The Second Red

Another Book Cover

2011-10-31T16:54:00.000-07:00

Here is another book cover. Spies, pesky kids, red scare. More later.

The Merdad

2011-09-21T23:08:00.000-07:00

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.

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".

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.

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"?

"Yes, you can", Emily replied.

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.

Painting Rocks

2011-07-24T23:26:00.001-07:00

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 marvelous.

By the by, that lead weight of color at the bottom of the picture is the shadow of a bridge.

The Day Before Tomorrow

2011-07-13T21:42:00.000-07:00

On 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.

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.

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 vanished, 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.

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.

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.

The Mysterious Frenchtown

2011-06-12T00:00:00.001-07:00

Driving along Highway 12 I had always been curious 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.

Cans and Cannots

2011-05-25T23:33:00.001-07:00

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.

Times change but some rules persist. Like listening to grandma.

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.

Several months passed and something happened in the pantry. Something grandma knew about.

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: warped, 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.

Two days passed and, though grandma would have warned her, Barbara did nothing about the pantry.

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.

Slow years passed and even grandma would have been surprised at what happened.

High on a Hill

2011-05-21T23:56:00.001-07:00

My lovely wife was good enough to drag her pregnant 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.

Even so, it was a great afternoon.
Next week, maybe I will invest in a really big umbrella. Or a new medium.

Blustery Day Under the Bridge

2011-05-14T22:49:00.000-07:00

This spring I have begun what art historians will call my "Troll Period" because gale force winds, wicked thunderstorms, and sheets of rain have forced my weekend painting excursions under bridges. 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.

It was a good day.

Cheery Chiaroscuro

2011-05-07T19:09:00.001-07:00

Every year spring rolls 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.

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.

Undercity

2011-03-09T22:35:00.001-08:00

Tam discovered that falling down stairs can be dangerous for other reasons than broken bones.

Leaven Well Enough Alone

2011-02-09T22:21:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

Danny and the Dinosaur Redux

2011-02-02T22:06:00.000-08:00

Daniel found a tiny red egg amongst the clover. As was his habit 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.

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.

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.

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.

Each year on March 3 Daniel would return to the clover patch and, without fail, he would find a nest of small red eggs.

Franciscan Fruit

2011-01-26T19:42:00.001-08:00

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 never be forgotten.

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.

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.

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.

Culvert Ops

2011-01-18T22:46:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The arctic shift

2010-11-20T22:20:00.000-08:00

I have been watercolor painting but less consistently than in years past. Getting married has given pause to a lot I used to do.

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.

I have begun to add my paintings right into my sketchbook rather than using watercolor tablets. It keeps everything in one, simple place.

The Staring Lady

2010-11-10T21:27:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

(Ettie watched as tiny, almost unnoticeable cracks leaped and spread across the concrete overpass. 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 animating before her eyes. 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...)

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.

2010-09-22T22:40:00.000-07:00

On his last day of work Tristan found 7 extra keys on his key chain.

The Tide Comes In

2010-09-08T21:25:00.000-07:00

The 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.

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.

The Broadcast

2010-08-18T23:19:00.001-07:00

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.

The End of an Era

2010-08-15T22:43:00.000-07:00

I've used the same palette since I started watercolor painting in earnest over 4 years ago.

The Catahoula Carnivore

2010-08-11T21:22:00.000-07:00

Some 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.

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 more fun than a day at the job site but generally more lucrative too. Even the dentist managed to rationalize that he could make more money fishing.

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.

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."

Sabbath Painting Again

2010-08-08T21:42:00.000-07:00

Painting 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.
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.

I believe a good story really is the driving force behind any creative endeavor.

Daphne Dokgo's Dryer

2010-08-04T22:06:00.001-07:00

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.

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.

Daphne was shaken and slightly angry. 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.

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.

