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.
Here Be DragonsThere are places not often seen by men today, forgotten as we rush about our tasks or battle with acrimonious and hate filled words. In older times these might be marked on a map with the words 'here be dragons'.Here Be Dragons by bupaje
Where are these places to be found at a time when our geography has never been more clear? Haven't we mapped the earth, the stars and the ocean? Haven't we charted molecules and the tangled threads of DNA? Haven't we explored the surface of the moon and the craters of Mars?
These forgotten lands, hidden behind an overgrowth of ignorance, are the lands of our own hearts. By focusing on that which has little value we weigh the worth of the world, and its people, with short weights and false scales. We pay our dues to others with shaved coins, cheating them of the full value of the love, respect, dignity, opportunity or material support which they are due.
It is time for us to leave the comfortable chairs and ideologies of our walled cities to become explorers again. Explorers of
Winter's TrailWhen last you walk on winter's trail,Winter's Trail by bupaje
and reach the highest snowy pass,
to stare beyond the veil of ice
at hidden valley's wonder
You'll have some time to turn your head
and read a tale of slips and falls
rime brightened and inked
on frosty Gaia's landscape.
A life thus spied, from airy height
is given form by distance,
joys and regrets, once estranged
now bound like storied pages.
No single footprint writes the verse
that tells the traveler's legend,
each choice, each deed
a word inscribed, to infamy or glory.
I hope that when you reach that place,
you'll smile at what was written,
turn your heel, pick up the pace
and to far mountain hasten.
Where Goes the Mismatched Man?Where goes the mismatched man,Where Goes the Mismatched Man? by bupaje
I passed along my way?
His seven fingered hands were coal
his yard long toes were clay.
His knotted wooden head was oak,
thrust up - a great whale breaching.
His shoulders seemed a parapet,
far beyond my reaching.
I trembled as he thundered by,
so daunting was his strangeness,
he seemed to be made of spare parts,
malevolent and brainless.
With torso wide as sandy beach
and legs like redwood lumber.
I thought for sure, he'd eat me whole,
then lay down for a slumber.
Just before he disappeared
he turned - our eyes connected,
his story flashed within my mind,
it was totally unexpected.
He goes where others cannot see
for fear of drawing laughter.
while tears like tiny waterfalls,
trail down his chin thereafter.
They flood his beard of mossy green,
filled with salamanders,
while riotous robes of lichen hide
what on his chest meanders.
He spies us from the wildern
The Gray ManThe gray manThe Gray Man by bupaje
like empty spider shells
like bleached cattle skulls.
a setting sun rages bright
while incipient night
before the blaze.
A knowing few
eyes set on the horizon,
behold the beauty
of day descending.
Take heed of those
you deem irrelevant.
lies not only
in the early morning
of its passage
but in the fullness
of its end.
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 fly 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
small mouth then utters "Pop!"
from the sky a hand descends
child raises up and grips
giant fingers sure and warm
and 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
Where is the home of sadness?Where is the home of sadness? It lies within me. I have tried to evict it, turned off the electricity, denied it sustenance and it refuses to leave. I have forced the sun to shine, trying to blast light past the yellowed shade and the soiled green curtains. They seem a weak barrier, yet only a wan and sickly haze is allowed in.Where is the home of sadness? by bupaje
I walk around this enigma, this hole that sucks the warmth from my world. It is an anomaly. It intrudes on the pleasant green and blue of my surroundings. It is a stain. A wound, Death. I have looked in the door and seen the room. It is filled with dry and dusty furnishings. It whispers for me to leave the sun. To rest.
I hear my son playing on the hill, his voice dreamlike. Startled, I let go of the door and back away. My feet had crossed the threshold. I step backward again, crushing brittle grass. I do not dare to turn. Again I step, yet still feel the pull of the room urging me to enter. I pump my arms and step faster, my back to the sun, my face to the shad
What RemainsWhen at lastWhat Remains by bupaje
we leave this world
our lives are polished
by the tender hands
of loving memory.
Gone the dust
of insignificant fights
the rare cross word
and our tiny failings
Wiped away the smudges
and the prints
that marred the luster
of our souls
Until at last
all that remains
is the essence
of our lives.
What will be
revealed of us
Will we shine
Or will we flash
like gilding paint
soon brushed away
by time's careless hands?
Otto and Victoria, Octovictorian EtiquetteWatch depthRADIUSOtto and Victoria, Octovictorian Etiquette by techgnotic
There is no cosmic law that states artists must suffer many long years and demeaning day-jobs before a window of opportunity cracks open just enough to hop on through.
Fellow deviant Brian Kesinger is a case in point.
His first “day-job” in 1996—he was hired straight out of his senior year of high school—was drawing Tarzan for Disney.
