tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83800350166869318182024-03-15T18:09:17.545-07:00The Second RedThe Redder the BetterK Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.comBlogger114125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-12779551305910040132012-08-14T15:16:00.001-07:002012-08-14T15:16:25.516-07:00Gutter Fantasy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjXvE7PEKbyOlI5NbAPdXotYA9V4P8KCLgzsz6cPYRmwVbk15diRdI4KNxTrOjaPi8Erq7wj9zCp24zSeFf4L7K03KOW5Q1H_JM-tZwIz8YiQ1wLJ3Juvpqlrz5Us1FQYdxBF77bytWTiI/s1600/Tamiyo+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjXvE7PEKbyOlI5NbAPdXotYA9V4P8KCLgzsz6cPYRmwVbk15diRdI4KNxTrOjaPi8Erq7wj9zCp24zSeFf4L7K03KOW5Q1H_JM-tZwIz8YiQ1wLJ3Juvpqlrz5Us1FQYdxBF77bytWTiI/s320/Tamiyo+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Today I finished a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x--DVqnaxtk">shameless </a>bit of gutter fantasy art. A Moon Sage! She has +20 avoiding classroom prep.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-85072761357648492122012-02-22T22:19:00.006-08:002012-02-22T23:53:38.583-08:00The 11th HourTime goes both ways, forward and back. For some reason moving forward comes naturally but moving backward is difficult. Certainly, some memory of backward movement is built into all of us but most never pay attention to it. Someone might, on occasion, recall lost images from their childhood, experience a strong sense of deja vu, or have a sudden moment of inspiration strike from seemingly nowhere. If they were to follow these streams of thought to their source they might find a way back through time. But few do. And those who do seldom find their way back.<br /><br />Joe did. He was 8, almost 9, when it happened. The week prior to his experience he had found his hamster, Orpheus, had passed on. Joe dumped his <a href="http://celebs.icanhascheezburger.com/2011/08/24/funny-celebrity-pictures-groovy/">super hero</a> action figures from their shoe box, wrapped the stiff little rodent body in tissues, and placed it inside. He set the lid on the box and scrawled a sweet, misspelled eulogy on top. Joe retreated to the sanctuary of his comic book collection just as he had done when his dad and then Nana had died. After several hours of seeing beloved heroes run the gamut of death, life, and resurrection, Joe felt a bit better and set his alarm for school the next morning. He always set it an hour later since this particular clock only had 11 numbers on it. His Nana had given it to him shortly after his dad's death claiming the clock was good luck. It had never brought him anything but bleary eyes.<br /><br />He blinked bleary eyes the next morning as the alarm rang. He looked at the clock. It showed 5:00 (6:00 in real time) and had Orpheus sniffing happily from behind. Joe blinked and lay back down. He was asleep still. This was a nice dream but he dreaded having to wake up from it. He sat up again with a start. The obligatory missing pieces of reality that accompanied all dreams were nowhere to be seen. He pinched himself. It didn't hurt much but he was awake. And Orpheus was back.<br /><br />That night, Joe put some blue bottles next to the strange alarm clock. The next morning he was awakened by buzzing in the window. He repeated his experiment over the next few days with an assortment of dead bugs which awoke right on cue the next day. After almost a week of this, he tried his experiment on a large, decayed robin from the street. The next morning he had to open his window and chase it out for all the racket it was causing. The experiments worked and Joe knew exactly what to do with the clock.<br /><br />The next day was Saturday but his plan was pushed back by his weekly downtown date with mom. It was already dusk when he returned home. Running to his room, he snatched the alarm clock, threw on a heavier jacket, and scratched Orpheus' back, barely noting the little hamster's peaked look. In a few minutes Joe was climbing off his bike in front of his dad and Nana's graves. Joe set the alarm for the next morning and placed it on dad's grave.<br /><br />In that moment the world shimmered almost imperceptibly and Joe felt a sudden shiver run down his spine. He picked up the clock and another shiver took him. The world shimmered again and the feeling was gone.<br /><br />He stood in front of the grave for several minutes gripping the clock and then, slowly, placed it in his pocket and rode back home. When he got back home he found Orpheus's cage upset and the little hamster battered and dead on the floor. The resurrected flies and insects were hammering the window recklessly and soon they too dropped lifeless to the floor.<br /><br />Joe never wound the clock again. And he never felt the same shimmer and chill that he had experienced that day in the graveyard. It's for good reason that moving forward in time comes naturally. Time moves both ways, forward and back. But the past should remain where it is.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeGvAxMKfMeAo10VUG1aj7wgq6hpPxlry-maip91abdE8FyC8cHieKVib1S4gZZyRG3q9_r25WveNlzZIq9hUk_dfnFPn7rBLN0q_6HRh3xeGUtnbQxfUfNlR_3UTpsCsU5ofkBlV3k0Y/s1600/11th+hour.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeGvAxMKfMeAo10VUG1aj7wgq6hpPxlry-maip91abdE8FyC8cHieKVib1S4gZZyRG3q9_r25WveNlzZIq9hUk_dfnFPn7rBLN0q_6HRh3xeGUtnbQxfUfNlR_3UTpsCsU5ofkBlV3k0Y/s200/11th+hour.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712230226001675682" border="0" /></a>K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-55304672789091472162011-10-31T16:54:00.000-07:002011-10-31T16:55:28.270-07:00Another Book Cover<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Iyl6eBwYMem4Ln0EuUTK7if_bbFpKOYOKNPmrachLYZTuzKsEpenO5rDmlryCqTr0rzHLVXAmBTH-5MX_phGxWNFot1xnRcG2Cj4OnBKJn0ZxImKGU8Agw4yKjA4pBr7u4IPiZsVXk-5/s1600/Junior+Detectives+proof+for+ralph+copy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Iyl6eBwYMem4Ln0EuUTK7if_bbFpKOYOKNPmrachLYZTuzKsEpenO5rDmlryCqTr0rzHLVXAmBTH-5MX_phGxWNFot1xnRcG2Cj4OnBKJn0ZxImKGU8Agw4yKjA4pBr7u4IPiZsVXk-5/s200/Junior+Detectives+proof+for+ralph+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669809186009762018" border="0" /></a><br />Here is another book cover. Spies, pesky kids, red scare. More later.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-33949024999832041782011-09-21T23:08:00.000-07:002011-12-03T07:47:16.970-08:00The Merdad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18TixWsOI3-07q7ZO1-1QNepoT8vh3eHLOKP_7oQ_J1-Lr43hDAEH7xDZ_JMJ0KSEHeCb0JsfHCJwxCTVTBookd9ksP35cOfJPl_EMthAigm6lhxrPQEhyphenhyphenXlN6lPUBFaY94uUbqETrcp9/s1600/Merdad.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18TixWsOI3-07q7ZO1-1QNepoT8vh3eHLOKP_7oQ_J1-Lr43hDAEH7xDZ_JMJ0KSEHeCb0JsfHCJwxCTVTBookd9ksP35cOfJPl_EMthAigm6lhxrPQEhyphenhyphenXlN6lPUBFaY94uUbqETrcp9/s200/Merdad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681051333320665506" border="0" /></a><br />Crawdads make poor granters of wishes. Emily Steen, who was quite content with her life, discovered this while digging for gooey ducks one fall afternoon. Her favorite spot for digging was along Chimicum Creek, especially on clear mornings. Emily would finish her chores, watch the last of the infomercials while eating cold cereal, and then dive into her galoshes. By 5:00 AM she was completely oblivious to anything non-gooey duck. Except for the morning she helped the crawdad.