Chiaroscuro

2010-06-16T23:13:00.001-07:00

Cam found at an early age that he could manipulate shadow. As a toddler he watched them bend slightly out of his way as he learned to walk. When he was a teenager, he ruined most of his romantic opportunities with his favorite trick of dimming the lights at will. As an adult he refined his technique until he could bend and shape the smallest fragments of shadow to make elaborate patterns. Like his teenage years, his adult life was marked by loneliness due to his socially awkward application of his gift.

As the years of his life faded, Cam began drawing more and more into his shadow craft. First he stopped looking people in the eye when he spoke. Before he long he gave up speaking, then listening, and finally, looking at people at all. He withdrew into his basement apartment downtown and soon became lost in the old city underground, forgotten by, and forgetting, the world.

Through the dark days and the deep nights he would crouch in front of his flashlight, lamps, and candles. The shadows would shift and bend and then, in a spiral of light and dark, they would coalesce into elaborate designs and patterns. As Cam left humanity behind him, the shadows began to appeal to him until he thought he could hear them, feel them, speak to them. Gradually, he stopped shaping them and became shaped by them.

In the dusty store rooms and forgotten apartments downtown one may occasionally observe the light and shadow behaving erratically. If one looks closely, there will be a wisp of shadow shaped like a hunched old man. He's there, still painting the shadows.

The Deep Shallows

2010-05-12T22:28:00.000-07:00

Jonah discovered a deep hole where there should not have been one.

The Unwishing Bridge

2010-03-17T22:14:00.000-07:00

Tragic tales often begin with a foolish wish. One hopeful tale begins with a wish taken back...

CROMAC

2010-03-10T22:26:00.000-08:00

The third graders usually lost interest in a new toy fad after a few months. This school year, however, the students couldn't get enough of the strange mechanical prizes that came out of the second to last gumball machine at the local grocer's...

What the Barn had to Say

2010-03-03T20:45:00.000-08:00

Three days after the barn was smashed the signs began to appear.

Beauford's Last Stand

2010-02-24T22:13:00.000-08:00

Beauford was born, lived, and passed on unlike any cat that ever lived.

The Forest Feels Icky

2010-02-10T21:26:00.000-08:00

Chase, like all good firewood cutters, chose trees that were ready to be felled because of sickness, fire, or age. What he didn't understand was that bacteriophages, or more accurately arborophages, were present in his small section of western Oregon forest.

The morning was warm and damp and Chase got right to work felling the 4 medium sized trees that would fill his pickup. As the late morning sun edged up the sky over the Cascades he began to cut the final tree when to his surprise he saw several queer spider-like creatures squeeze themselves out of the wood. Chase cut his saw motor and stepped back in surprise. Shouldering the heavy tool he watched as several of the creatures made for nearby trees and seemed to squat against the bark. Seconds later the creature dropped empty to the ground. Apparently it had deposited most of its innards into the core of the tree.

Someday, when the tree fell perhaps more of the macrophages would emerge and continue their cycle. The death of the tree host signaled life for the creature but this miraculous event was lost on both Chase, as he stared in wonder, and on the rest of the forest as it watched silently.
My weird story participants, Bradley and Violet, crafted two awesome stories that must have taken some time to create. I felt that expecting people to write a story might be a bit much so this week I am trying a new approach. Give me a story starter that I can finish by Saturday and if I pick yours then you get a drawing.

Which reminds me, I figure it is nasty to choose a winner in a 2 person contest (I was the loser in one of those and it was kind of the pits). So both participants are the winner. Here is the prize for Bradley and Violet's is coming soon. I hope Bradley is a big fan of Hamlet squids. I suppose if he's not he could wait until I'm famous or dead and sell it for huge amounts of money.

Cracks of Spring

2010-02-03T21:43:00.001-08:00

Tell a story about this picture and get a drawing from me. Here is the story starter:

Word quicky passed around the junior school that Spring had come to a patch of meadow outside of town.

It henges on your response...