Brian stayed at Disney and he considers every day there a part of his ongoing education as an artist. He most recent
I remember writing many little stories and drawing comic books. I jammed them into my drawers (my stepmother would routinely empty these into the trash as they filled up). I always expected to be a storyteller/explorer/inventor. Circumstances were such that this didn't work out. Now and then I did sit down to try to create the required outline and do all the planning. I never got much beyond that stage in my writing (except for occasional bouts of mediocre poetry).
This year I resolved that I would write. I went to a local writers meeting. I got fired up and and got all types of plans and charts - and even read more than half of the material. I did free writing exercises and made some new efforts at planning. I began some story board, drew some character ideas, researched various things on the web - and ended up with another few poems and yards of free-writing exercises but nothing started.
One day at lunch several weeks ago I said screw it. I'm getting old and going to be dropping dead soon and all of these stories are going to die with me. I started writing for my lunch hour. No plans. No outline. Nothing but one of the ideas that had been floating around in my head for years. Guess what? A story is coming out - not the one I imagined but another growing from the tiny seed of that first idea. I'm now about 20,000 words into it. Still no outline but I've been following the story and jotting down ideas and notes.
I still suck at sentence structure and planning. If you've read this you'll find errors and missing punctuation. No doubt I'll need to learn some but I think I re-learned the most important thing - something I knew as a kid.
If you want to be a writer - JUST WRITE! Sure, outline and plan if that's how your brain works, more power to you. But if your stuck at planning all the great things you are going to do. If your hung up on details so small that all your really doing is spinning your wheels in the mud, then screw it!
JUST WRITE! TODAY! NOW! DON'T THINK ABOUT IT, DO IT!
What's the worse that can happen?
Here is a really fascinating and potentially useful site. Ambient Mixer allows you listen to a mix of user created audio files and also adjust, add, mix, listen to and download the files. As an example I am writing a story and was searching for the sounds a wooden sailing ship as I don't have ready access to a ship to experience it for myself. Here is one user created mix.
I think you can imagine all the ways this might be useful.
Notes on Character DesignI received the question pictured below at my tumblr blog. In case it's useful to anyone here, I decided to go ahead and use this otherwise dormant journal to share the article I put together in response.tracyjb
Character design and drawing are tome-sized topics and even if I had all the answers (I don't - I have a lot to learn), I'm not sure I could communicate them effectively. Here are some thoughts an ideas that might help, though.
First, some general things...
Let some of that anxiety go. This isn't a hard science. There's no wrong way, no rigid process you must adhere to, no shoulds or shouldn'ts except those you designate for yourself. This is one of the fun parts of being an artist, really - have a heady good time with it.
- Be patient.
A design is something gradually arrived at. It takes time and iteration and revision. You'll throw a lot of stuff away, and you'll i
NaPo VIII. Oh MountainOh mountain, sought and sundered,LaBruyere
Peaceful river, flow
Take heed the coming thunder
And let my spirit go.
I've nothing not surrendered
To the tide or river rage.
My heart to hope is rendered
As a heartache's unpaid wage.
In an alien place
Of conquered nature
Of manufactured air
Hands of steel
Envelop my roots
My leaves are choking
My children fall in vain
In a cage of stone
A beauty for others
And their blind stupidity
I die each day
I slowly fade away
To the kidnapped earth
On my knees
I am shaking terrified
In this madness
In this false reality
I cry and plead
And hope for resurrection
By beings so ignorant
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz betweenSeamlessMaiden
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
some things are meant to be brokeni snatch at dog-eared love letters,SeamlessMaiden
molded and mashed together into
a string of mismatched desires,
revolving around you.
love is a dystopia—-the never-ending cycle
of unrequited i-love-yous,
little white lies,
and carpe diem whispering,
“life is too short.”
we romanticize the beating heart,
if it walks pretty and talks pretty
it’s obviously a strung-up puppet but—-
—-just maybe you can sew him up, the craft
of needle and thread to stitch a real boy.
i breathe against the windowpane,
tracing tales of the boy with wild eyes
and a wicked heart on the frozen mosaic glass
framed by the need to save you.
when it’s over i’ll morph
into a hollow shell of a girl, waiting
for a starry-eyed boy to
wish me back to life and—-
—-just maybe we can be real together.
What-up humanity?It's almost easy to see why people stop caring about anybody else and just start to look after número uno.LiamSharp
The world fosters it.
The media fosters it.
Consumerism fosters it.
And sometimes giving a shit just doesn't seem to pay dividends - it isn't the yin yang we hope for in our hippy days.
Good people can live miserable, forgotten lives.
Bastards can live and die like kings.
The universe doesn't care.
I remember hearing once that we are communists in our youth, socialists, then eventually conservatives in our selfish old age.
Nobody cares about the old, so speak your mind and take what you can get, that message suggests.
Your every thought of freedom was folly.
Every aspiration towards a better, more caring world was pointless.
Lock the doors.
Don't trust the strangers.
If you don't you're a damn fool.
Looking at groups like ISIS it's hard to argue an alternative point sometimes.
Where are we going so wrong?