<br /><br />He was a most peculiar crustacean, bearded, bespectacled, and bearing a beret. And he was huge. He was obviously stuck in a shallow mud hole next to the creek. At first Emily thought a spawning salmon was trapped in the muddy hole. Her next inclination was that a lobster had been dressed up and forgotten in this slough. Though she was unsure of what the creature was or who had dressed him up this way, she lifted him and tossed him into the stream. As she turned to trudge up to her favorite digging hole, she heard a gravely voice ask "how may I reward the lady to whom I owe a life debt? Shall it be riches, fame, or happiness"? Shocked, Emily whirled to stare into the sincere face, if crawdads can look sincere, of the large crawdad. He twitched one large claw as if to reinforce his question. Emily gaped and then, caught up in the queerness of the moment, replied "Why, riches, I suppose".<br /><br />The next morning galumphed up Chimicum Creek and settled around Emily's house with a clap of thunder and 2 inches of rain. Rather than battling the elements Emily armed herself with a thick book and a thicker blanket with which to spend the morning on the front porch. As she stepped out, she blinked in surprise at what lay in her yard. There seemed to be one of everything. Piles of bottle caps, old bike frames, fishing line, beer bottles, old shoes, and especially bits of styrofoam. Before she had time to wonder, a small voice at her feet said, "The Chief Merdad returns the sum of his accumulated offerings from humans as a sign of his gratitude for delivering him from a unmentionable and inescapable demise. Please, accept these riches". The harbinger, a crawdad the size of an almond bowed and scuttled off into the grass. Emily's dad made her pick it all up and haul it to the trash.<br /><br />The next morning was brilliantly sunny and Emily tromped right outside in her galoshes. She stopped dead in her tracks when she stepped onto the porch. The yard was filled with what seemed to be one of every animal. From foxes to fruit flies, from beavers to bombardier beetles, the front yard had become a frantic, fragrant mass of fauna. Again, a small voice addressed her from the ground. "The Chief Merdad offers his most sincere apologies for displeasing his rescuer and offers the perpetual adoration of all his subjects henceforth. Please, accept this new found fame". Emily stood and stared. Then, without a word, she walked down to the stream and pretended that the only thing in existence was gooey duck hunting. The menagerie followed. All that morning they crowded around her, jabbering and genuflecting until she felt her last shred of sanity give way. She faced her would be subjects and shouted, "Take me to the Merdad, right now"! The animals shied away but with obvious intent moved up the stream toward a nearby pond. As Emily followed, the animals began to file away into two ranks, forming a tidy path right down to a dock that reached out into the pond. There, at the end stood the Merdad. With no hesitation, Emily walked down the dock. And lifted the large creature so that she could look it in the eyes. Looking abashed, if crawdads can look abashed, it asked "Might I offer you lifelong happiness"?<br /><br />"Yes, you can", Emily replied.<br /><br />The Merdad straightened up and seemed pleased. Emily pulled back and hurled the writhing arthropod into the pond. She smiled, now quite happy, and faced the timid ranks of creatures. For one awkward moment no one moved or made a sound and then Emily threw up her hands and shouted "BLAAAAAAAGGH, Go AWAY"!. And they did. And never came back.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-89233921798471472582011-07-24T23:26:00.001-07:002011-07-26T22:58:13.056-07:00Painting Rocks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmz9nChqPEqKtpA3fEM816zftX80fM5HuKmheCGSQlUtf8rpTkr3Q_k-nm7Z2SFNsBENwFH0ZSrgGpghQqwpfbZKRWDyOQf5RWN6DknPJWCvGAgeFEvhf9_ZdKLz6RcMiT930T9CHM-19j/s1600/River+Rocks.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmz9nChqPEqKtpA3fEM816zftX80fM5HuKmheCGSQlUtf8rpTkr3Q_k-nm7Z2SFNsBENwFH0ZSrgGpghQqwpfbZKRWDyOQf5RWN6DknPJWCvGAgeFEvhf9_ZdKLz6RcMiT930T9CHM-19j/s200/River+Rocks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633906902744888450" border="0" /></a><br />Something really clicked for me this week as I painted rocks. In the past when I wanted to paint thousands of them, particularly in river beds, I had tried several techniques. I might have been seen dotting drops of paint, creating individually shaded rocks (groan), laying down a wash of the general rocky color through blurred eyes, etc. This week I tried edging the cracks and the dark holes of the river bed. Though it was a bit tedious, I found it was much quicker and more accurate than anything else I'd tried. Given some more time I want to add some shading and assorted color. Maybe I will paint those same rocks next Sabbath. Art makes mundane <a href="http://www.brothers-brick.com/2011/07/21/lego-gets-marvel-comics-license/">marvelous</a>.<br /><br />By the by, that lead weight of color at the bottom of the picture is the shadow of a bridge.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-68676939639823894222011-07-13T21:42:00.000-07:002011-07-13T22:47:40.548-07:00The Day Before TomorrowOn May 1, between 12 and 1 AM there were 9 babies born simultaneously at Mercy Health Center. The babies were healthy, loud, and gone within the hour.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix35LAAThyphenhyphen433yut0AQzVwO44bKJ0BzZ69PJUHV9taMMogelrsrNDoZRwpuk9Vz3V5VFtwAUvVGpaOFzHswC6X_D6pE23in9pPIlDUb-UIARr0_f_vaXSL4oPvVP2MQSZCRDaIDVHparxV/s1600/Changeling.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix35LAAThyphenhyphen433yut0AQzVwO44bKJ0BzZ69PJUHV9taMMogelrsrNDoZRwpuk9Vz3V5VFtwAUvVGpaOFzHswC6X_D6pE23in9pPIlDUb-UIARr0_f_vaXSL4oPvVP2MQSZCRDaIDVHparxV/s200/Changeling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629075148975110674" border="0" /></a><br />Dr. Pricharr of Mercy Health Center walked up to the maternity ward observation window to check on the handiwork of the busiest midnight birthing he had ever experienced. There, staring back at him was the most hideous excuse for a newborn he had ever seen. The creature was tinted green with pointy ears and a ridiculous grin. What was worse the thing was waving at him. No infant could sustain a grin or focus 5 feet away, much less wave at someone. It was an affront to fertility. Dr. Pricharr managed to tear his gaze away from the monstrosity when a cry like a singing drunk goat split the calm of the ward. A yellow infant to the right had opened a gargantuan mouth full of teeth and set to bellowing. Pricharr stared in astonishment as he realized entire nursery was full of these wretches.<br /><br />Moments later the cry had roused the ward. Frantic mothers cried out that these could not be their babies and the nurses were inclined to agree since every arm band had <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2005/09/19/050919fa_fact_grann">vanished</a>, save one. Tiny Michael Redd, whose grandfather had placed a thin silver band next to the identification band, was laying peacefully and recognizably in his bed. Every other child was gone and in its place was one of the repugnant substitutes.<br /><br />In the May firsts that followed a few similar cases occurred. Before long people reviewed the records and discovered that reports like this ran back through the centuries. In each report, a few nurses or families remembered seeing strange colors and hearing odd sounds. Not a single photograph or video clip registered anything but cameras only show what is there, not what is real.<br /><br />Now, in hospitals around the world, the lucky babies born on May 1 between midnight and 1 AM receive a thin, silver bracelett called a Redd Band, after little Michael. No baby ever vanishes in such a terrible fashion anymore.