2010-01-20T22:51:00.000-08:00

Wiltshire residents made it clear to Scully Construction Inc. that it was a bad idea to crush gravel among the hills of Pewsey Vale. Not only did the English consider the hills and their ancient stone circles property of all the English, but any type of development in the area had been, at best, a modest disaster. The foreman of the Pewsey excavation paid little heed to either the requests from the National Trust or the superstitions of locals. Excavation machinery flowed into Pewsey Vale faster than appeals to halt the project and within a week workers were happily gnawing through the rocks and producing truckloads of gravel. By the second week they had nearly met their monthly quota for gravel production. This progress was soon halted by what at first looked like a nondescript stone. It had been partly hewn long ago, presumably by the druids, but had long lain discarded and covered by earth. As it passed through the stone crusher it quickly jammed the inner workings of the machine and shot blue gravel out across the site. The foreman ordered all the chunks bagged and shipped and operations shut down until crusher repairs could be made.

A few days later in a crowded suburb in Oxford, Evan Walton was carefully replacing sections of the sidewalks. Evan typically prided himself on his ability to lay concrete. On this day, however, he was completely flummoxed. No matter how carefully he smoothed the surface it still looked uneven. During his lunch break matters grew worse. As he approached the site after his meal he discovered several lumps had formed, at least a half meter high each. From his long years of experience, he knew that it was a lost cause. He would have to wait until the concrete had partially set and tear it up again. This would cost both money and especially reputation. Tossing his concrete, tools, and gravel into the boot of his car, he headed back to the office for the day.

Evan stopped by early the next morning to take a peek at the problematic walk. At first, it seemed to him that most of the nearby apartment community had discovered his mistake and had turned out to gawk at the spectacle. As he drew closer, however, he discovered that thrust into the sides of buildings and jutting out of the street and lawns were what looked like close relatives of the stone circles in Wiltshire. Evan walked over to the very center of the stone circle and discovered that his botched sidewalk was completely uprooted and all that was left was a few small pieces of blue gravel. Evan smiled and drove away content in the knowledge that his salary and reputation were in tact.

The Last Christmas Present

2010-01-13T22:30:00.000-08:00

Snow drifts were piled seven feet deep against the walls of 714 Elegance Way. Though it was late March, winter showed no intention of relaxing its onslaught against the city of Grand Forks North Dakota. Wex Ericson turned from the TV and gazed out the window at the mounds of snow covering his front walk. He had intended to shovel it but he wondered if it made any sense to exhume the sidewalk if it would simply suffocate below the drifts by the next day. Wex returned his attention to the gas powered yule log that was being advertised on the shop at home network. Seeing a holiday item for sale at this time of year reminded Wex that perhaps, to make up for another day of non-accomplishment, he would take down the Christmas tree his mother had set up for the holidays.

Between a TV dinner, a round of Wii tennis, and an untimely rerun of White Christmas, Wex had managed to remove the ornaments from the tree and pull the stand off the trunk. As he tipped the stand over to dump out the dry brown needles he discovered a small wrapped gift that had laid forgotten (help with that participle grammar nerds) since Christmas... presumably. There was a card attached to the bottom of the package which read, "For the last person to take out their Christmas tree this year, please accept this: the gift of continued Christmas". Inside was an ugly little brass statue resembling a collectible troll or poorly rendered sterling fantasy sculpture of a fairy. Wex grunted and tossed the figurine on the TV stand amongst an assortment of used light bulbs, tools, and VHS tapes. He knew his mother was outspoken but it bugged him that she assumed he would be this late in removing her tree. Turning from the TV Wex wandered out to check the mail and discovered a large package on the front porch. As well as receiving 2 very late Christmas cards he had also been given a huge and overpoweringly sweet fruit cake. As he nibbled the hard end of the cake Wex eyed the festive little idol perched on his TV stand. He looked at the cards, the cake, and the TV where the station was playing a Miley Cyrus music video of All I Want for Christmas. Something was wrong. Wex stirred, grabbed a plastic bag from the floor, tossed in all the seasonal stuff he could spot and dropped the brass idol on top. Before heading to bed that night he carefully put it out for the garbage collector.

