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, you might ask, 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? Where is this land?
This forgotten terrain, hidden behind an overgrowth of ignorance, is the land 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 and
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
who passed me on my way?
His seven fingered hands were coal
his yard long toes were clay.
His knotted wooden head was oak,
thrust up like Moby 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 wilderness,
while we are busy living
and wishes he could joi
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.
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.