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-55056009917561590502011-06-12T00:00:00.001-07:002011-06-12T10:16:28.071-07:00The Mysterious Frenchtown<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpRb30PZUhZ72povNEpkAP11sfxxF68qfabtL2b8Gl3_cq85_SDvZbx51dpBXL25ALsOFFDKLloE0MMn92cOGHhF2TPCMXXAvfg0ljS09a9mtBvxOsCasSw5dpH3dEGhSPfKK8iV19yC7/s1600/Frenchtown.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpRb30PZUhZ72povNEpkAP11sfxxF68qfabtL2b8Gl3_cq85_SDvZbx51dpBXL25ALsOFFDKLloE0MMn92cOGHhF2TPCMXXAvfg0ljS09a9mtBvxOsCasSw5dpH3dEGhSPfKK8iV19yC7/s200/Frenchtown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617380487385827378" border="0" /></a>Driving along Highway 12 I had always been <a href="http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn20546-early-americans-helped-colonise-easter-island.html">curious </a>about what the signs for Frenchtown were talking about. There is a little knoll with a pair of memorials for French trappers and Indians who died in an arduous battle some 125 years ago. The bodies are still buried somewhere out there but the settlement and the graves have long ago vanished. It is a pristine bit of prairie complete with indigenous grasses and a vista that can, with the right angle, look like the valley did before the white folks came.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-52730579369909338772011-05-25T23:33:00.001-07:002011-05-25T23:33:25.032-07:00Cans and Cannots<p class="MsoNormal">Grandma said never to can durian. Ever since Barbara had started canning with Grandma at the age of 6 she would hear about the right way to can beans, the proper way to pickle beets, and the best way to preserve tomatoes. But grandma said there was no good way to can durian. It wasn't as if there was any to be had within 6 time zones of King county so it struck Barbara as odd that the topic ever came up. No explanation would be forthcoming either since grandma died when Barbara was 12. She had a vague notion that the superstition came from grandma's stint as a nurse in the Philippines during the Pacific war but there was little reason to pursue that question. The years went by and Barbara canned pickles, corn, and peaches. But never durian.<br /><br />Times change but some rules persist. Like listening to grandma.<br /><br />Living near one of the most prominent ports in the U.S. provided Barbara with the opportunity to obtain exotic fruits and vegetables. Having inherited the need to garden and live in the kitchen from grandma, Barbara began buying, growing, and canning all manner of produce. The community garden near Barbara's house became the talk of the town and people now came to the local farmer's market to buy her jackfruit, tarap, and rambutan preserves. And then Barbara discovered durian at one of the Asian markets. And of course she canned it.<br /><br />Several months passed and something happened in the pantry. Something grandma knew about.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFu7q297NPOYbEuTc3g9fKr7I5OyE3Wx5a_l67egVUQrlettX5WA8e13tUZFaiFbwuv511wga-oTo04LcdLPrtnvYkclofKK9EgQ9DMwwE38oRN8z_hbiqEQjIt-KqNwXgd31W68tKXCP/s1600/Cans+and+Cannots.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFu7q297NPOYbEuTc3g9fKr7I5OyE3Wx5a_l67egVUQrlettX5WA8e13tUZFaiFbwuv511wga-oTo04LcdLPrtnvYkclofKK9EgQ9DMwwE38oRN8z_hbiqEQjIt-KqNwXgd31W68tKXCP/s200/Cans+and+Cannots.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610876363519246130" border="0" /></a><br />Later that fall, Barbara decided it was time to dip into the winter supplies and make the first meal from her canning. As she opened the small, thick door to the pantry she knew from the smell and temperature that something was wrong. The dim light from the basement window revealed jars in all states of unnatural being: <a href="http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn20507-solar-systems-big-bully-leaves-others-looking-flat.html">warped</a>, bent, stuck in the wall, and even floating in midair. Only one jar at the center of this mystery remained unchanged. The jar of durian. she grabbed the jar and examined it. The contents looked suspiciously benign. She moved the jar to the far corner of the basement and spent the next few minutes marveling at the oddities on, in, and around the shelves. Finally, she remembered dinner and grabbed two jars of tomatoes, one of which was imperceptibly longer than it should have been.<br /><br />Two days passed and, though grandma would have warned her, Barbara did nothing about the pantry.<br /><br />All seemed to return to normal. Though the jars were shaped oddly the food seemed to still be good. With the durian jar in the corner the jars even began returning to their original shape. But somthing HAD altered the food. Soon, strange maladies began to plague Barbara and her family. Ears became larger, noses smaller, purple sweat, and unusual dreams. The conditions were not permanent, any more than were the conditions of the jars, but Barbara decided to dispatch with the year's canning just in case. In the process of tossing the precious jars of food, however, she forgot about the durian in the corner. It was now sitting on a concrete swell and giving off a purple glow.<br /><br />Slow years passed and even grandma would have been surprised at what happened.</p>K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-71428214219270924292011-05-21T23:56:00.001-07:002011-05-22T22:42:20.477-07:00High on a HillMy lovely wife was good enough to drag her <a href="http://www.thinkgeek.com/tshirts-apparel/kids/">pregnant </a>body out for a Sabbath afternoon in the hills. We found this idyllic spot and enjoyed an hour of cozy car painting. The problem with painting in the springtime is, once again, graphically depicted in the top left corner of this scene. Unless there is adequate cover the painting becomes a rain laden mess. The car is a tolerable, albeit frustrating, source of spring rain protection. The stick shifts , bucket seats, and safety belts have all got to go. The steering wheel isn't great either.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoPeX-Ra-u5ccZcptcFHSImy9ThtRMDkFdgQJMUXxqJWZgWijmvbIGv0Z67R5O8OP3vJC9Q8s0VRfeEw2GD8GfyR6ryJslfXNAlFja4PecmR2LYeYArgGJTsTb9EDONDtoBkEin6rP-ZP-/s1600/High+on+a+hill.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoPeX-Ra-u5ccZcptcFHSImy9ThtRMDkFdgQJMUXxqJWZgWijmvbIGv0Z67R5O8OP3vJC9Q8s0VRfeEw2GD8GfyR6ryJslfXNAlFja4PecmR2LYeYArgGJTsTb9EDONDtoBkEin6rP-ZP-/s200/High+on+a+hill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609782496246206882" border="0" /></a><br />Even so, it was a great afternoon.<br />Next week, maybe I will invest in a really big umbrella. Or a new medium.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-87056638200497217392011-05-14T22:49:00.000-07:002011-05-14T23:02:10.198-07:00Blustery Day Under the BridgeThis spring I have begun what art historians will call my "Troll Period" because gale force winds, <a href="http://the-hobbit-movie.com/2011/05/14/even-wizards-have-to-wear-the-glasses/">wicked </a>thunderstorms, and sheets of rain have forced my weekend painting excursions under bridges. