She was chatting with the proprietor and having tea. I was immediately struck by her bright blue eyes. Her blue tweed coat and beret seemed to make them glow. I asked if I could take her photo. She obliged and posed as you see her. Her name was Anne.

A delightful gal who we learned,  bicycled all over France in her youth. I'm sure she turned some heads and got a few jealous looks. She talked and talked, and talked some more until time started to warp. I had to get on to the next unknown event. We finally pulled away as her words clung to us and continued our meandering through the town. We saw her later, crossing a mall court to a shop. I'd have hated to stand in line behind her. She probably carried alot of coins.

Ups and Downs

.
All that I've found through the ups and the downs
Is that I'd have it no other way
Life in the raw is both fragile and strong
It's both lovely and ugly the same
Who can attest that when they're at their best
Oh their worst is still crouching close behind
It's coming to peace with the darkness in me
That allows the true light to shine

So let it go for we are still far from home
Though you try and try to escape
To live and to love will always be dangerous
But it's better than playing it safe

We are composed of a symphony of notes
Every life is music to His ears
I'll play my melody be it haunting be it sweet
Unashamed of what anyone might fear

So when the load breaks your back and your will
You must still keep your heart in the game
So let it go when it don't feel like home
When inside is your only escape
To live and to love will always be dangerous
But would you want it any other way?

Kendall Payne

People

There are only two kinds

of people in the world,

those who put people

in two categories

and those who don't.

_

Waves

the first wave buries you
maybe it was a word
or someone ignoring your cry for help
so you tumble on the sand
rolling in a watery grave
but you don't die
the second wave is lost love
broken promises 10 feet high and cresting
your heart pressed against the ocean floor
by blue/green hands
liquid fingers named pain and suffering
your skin turns to porcelain
your heart becomes a stone
you die inside
but your heart keeps beating
a drummer to remind you
of the loneliness
and cruel rhythm of this world
there is another sound
that awakens you
a voice still and calm
like the beating of dove's wings
in turquoise sky
the words are love
the message is hope
the Son of God
gathers the shattered pieces
of your world
and makes a new creation


but only if you ask.

Steve Malkowski
outcastpress.org

Smokin!

When I was in the eighth grade, my best friend invited me over for a private rendezvous in his tree fort. He had pilfered some cigarettes from his mom's purse and we had our first smoke fest. Our noses ran, our eyes watered and we coughed a lot, but we were cool. I deciced shortly thereafter that I didn't like smoking. Even though my folks did and I'd inhaled thier stuff since my birth, I still couldn't get used to it. I figured then I didn't need cigarettes as part of my persona. They weren't for me.

I've often wondered what prompted the individual who initially discovered tobacco, to decide that the smell and discomfort caused by the smoke was somehow beneficial. What was the attraction? Maybe they had bad BO and the nicotine fumes smelled better. Perhaps a more suitable fly and evil spirit repellant? Who knows.

And now, what is it about someone with one of those little white things poking out their face that convinces them they're visually in style? It really looks silly. Somehow, the masses have concluded that a cigarette, on fire, in your mouth, can improve your appearance. It's decidedly better than a finger up the nose. But really, what's the draw here? Freud would have much to say on the matter. I don't get it though. Why would someone who doesn't smoke, ask someone who does, for a teaching on using a substance that burns the eyes, makes them cough and smell bad? It's a peer pressure mystery.

Another puzzlement that has me thinking. Why do women smoke? Guys scratch and spit, squirt snot and fart, so it's not too much of a stretch to add a ciggy to the behavior. The image doesn't suffer. A gal however, that's got a nice do and duds, the right makeup with danglies and beads, who lights one up, just doesn't do it for me. As a matter of fact, any woman, gussied up or not with a cigarette isn't too attractive. There's an ample amount of unappealing that's been added. So ladies, if you smoke it ain't pretty. Besides, you stink.