My Picasa albums contain samples of work, school or 'just for fun' projects. It ain't sexy -which is why I haven't put it all on DA- but if you're still reading you must be bored - so might as well take a look.
Old HawkOld hawk,Old Hawk by bupaje
I know your face,
your furrowed brow
dark eyes embrace
your weary smiles,
evince the trace
of battles with
the human race.
the night draws nigh,
when you will sail
wrapped with wind,
your piercing cry
old hawk sail high.
There is Snow on the MountainThere is snow on the mountainThere is Snow on the Mountain by bupaje
it falls long on dancing waves
drapes shoulder in winter's ermine
shod feet with frost engraves
it tumbles swift down rolling hills
like herds of wooly sheep
cut loose from rooted majesty
its buttressed brow to leap
tiny body leaning back
cranes neck to see the top
eyes reflect the mountain's smile
when mouth does utter "pop!"
from the sky a hand descends
child raises up and grips
giant fingers sure and warm
then laughing out she skips
rumbled voice like thunder-speak
'ready to go?' he smiles
turns and pays the barber's fee
(who sweeps the hair strewn tiles)
Beware the Literal TranslatorI sat today, watching a PBS documentary on the late Lalo Guerrero. His song Barrio Viejo [wma] touched the strings of my heart with its poetry.Beware the Literal Translator by bupaje
The chorus begins with
Which translated literally is simply
But a more accurate translation, based on the nuances of his tone, usage and sentiment would be
My Old Neighborhood (which I love)
That is why viejo means old or old man but used by an affectionate child to his father really expresses my old man whom I love.
Which brings me to my warning to beware the literal translator.
Who is the literal translator? He is that person who understands the letter of the law but not its spirit. The man whose knowledge promotes superiority rather than wisdom. The public servant who serves hims
I Am a RockI am a rock.I Am a Rock by bupaje
With jagged and sharpened edges I defy the sand.
It is a sea surrounding me. Always it pushes, scratches, whispers ....
I do not know what it wants - nor does it matter. It is only a seething mass of sameness. I rise above it. I am a rock. I am unique. I endure.
The sand assaults me. It drowns me in its crushing embrace, then, suddenly, it exposes me. It rides the howling wind and crashes futilely against my adamantine surfaces. It is all in vain. My defenses are unshaken. I cannot be vanquished.
Secure in my strength I sleep, and I dream.
I awake, and I am alone. How did this happen? Once the horizon was filled with other rocks jutting defiantly at the sky. I did not speak to them, but I knew they were there. It gave me comfort. Now, there is only sand, and smooth rock colored lumps where once they stood.
I am afraid. My craggy prominence's have become gentle burls. My massive bulwark smoothed away by the strokes of billions of tiny laborers whose voices
I like brushes and textures - not sure why- but I do. One of the things I've played with in the past is creating what I call 'brush wheels.' For example I'll combine several weed and plant brushes in a wheel, then set the brush to 'rotation' and paint away. To illustrate I went to midnightstouch DeviantArt page, used a few of his plant brushes to create a wheel like this.
Then I set the brush angle to rotation (you can play with other settings of course), and quickly paint a nice mixed row of plants.
Simple. I know - but sometimes the simplest tricks can be very useful.