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6e0A3PnlmyBwor1BnQKOKTai6X-jGxQmTmDTVmcxMleRwohbudYX8FpTpZBEaQBpKByYIn5hNNxq0jOSg1nUY7I4HOo9ljK4ZqNaW6cbh7adnUBWLDxynjcYaAOgrRlDtdLyJ6ZJoaLTJ/s1600/Blustery+under+the+bridge+copy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6e0A3PnlmyBwor1BnQKOKTai6X-jGxQmTmDTVmcxMleRwohbudYX8FpTpZBEaQBpKByYIn5hNNxq0jOSg1nUY7I4HOo9ljK4ZqNaW6cbh7adnUBWLDxynjcYaAOgrRlDtdLyJ6ZJoaLTJ/s200/Blustery+under+the+bridge+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606819184025393442" border="0" /></a>This venture found me holding my w/c book under the overpass for protection from the wind and rain that was driving those trees while my feet were propped in the mud and my posterior gripped a small, sharp stone just above the flooded river. My dog stared longingly at me from out in the downpour while refusing to come lay in the much drier mud under the bridge. I decided I needed to get him out of the rain and so the painting remains unfinished. The colors and shapes are there but not much else.<br /><br />It was a good day.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-24491859206363038992011-05-07T19:09:00.001-07:002011-05-07T19:26:37.947-07:00Cheery ChiaroscuroEvery year <a href="http://www.ploythairestaurant.com/">spring rolls </a>over and wakes me up. Painting, among other needs, has lain dormant for much of the last year and a half. Fortunately, a little rousing incentive from May weather has jarred me to my senses. Holding a brush felt a little like taking a long stretch and even though I couldn't control my colors as much as I would have liked the experience was rich.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQtA0bJcXoxrnfKTw5fawgU_Ini2-0s5DzoFtWKndqvc9FwlXIJgWZgWhEM1PFaTNc3ZvIxv0zK2C03ObRqmeph5oaCpsZDvFhkqu6wXmHaL6DAScf8JQBNL8zNtOZkjqPl5MB4TvQed4/s1600/Verticals+at+the+crossroads.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQtA0bJcXoxrnfKTw5fawgU_Ini2-0s5DzoFtWKndqvc9FwlXIJgWZgWhEM1PFaTNc3ZvIxv0zK2C03ObRqmeph5oaCpsZDvFhkqu6wXmHaL6DAScf8JQBNL8zNtOZkjqPl5MB4TvQed4/s200/Verticals+at+the+crossroads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604165104049467202" border="0" /></a><br />I recalled today, in a more meaningful way, how painting tethers me to other rich experiences. I drank in the hour drive to this spot with my dog, the stops to try out potential painting locations, the wading in a river to find the perfect spot only to have a sudden rain shower baptize my open, still blank tablet. Further down the road, the sun broke for a good hour and a half so I could paint and, as if God had been playing with his watercolor set, the sky broke loose and poured as I left.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-43659001510719348932011-03-09T22:35:00.001-08:002011-03-09T22:38:30.286-08:00UndercityTam discovered that falling down stairs can be dangerous for other reasons than broken bones. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8u6jfXkdHwJhYX_HYtza4LqABZkX3HyoQbyy3kuJ-c5hciEAGP9xAD94oCfVHgvKVT3cQS0Fn-K88-CQ2zqt71thJprCvTdPiP-5Pb4Xp_HdzTdd8vCJEUrqa_ZwxAx-invpk0Dv917e/s1600/Undercity.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8u6jfXkdHwJhYX_HYtza4LqABZkX3HyoQbyy3kuJ-c5hciEAGP9xAD94oCfVHgvKVT3cQS0Fn-K88-CQ2zqt71thJprCvTdPiP-5Pb4Xp_HdzTdd8vCJEUrqa_ZwxAx-invpk0Dv917e/s200/Undercity.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582336340208923970" border="0" /></a>K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-55030883440411421492011-02-09T22:21:00.001-08:002011-02-09T22:53:53.855-08:00Leaven Well Enough Alone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdplFWvjxPTh-4UExbPGJ3qBOgBS1XNdw6-kG-qqoXUzrS-IBB-6RQkMvkFo1ZHW4F5Fz6h6OwgaqjORXwVDJ7c1cb4qUSeiLQfytGuAfQC32aUavMYqz49Mnov4be7Jhyphenhyphenen2d-Boy7IJ8/s1600/Leaven+well+enough+alone.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdplFWvjxPTh-4UExbPGJ3qBOgBS1XNdw6-kG-qqoXUzrS-IBB-6RQkMvkFo1ZHW4F5Fz6h6OwgaqjORXwVDJ7c1cb4qUSeiLQfytGuAfQC32aUavMYqz49Mnov4be7Jhyphenhyphenen2d-Boy7IJ8/s200/Leaven+well+enough+alone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571942350713173154" border="0" /></a>Braiden had wondered for years what magic was contained in the small silver packets that mother used on baking day. He had formulated the idea that Flieschman was a wizard and that he sold his magic in little packets that, among other marvels, made butter melt on fresh bread. This baking day he convinced his brother that Mother was using magic and together they got thoroughly underfoot. Mother soon shooed the brothers out of the kitchen and told themnot to come back until her bread was baked. But boys cannot be banished so easily. For the next half hour the brothers scouted the edges of the kitchen until, finally, mother went upstairs. They crept silently up to the mysterious bowls full of dough and gazed at the forbidden cloth that lay on top. Gingerly, Braiden lifted the cloth and there, to the wonderment of the brothers, was the largest orb of brown dough imaginable. Proof of magic. The boys watched for several moments until they realized that mother hadn't added enough magic. They quickly emptied the contents of the magic packets into the bowls. This failed to produce any immediate result and the disappointed boys turned to leave the kitchen. As they walked out the door they heard a gurgling and belching sound.<br /><br />The dough had risen. It was already 20 times its original size and reaching doughy tendrils toward the boys. Giving a terrified shout Braiden turned and tripped over his brother. They both collapsed as the ever growing mass hissed and popped at them. Alex screamed and scrambled on all fours into the nearby bathroom with Braiden clambering right behind him. They slammed the door as a wet thud shook the whole bathroom. The door handle rattled and Braiden grabbed it trying to keep it from turning. The handle stopped moving and the entire door began to creak and bulge. Both boys backed away as it fell in a doughy splat onto the floor. Braiden froze but Alex had the good sense to tumble backwards into the laundry room.<br /><br />He scampered into the corner where he knocked over the broom, mop, and metal bucket with a loud clamor. Looking back toward his brother he saw that the monster that had shuddered and froze as it loomed over Braiden. Alex looked down and realized that the noise of the sticks and the can had given the creature pause. He hefted a mop and began bashing the handle on the floor. The creature shook and began to fall back. Braiden regained his composure, grabbed a nearby wooden spoon used to stir laundry, and banged it on the lid from the bucket. The creature let out a gurgle and shrunk back. The boys moved forward, increasing their thumping and banging. Within moments the doughy mass had fallen into itself with hisses and gurgles and now lay in a sticky bubbling trail from the bathroom to the kitchen.<br /><br />When mother came downstairs to see what the racket was she was understandably angry. The boys were told never to touch her baking under penalty of death. And they had to clean it all up.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-14206862707339308762011-02-02T22:06:00.000-08:002011-02-02T22:32:00.168-08:00Danny and the Dinosaur Redux<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkFYhwRCp7-z5NC-uLBwT18tbNmhddtdWo-wyCNRLuS6P4Ii31uAkKHQVONhk3ZbP_xpCV2Mv_kG1hM_PCiU6Ut_0HDe0TRQEfHkYS1bS2bXm8sFAz0VN6kjYB7c5YF0wz9CdYmBo3J6yP/s1600/Danny+and+the+Dinosaur.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 123px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkFYhwRCp7-z5NC-uLBwT18tbNmhddtdWo-wyCNRLuS6P4Ii31uAkKHQVONhk3ZbP_xpCV2Mv_kG1hM_PCiU6Ut_0HDe0TRQEfHkYS1bS2bXm8sFAz0VN6kjYB7c5YF0wz9CdYmBo3J6yP/s200/Danny+and+the+Dinosaur.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569347297649202290" border="0" /></a><br />Daniel found a tiny red egg amongst the clover. As was his <a href="http://www.heroclixworld.com/HCW/Articles.aspx?ID=237">habit </a>when his parents were late picking him up he tried to measure every foot of the playground. When he reached step number 427 he noticed that there were scattered red shards and sticky yellow paste in front of him. Upon closer inspection he found that they were the mashed remains of some small nest. Only 3 eggs remained whole and Daniel picked them up and put them in his shirt pocket. His parents arrived at step number 750.