The next morning when Wex sat down in front of the TV with a bowl of cocoa crispies he was startled by a sharp jab in his left buttock. Spilling cereal and cursing loudly he jumped up and turned around. There, in the corner of his chair was the brass idol perched on top of an expired ticket to a 4th grade performance of Scrooge. Wex stood munching his cereal for several minutes before calling his mom to complain about her lack of subtlety. She, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. That evening Wex tossed the idol into the neighbors' yard before going to bed. The next morning he found it in the bottom of his cereal box with a wrapped Santa bobble head.

As the days passed and the mounds of chintzy Christmas trinkets grew, Wex tried to rid himself of the horrid idol. Each day it would spook him by appearing somewhere in his house heralding some useless piece of post holiday cheer. By the following Christmas, Wex was poised with a watch and an already disassembled tree. At midnight he hauled the tree out to the curb for pickup the next day. When the sun woke him up a few hours later the tree was gone and the idol, which he had left resting on top of the fridge had passed on.

One last thing...

2009-12-24T11:58:00.000-08:00

I wanted to post this for posterity since it is leaving my collection as a Christmas gift. This is a late afternoon watercolor I did in September in Kirkland when I was visiting Christie. There is a plethora of great parks in the Seattle area that provide painting opportunities. I look forward to getting back over there soon. But I'm glad I get to spend most of my time at home these days. Merry Christmas everyone.

Epic Zebra Death

2009-12-23T14:05:00.001-08:00

I apologize for this in advance. Some time ago my future brother in law requested 6 cartoon epic animal takedowns. I have decided to do the first, as he described it, for his Christmas present: Zebra strangulation with its own stripes. Here is the lined version. I plan on adding color tomorrow. I'll post the finished product then.

I decided to work on the image a bit more this afternoon. Here is the base color with no highlights and grades. What should I do to make the color more interesting?

I learned to duplicate the lines and fill them in rather than try to color without covering the lines up. After spending meticulous hours filling in the area AROUND the lines photoshop crashed and I was forced to start from my black and white save file. This time around I created several layers of lines and used those to quickly fill in the space INSIDE. Though photoshop kept crashing (my PC is dying) I managed to complete in 45 minutes what took hours before. At any rate, I've basically finished all my Christmas presents. Let the festivities begin!

Ms. Edna and the Tangerine King

2009-12-16T22:38:00.000-08:00

Christmas break dawned cold and crisp for Ms. Edna. The flamboyant fifth grade teacher began her week as she always did with grocery shopping at Rosauers foods. Though she rarely diverged from her shopping list, Ms. Edna was charmed by the low price, vibrant color, and rich scent of the boxes of tangerines. Meeting her shopping budget was a simple matter of moving the pickles, coconut milk, and Tab from her list and replacing them with a box of Tangerine King premiums.

As soon as Ms. Edna arrived home she hung her keys on the key hook, put away her groceries, and broke into the box of citrus. She had wisely set aside 65 calories in her morning diet, just the right amount for the large ripe tangerine at the top left of the box. Edna peeled the fruit and inhaled the mist that wafted when her fingers penetrated the peel. She picked every piece of white rind from the fruit and then separated the slices into perfect halves. And then a strange thing happened. In the exact center of the tangerine was a brilliant gold ring mounted with a bright yellow orange gem. Naturally, Ms. Edna placed the ring on her finger and finished her delicacy.

Ms. Edna spent the afternoon grading her papers, preparing her lesson plans, tidying her house, and reading a touching romance novel cover to cover all the while glancing at the remarkable ring adorning her finger. At 10:00 she turned out her lights and fell asleep in 10 minutes. And then a stranger thing happened. A loud crash and a louder orange glow awoke Ms. Edna. She jumped out of bed and grabbed a broom from the laundry room before heading to the bathroom and the source of the glowing light. As she flung open the bathroom door Ms. Edna's world stopped. Standing before her was a stocky, pitted, orange man with an equally orange entourage. "Welcome my betrothed, you have wisely accepted the Tangerine King's marriage proposal and, henceforth, shall bask in the luxury and extavagance of my citrus realm!"