<br /><br />When he got home he did his chores, forgot to mention his homework, and went upstairs to his bedroom. Sitting down at his desk he fished the eggs out of his pocket and placed them under his desklamp. Three whole eggs were down to 2. He swept the remains of the crushed red egg into the wastebasket and put the two remaining eggs into his lego castle with the lamp light shining on them.<br /><br />The next morning at 4:51 Daniel awoke to a sound like that of a puppy only lower and smaller. It came from the lego castle. Daniel hurried over. One of the little red eggs had hatched and a miniature ankylosaurus was rolling in the remains of the other egg. Three whole eggs were down to 0 and 1 ankylosaurus.<br /><br />During the next 16 days the tiny creature grew in size and personality. Daniel discovered that it would only eat clover, Cheerios, and carrot shavings. Each morning he carefully placed the creature in the increasingly smelly Lego castle. Each afternoon he took it to play in the field behind his house. Each evening it slept on his bed until 6:22. By the end of the month it was 6 inches long and Daniel was out of Legos. Rather than risk losing the ankylosaurus to dissection or worse Daniel decided to release it into the nearby woods. The dinosaur treated the excursion like any trip to the field until Daniel placed it in a patch of clover and walked away. The little dinosaur let out a buzzing yelp and lumbered after him. Daniel, with tears in his eyes, ran until he could no longer hear the cries of his pet. The next day the clover patch had been munched upon and the dinosaur had left.<br /><br />Each year on March 3 Daniel would return to the clover patch and, without fail, he would find a nest of small red eggs.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-60404662006957893202011-01-26T19:42:00.001-08:002011-01-26T20:51:15.318-08:00Franciscan Fruit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZktHxg9wNEzRSG3dcSFEUfZ5A6_g7I0BuAPnURaY__Fd4A0dblMtZcznUvT2Sgv7xutlW3MVlNP5aUNuKlzURUOegL6q50u9LYQQFFA7NFT0U46XcuS0okaiWXtTW0100d3vOtreNXBC2/s1600/Ferrigan%2527s+Fruit+Trees+copy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZktHxg9wNEzRSG3dcSFEUfZ5A6_g7I0BuAPnURaY__Fd4A0dblMtZcznUvT2Sgv7xutlW3MVlNP5aUNuKlzURUOegL6q50u9LYQQFFA7NFT0U46XcuS0okaiWXtTW0100d3vOtreNXBC2/s200/Ferrigan%2527s+Fruit+Trees+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566720966740153618" border="0" /></a><br />Orchards are often placeholders for suburbs. One such orchard had been planted by Franciscan monks in the late 1700's and then abandoned when the Spanish monarchy deemed the local abbey a failure. For several decades following this departure, the Native Americans enjoyed the succulent fruits during the summertime. This continued until white settlers rushed in to fill the territories taken during the Mexican American War.The settlers were so surprised at the sweetness of the peaches that they built a town in near the abbey and expanded the orchard all across the county. The peach trees remained in the same family until it was purchased and removed by an urban development team in the late 60s. Despite the complete scouring of that orchard to make way for 500 identical homes, there was some part of those peaches that remained long after the trees were gone. Some claim that it was a blessing sent from God because of the sacred beginnings of that orchard. Others, of course, claimed the devil lived among heathens and Catholics and that he was in the fruit. Still others believed that something that delicious could <a href="http://www.examiner.com/sex-trafficking-in-national/super-bowl-xlv-money-flows-freely-for-sports-entertainment-and-sex-trafficking">never be forgotten</a>.<br /><br />Whatever the reason, the peaches remained. But no one knew until an old resident of that suburb named Nolan Spriggan discovered the peach blossoming in his living room. He was reading the obituaries one evening when he was distracted by an object floating above his coffee table. He thought it was a spider hanging from the ceiling and kept reading. When he put down the paper several minutes later he noticed it again and then realized it had a leaf. Upon examining the object closely he discovered it was a budding plant. He waved his hand above, below, and to every side trying to find how this strange thing was hanging but found that it was suspended in mid air. Nolan feared he might be experiencing early onset Alzheimer's and so he invited his daughter and grandchildren over the next day to verify the strange thing. They thought he was trying out a new prank but upon inspection could learn no more about how the little bud was floating.<br /><br />One day, several weeks later. Nolan sat down to read the paper. Half way through he glanced at the ripe peach and realized that without a doubt, he would have to eat it. He walked over and stood under and paused under the beautiful fruit. He was somewhat sad that this would be the end to the phenomenon but it was a better ending than letting it rot and fall to the floor. Nolan reached up and twisted the peach. It came off, leaves and all. No trace of the peach remained in the air. Nolan held the ripe fruit to his mouth and nose and inhaled with both. The smell of childhood summers and canned peach preserves coursed through his nostrils and rippled along his psyche. Here was fruit unmitigated. He sank his teeth into the perfect soft flesh and savored the rush of juice that spilled over his lips. In the first swallow he knew he should share this peach with the world but, he reasoned, that was what seeds were for. This peach would be his. And he ate.<br /><br />The next day Nolan drove several miles into the country to the small orchard of his friend Enrique, an old Spanish speaking farmer. Nolan handed the peach pit to Enrique and told him he must plant it in the best soil in his orchards. He smiled and drove off with no further explanation. Enrique did as his friend suggested. And it was good that he did. Now, people come from all over the united states to see the Fernandez Floating Orchards and to taste the Cheribum Peach, a variety that only grows for Nolan and Enrique in a vale near an old Franciscan abbey.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-35824976014533336272011-01-18T22:46:00.001-08:002011-01-19T20:33:49.857-08:00Culvert Ops<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMKsap8bYsPliEFo3Q8HgxI6wcISNlCGOjKi2bmHd5S4iUsOCEgDFIakEEGWtydrckb9NZbmqelckEqpEhL0UwYuM0xYAYAHRQ8715_k2dZJiQHgKllTLIQANVLfk_p1o0QnOHsp73BoC/s1600/Culvert+Ops.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMKsap8bYsPliEFo3Q8HgxI6wcISNlCGOjKi2bmHd5S4iUsOCEgDFIakEEGWtydrckb9NZbmqelckEqpEhL0UwYuM0xYAYAHRQ8715_k2dZJiQHgKllTLIQANVLfk_p1o0QnOHsp73BoC/s200/Culvert+Ops.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563784808861873650" border="0" /></a><br />The drainage pipe that dumped into Brian's favorite creek went nowhere. From an early age Brian began to explore this pipe and where most children would lose their nerve at the unseen spiders, the potential for sudden pipe shrinkage, or the obligatory dark water tentacles, he fearlessly plumbed those depths. But each summer these forays resulted in nothing more than bruised knees and an endless trip in the dark until one late August afternoon while trying to catch crawdads he realized that he hadn't explored the pipe all summer break. Since the days of summer were critically short he climbed right into the pipe. As soon as he did he noticed a soft blue light outlining the ridges of the pipe. Brian's eyes soon adjusted to the stygian tunnel and he noticed, not 20 feet ahead, where once was only blackness, there was now a dark circle of sky encompassing a mass of still silhouettes. As Brian neared the other end of the pipe he reached out, expecting to touch some flat image, and started as his hand grasped empty night. In the distance he could see the shapes of pagodas, mountains, and a shining lake on a moonlit valley. After a few stunned moments Brian started and scrambled backwards into the pipe. This trip in reverse took ever so much longer and the whole while he repeatedly promised that he would never again enter a drainage. After several minutes of thumping down the pipe Brian managed an awkward glance over his shoulder. His eyes caught only endless dark and a terrifying realization dawned upon him. His end of the pipe had ceased to be.<br /><br />Brian turned, shaking, and climbed back towards the dark blue circle of night and, with a great sense of foreboding, stuck his head out into the moonlight. After a few moments the pounding of blood in his ears was replaced by the tinkle of falling water and the chirping of katydids. He glanced around this silver landscape and found that he could see blossoming cherry trees and long grass against a backdrop of rolling hills. The last particle of fear left him and he realized; there was goodness here. He scrambled out of the pipe and stepped into a pool filled with sparkling minnows and round pebbles. At the far end of the pool was the strangely glowing circle of another pipe. Brian knew, with certainty, that this was his path. He waded forward and, after taking in the sweet valley, left it forever behind and plunged into the glowing bamboo mouth of the second pipe.<br /><br />As he squinted into the light he could make out, just a few metres in front of him, a shining disc of daylight. Climbing forward, he glanced back and saw that, as he suspected, the moonlight pool had already gone, replaced by darkness. He turned to face forward and realized his head was already out of the pipe and in a dangerous position. A fierce looking dark-skinned girl, several years younger than him, was clenching a shovel and spouting a fast language that sounded vaguely like Spanish. He put up a hand and patted the wooden pipe then shrugged his shoulders. The lowered her shovel with a skeptical awe filling her eyes. Suddenly, she shook her head and grabbed Brian's hand. She led him for several hundred yards down a path by her creek and brought him to another pipe, this one covered in rust. She patted his arm and nodded her head, seeming to know his plight. Brian longed to learn her story but she gently nudged him into the third pipe.<br /><br />The hours that followed were filled with adventures that should but, for the sake of this, a short tale, cannot now be fully related. Brian found himself in the shadow of the statue of liberty, in dark underground caverns, and in foaming rapids. His paths led him through mighty rivers and long forgotten ponds until, at last, he discovered a pipe at the edge of a stinking slough surrounded by empty grey miles of gorse and heather. This pipe was the most unnerving yet, not just because of the melancholy surroundings, but because it went straight down. But the chill of this downs and the biting of insects drove a despairing Brian into the hole. He quickly lost his grip and began to plummet downward. As he fell he discovered, with a cold shock, that water was pouring in around him. Instantly he was underwater and rushing deeper into the pipe. After several long moments he could hold his air in no longer and with a terrified shout his breath burst out into the dark water. At that same instant he was discombobulated by shining light and a loud spray of water shooting him into the air. He landed with a splash in a shallow creek. Brian flailed to his feet and then, with a deep shaking breath, realized that he was in his own creek at home.<br /><br />Many years later, when Brian ventured into the culvert again he found that someone had poured mounds of cement into the drainage. Though water still flowed around the cement wall, there would never be a return to the lands on the far side.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-88688502478898175682010-11-20T22:20:00.000-08:002010-11-20T22:32:50.171-08:00The arctic shift<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenYxb2S8PAXcdLCFarp7L8NzFPsVkBZ6WhAbnh8Ta4lifGsXrXJm9JcqgTkROtZxjdlB7_Imj_5LwAYaeKg1Njbis21RQj172NogOI6gjUCcFl6elHtb1RZiYcwl01157pEeEI__LT9qs/s1600/Arctic+Shift+copy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenYxb2S8PAXcdLCFarp7L8NzFPsVkBZ6WhAbnh8Ta4lifGsXrXJm9JcqgTkROtZxjdlB7_Imj_5LwAYaeKg1Njbis21RQj172NogOI6gjUCcFl6elHtb1RZiYcwl01157pEeEI__LT9qs/s200/Arctic+Shift+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541886375606957122" border="0" /></a>I have been watercolor painting but less consistently than in years past. Getting married has given pause to a lot I used to do.<br /><br />It was already chilly when I hopped out of the car halfway between Milton Freewater and Walla Walla and began to paint. The wind picked up and blew away that storm you can see hovering over the snow capped mountains in the background. That wind carried some frigid hate from the north lands and quickly eradicated any desire I had to fuss with details.<br /><br />I have begun to add my paintings right into my sketchbook rather than using watercolor tablets. It keeps everything in one, simple place.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-35789946685612298202010-11-10T21:27:00.000-08:002010-11-11T23:04:39.906-08:00The Staring Lady<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr2u6aUckQ63617g3g3aWWO8B3nDle34XQAytPyukMZBVoxQDdi0q3o4NDiSlj5QhTOzN2sec9oGRFruy3bDtaeDMyXZy5UQzDTsVNabniZ8a1hPGuC1PkvQcdEgJZvWQYPpk72wSDAmW/s1600/The+Staring+Lady+copy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr2u6aUckQ63617g3g3aWWO8B3nDle34XQAytPyukMZBVoxQDdi0q3o4NDiSlj5QhTOzN2sec9oGRFruy3bDtaeDMyXZy5UQzDTsVNabniZ8a1hPGuC1PkvQcdEgJZvWQYPpk72wSDAmW/s200/The+Staring+Lady+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538553431679138786" border="0" /></a><br />Ettie was distinguished by her three toes and by being forgettable. As an infant she developed a bit slower than usual though she took a deep delight in the simple experiences she learned. She laughed aloud when she began walking and giggled at the sunlight that moved across her living room floor but no other sounds, words or otherwise, came from her lips. Unlike most babies, Ettie would stare for hours at still scenery or become engrossed by plants, snails, and the color of the sky. Her parents were loving though completely puzzled by her tendencies.<br /><br />When Ettie grew to childhood she became completely silent and began to fixate on mundane objects. Rather than a few minutes of watching shadows shift and cocoons open she would spend hours watching spiders spin, house construction, or ivy crawl up a wall. Her special education teachers labeled her severely retarded and transferred her to the severe disabilities room. Her parents managed to keep her fed, bathed, and dressed but they felt a keen disconnect from their daughter. By the time Ettie was old enough for high school, she rarely smiled, never spoke, and hardly looked at anyone but her family.<br /><br />Soon Ettie's observations replaced all vestiges of personal interaction. She would stand watching the snow on the mountains for weeks of waking hours or stare at the same compost pile each day for a month . She moved only to take care of her personal needs, she never responded to people, and was generally ignored by everyone.<br /><br />One day, during rush hour, Ettie surprised several downtown passer-bys when she lifted her arm to point to the highway overpass that she had been watching for most of the last year and a half. Some smiled at the odd change in her but most just glanced at the overpass and hurried on their way.<br /><br />(Ettie watched as tiny, almost unnoticeable cracks leaped and spread across the concrete overpass. <a href="http://io9.com/5668242/the-secret-of-kells-takes-the-religion-out-of-religion">Like the flash of a sapling sprouting or the dance of a grassy field shooting up in the spring Ettie reveled in the designs that were </a><a href="http://io9.com/5668242/the-secret-of-kells-takes-the-religion-out-of-religion">animating </a><a href="http://io9.com/5668242/the-secret-of-kells-takes-the-religion-out-of-religion">before her eyes</a>. Then she remembered the blurry shapes around her. She had long since ceased to pay attention to them but she knew that this particular pattern could harm them. She lifted her arm at the last moment in hopes that they would notice the cracks...)<br /><br />Ettie's arm remained raised for several days before the overpass collapsed in the worst disaster in the city's history. After a somber period of mourning some people began to blame the strange lady believing she had cursed the bridge. Others figured she had tried to warn them and took a short-lived interest in her. Most scurried back to their every day lives and, once again, stopped noticing the odd, three-toed lady.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-80019178171030295142010-09-22T22:40:00.000-07:002010-09-22T22:43:31.530-07:00On his last day of work Tristan found 7 extra keys on his key chain. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1ZjMH3mb8D66mlDBC1FMAjI7FAAr9-AWfEvOjLgMVmJf9ZYnCjsoSS5H5SLx814_U7Z6NKYAeaF0wN7d7y-O878Mx3DIzuInZlOGg5swa8le0yKpmGFWSxhclSPkbNzTgaAw_3m0u4OG/s1600/The+Scavenger+Hunt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1ZjMH3mb8D66mlDBC1FMAjI7FAAr9-AWfEvOjLgMVmJf9ZYnCjsoSS5H5SLx814_U7Z6NKYAeaF0wN7d7y-O878Mx3DIzuInZlOGg5swa8le0yKpmGFWSxhclSPkbNzTgaAw_3m0u4OG/s200/The+Scavenger+Hunt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519979705190691730" border="0" /></a>K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-85986254548429182592010-09-08T21:25:00.000-07:002021-04-23T08:27:01.219-07:00The Tide Comes InThe coastal town of Dunsmore changed forever when the tide flowed in for an entire month. It wasn't as if it rose to a higher level or came in more aggressively, it simply forgot to flow out. The first day found locals enjoying a strange change of pace. By that weekend news reports covering the phenomenon had created a strong increase of tourists. Not long after the news report, smiling fishermen had discovered massive schools of fish forced in by the flow.
During this period the excellent 2nd and 3rd grade teachers at Gregor Elementary broadened their science unit about tides and currents. Soon the students were busy trying to discern the cause behind the unusual tide. Each day they would spend the afternoon at the beach measuring the depth, strength, temperature, and biodiversity of the tide. Children were thrilled to get out in the thick of it and teachers, though tired, were overjoyed at the enthusiasm and focus that outdoor studies encouraged in their students. It seemed just about everyone in Dunsmore liked the new tide.
But the tide always turns. During city council that month the citizens were cheerily discussing the proposal to rename their town Tidemore to further bolster the tourist industry when several cell phone calls came in at once. Even though most of the cells were on vibrate the collective buzzing was loud enough to give pause to the meeting. The tide had turned. And it continued to flow out. For an entire month. Fish populations shrank, the smell of stagnant tide pools drove most locals indoors and all tourists out of city limits. Worse still were the strange stirrings in the dark stagnant pools. Things never seen by humans had washed in during the previous month and were now growing restless in the stinking pools that had been left behind. People stayed away from the beach and only the children wanted to go out to play.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6n-Vro0SdiDCFBOXET57M8zTC_GZab4lyVM9HKlf8qZHZ3qjQUHda2VpMX-efZY-s20aDrNTc3e7QDn-CFI8SQGMMARP13d8B47Fq6cTvgHnEJfRnOERVaxEyfqyy0hytcn6odq_vQxoj/s1600/Dunsport+Tide+Pools.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517349935857110850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6n-Vro0SdiDCFBOXET57M8zTC_GZab4lyVM9HKlf8qZHZ3qjQUHda2VpMX-efZY-s20aDrNTc3e7QDn-CFI8SQGMMARP13d8B47Fq6cTvgHnEJfRnOERVaxEyfqyy0hytcn6odq_vQxoj/s16000/Dunsport+Tide+Pools.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 174px;" /></a>One morning recess the playground supervisors were breaking up another of the increasingly regular altercations when screams pierced the air. Across the playground came a horde of children pursued by a mass of slithering tentacles. Some monster of the deep had pulled itself up from rotting Dunsmore bay, driven, no doubt, by a piercing hunger from having been trapped in the tide pools for nearly a month. It had grabbed four children and was pulling itself down the bank when the custodian, who was mowing the lawn, noticed the horrific sight and drove his mower straight at the creature. Two thick tentacles shuddered as they were severed by the mower. In a spray of black liquid, the creature dropped a third student and heaved itself down into the bay where it, and one poor child, were lost forever in the depths.
As if appeased by this terror, the tide returned that evening. And went out the next morning. The custodian was honored and a commemorative garden was placed at the site of the attack in memory of the missing child. Today in Dunsmore there is a tidal station that monitors the depth, strength, temperature, and especially the biological makeup of the tides around the world. It is manned and woman-ed, in part, by classmates of the lost child who watch carefully for the day when somewhere on the planet the tide forgets to go out.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-573480351015665512010-08-18T23:19:00.001-07:002010-08-25T21:31:36.152-07:00The Broadcast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVJiRdD-GHiqzAizz1MdSHyOjaAUCF401F2bcwmsmVCf-DrR_MkWyx4nMtHhRSpkLIOJG3fm1lXfV2yljFUN3XPMC8pxB392zAdsgJ1nn2IxE_3xNX8U6Scr7nUmEcNkS84QUnFiFIL6W/s1600/The+Broadcast.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVJiRdD-GHiqzAizz1MdSHyOjaAUCF401F2bcwmsmVCf-DrR_MkWyx4nMtHhRSpkLIOJG3fm1lXfV2yljFUN3XPMC8pxB392zAdsgJ1nn2IxE_3xNX8U6Scr7nUmEcNkS84QUnFiFIL6W/s200/The+Broadcast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509571493757688866" border="0" /></a><br />Sometimes radio signals aren't transmitted from here. Or from now. Nate and Caryn's discovered the importance of heeding such signals when they took a trip into the wilderness one Labor Day weekend.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-47207232193921546752010-08-15T22:43:00.000-07:002010-08-15T22:50:03.550-07:00The End of an EraI've used the same palette since I started watercolor painting in earnest over 4 years ago.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-59870263786396945752010-08-11T21:22:00.000-07:002010-08-13T10:10:57.278-07:00The Catahoula CarnivoreSome time ago a sign was posted in Jonesville, Louisiana that read "Warning. Avoid Buildings Containing Big Bite Marks." The word "big" was hypobole. The holes left from the bites were big enough to drive a truck through. Many believed that the creature doing the biting was after restaurants that served fish. In Louisiana that was all restaurants. But the bites soon appeared on sheds, barns, and even homes. First, people stopped eating out much. Then going out much.<br /><br />It was true that the bites were because of a restaurant. About a year prior to all this, Grill Hut had posted a new sign in their driveway which read "New Grilled Gumbo Fishwich." The key ingredient was an unrivaled deep-fried spiced-crappie patty. Within a few months, this delicacy was drawing clientele from all over the southeast. Grill Hut couldn't keep their crappie supply stocked and every day by noon a"No More Crappy" sign would be visible in the driveway. It became clear that more fish were necessary and soon the sign read: "Crappy Bought Here, 1$ each." Within days locals were skipping work and swarming the rivers and streams throughout the entire region. A day on the stream was not only <a href="http://www.swtor.com/media/trailers/hope-cinematic-trailer">more fun </a>than a day at the job site but generally <a href="http://www.swtor.com/media/trailers/deceived-cinematic-trailer">more </a>lucrative too. Even the dentist managed to rationalize that he could make more money fishing.<br /><br />Within 2 weeks no one could pull another crappie out of a Catahoula stretch of water and the rush ended. Grill Hut was on top of their crappie patty orders and all seemed well until the next morning when the sign read "Closed for repair." As disappointed diners crowded the restaurant it was soon discovered that the entire back side of Grill Hut had been chewed off. The next night a nearby grocery store received a giant bite in the freezer section and the fish and chips wagon parked on main street was gone without a trace. Every morning new bites appeared and every night the creature vanished without a trace. Tension mounted for 6 months until the crappie population recovered and then the bite marks ceased altogether.<br /><br />There is a sign in the drive at the Grill Hut reminding locals and visitors alike of a strict Catahoula law. It reads: "Catching Crappy is a Crime in Catahoula County."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZA70g3csInKYUNohVokcmFmr_QB7sleGCopk69CHj5HeqsQEpcFDAtt68_P_1M9nMw6BKvp3uaf84mMHaHItvN8I-HtNO7uCrse3RDJXj8GiKMNpL-FeuHSF-nJvzq8ewo9GvXYZZGaR/s1600/Crappy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZA70g3csInKYUNohVokcmFmr_QB7sleGCopk69CHj5HeqsQEpcFDAtt68_P_1M9nMw6BKvp3uaf84mMHaHItvN8I-HtNO7uCrse3RDJXj8GiKMNpL-FeuHSF-nJvzq8ewo9GvXYZZGaR/s200/Crappy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504767779075780242" border="0" /></a>K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-90761860761003991132010-08-08T21:42:00.000-07:002010-08-08T21:58:51.182-07:00Sabbath Painting AgainPainting needs to be luxurious. Lately I've rushed the process and the result is a field journal full of process paintings rather than finished ones. Yesterday I did spend some quality time with the Walla Walla Valley though another hour would have been perfect.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj2L8ZGmDSvCy-H6GFxwY1s4WwyyWLWa-ScNem2Eew_XHntaC7aCy3_7FNvbg2AbnNlxchOmTnVQmIVQcPZQKaDMe4l4bND7ozsgcqqkiIHykwJp3WCUsSnmcpYPRfI6oAW6ephQvXv2c/s1600/final+train+tracks.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj2L8ZGmDSvCy-H6GFxwY1s4WwyyWLWa-ScNem2Eew_XHntaC7aCy3_7FNvbg2AbnNlxchOmTnVQmIVQcPZQKaDMe4l4bND7ozsgcqqkiIHykwJp3WCUsSnmcpYPRfI6oAW6ephQvXv2c/s200/final+train+tracks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503270048145972930" border="0" /></a>Landscape painting, like story telling, needs a strong beginning, middle, and end. Those up close details, leaves, grass blades, stones, and fence posts, are what set up a visual tale, the heart of a landscape's story is the richness of the middle ground, and the clouds, sky, and other background elements create a poignant finale. My painting tells an meandering little story but never really gets started because it lacks the hook in the foreground details.<br /><br />I believe a <a href="http://www.chasingthefrog.com/reelfaces/pursuitofhappyness.php">good story </a>really is the driving force behind any creative endeavor.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380035016686931818.post-32432675226618517512010-08-04T22:06:00.001-07:002010-08-05T16:11:36.215-07:00Daphne Dokgo's Dryer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9yMtdB6RaOJ_6JVMFNws4T-uU8A_916cFxVUYAgVBUJWjfZXqNxfnJWnp0M6JHorsdUO6V-2uPvtgaKWlsb7xKCGDVnw9xTfQNSxJIbBhmXNC7GPfBEw-u1us8tMUbZewzfw5PscqyRgB/s1600/Daphne+Dokgo%27s+Dryer.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9yMtdB6RaOJ_6JVMFNws4T-uU8A_916cFxVUYAgVBUJWjfZXqNxfnJWnp0M6JHorsdUO6V-2uPvtgaKWlsb7xKCGDVnw9xTfQNSxJIbBhmXNC7GPfBEw-u1us8tMUbZewzfw5PscqyRgB/s200/Daphne+Dokgo%27s+Dryer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502048442813723426" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The unusual behavior of Daphne Dokgo's dryer eventually led to her disappearance. For several years the machine had behaved as any dryer nearing the end of its cycle of life. It vanished socks, left jeans slightly damp, and targeted only expensive items for shrinking. And so, with a twinge of guilt over betraying the faithful appliance, Daphne contemplated getting a new dryer. However, after shopping around the local appliance stores, she decided to hold off until this one broke down.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJ1jM55k9vC79pTzAHhkO2PFlEcjv-Bkfsgxji-u4-R6uFKaNwODm2ncHaoDzyDd9uS62YBE4X5RuVUeNitw9ILa3aUAvo359BXIFaUBs4XeIBKuskFyyey6yYhS4upwGn35LAKovp0HQ/s1600/Daphne+Dokgo%27s+Dryer.jpg"><br /></a>Perhaps it was the ill advised perusal of new appliances. Perhaps it was because the old dryer was already in the throws of malfunction. Or maybe she had just worked it too hard for too long. Whatever the cause, laundry day for Daphne became a strange ordeal. It began with the curious appearance of an extra red striped tube sock that Sunday. The following week every sock she matched had two mates. By the next week the machine was making weird groans and whines. When she opened it she discovered a 2 foot long hairbrush and a tiny canoe oar. Soon there were dried octopi, durian, bonsai trees, undersized walking canes, and all manner of random items showing up in the laundry. The machine had clearly gone rogue.<br /><br />Daphne was shaken and <a href="http://games.adultswim.com/robot-unicorn-attack-twitchy-online-game.html">slightly angry</a>. She decided to discover the source of these strange appearances for herself. Daphne dumped the laundry, consisting of mostly unexpected objects, onto the table and turned to face the dryer. The door hung half open as if the machine was leering at her with a malevolent grin. From inside a new and unseemly light shone. Not a warm yellow hearkening fresh laundry but a dull, unkindly, green. Daphne took a breath and, knowing better, climbed into the dryer.<br /><br />When Daphne's neighbor came for their scheduled luncheon the only spread she found on the table was laundry and the only ambiance an opened dryer with the usual yellow light shining out. So remember, if you are missing a sock or two on laundry day, don't complain. It could go a lot worse for you.K Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446487796163554288noreply@blogger.com1