"No I won't!" shouted Ms. Edna and lambasted the Tangerine King with her broom.

Ms. Edna didn't come back to work on Monday, January 5th but her students found their graded papers and a sub and who had received lesson plans from Ms. Edna. Each student also found a perfect tangerine in their lunch box that day.

The Invitation

2009-12-02T21:56:00.000-08:00

On a crisp winter's day Tasha opened her mailbox and discovered a yellowed envelope postmarked 1949. The invitation indicated that she should go to 722 W Evalynn St. second level at 5:00 PM this Saturday. Tasha called the post office, checked Facebook, and finally googled the return address name Scott Whitney. All she could discern was that there were too many iterations of Scott Whitney and Whitney Scott to ever find who the note was for. Tasha magneted the paper to the side of the fridge and returned to her weekly routine.

When Saturday rolled around Tasha had forgotten about the old letter. As she poured her Sabbath breakfast of mixed Captain Crunch, Raisin Bran, and Rice Crispies she noticed the odd invitation and pulled it off the fridge. She reread the invite as she crunched through her breakfast. After returning from the synagogue Tasha decided to walk downtown and enjoy the Christmas decorations. As an afterthought she donned her best sweater and slacks and and put on her best makeup and perfume. The Christmas lights were beautiful and the decorations seemed more alive than ever.

The Rat Lady

2009-11-25T23:54:00.000-08:00

Yew street residents thought Mabel Olson, the lady who owned 83 cats, was bad. The neighborhood association created a new ordinance ruling out all cats in the area and the Cat Lady packed her 83 cats and moved.

Zelda Kinkley, the Rat Lady moved in with 2 rats and an unusual sense of house design . Before long the neighborhood association received sightings of hundreds of large rats with an uncanny degree of intelligence. Each week the number of reports grew though no one could precisely pin the infestation on the Rat Lady. That is until the Rat King began prowling the neighborhood spreading garbage, gnawing tires, and devouring pets. Its substantial tracks led right into Zelda's cellar. What was worse than having a Rat King residing in the neighborhood was that anyone who complained found their houses gnawed or simply found they had vanished. The neighborhood association called the Cat Lady and begged her to come back. She listed several demands including the removal of the feline prevention ordinance and 900 gallons of milk delivered to her door each year. With these understandings in place the Cat Lady purchased the house across the street from the Rat Lady. She and her 83 cats were moved in within a few hours.

The battle was loud and messy and when the sun rose over Yew street the following morning there were thousands of dead rats and dozens of cat bodies littering the street. The Rat Lady had gone and all that was left of her house was a gnawed pile of scrap and a deep hole that was covered up with metal and locks.

several dozen scarred cats live quite happily in the vacant lot where the Rat Lady's house used to be. Once in a while a cat will vanish but cats are prone to wander. It is, however, strange that the metal and locks in that same lot must be replaced ocassionaly.

The Passenger on the Fog Bus

2009-11-11T22:10:00.000-08:00

The family Bible held 6 generations of flattened heirlooms. Pressed flowers, pieces of ledgers, and photographs fairly erupted from the browned pages. Ella spent most Sunday afternoons after church combing these pages discovering both scriptural and family stories that were hidden among the pressed heirlooms. She had pieced together the tale of her great great grandparents' courtship from a love letter, a marriage certificate, and a note written on an old Confederate bill. She had grown close to a long dead cousin who had carried the old Bible on a mission trip through South America all the while using the margins as a compendium of local curatives. She had found great Aunt Letty's best loved (and most delectable) recipes by following a scavenger hunt of sorts through the writings of Paul. All in all, the book had served both her spiritual and genealogical appetites. It was about to serve her more than she had ever imagined.

One Sunday the Bible seemed to fall open of its own accord to Isaiah 45. There, lodged in the crevice next to the first few verses lay a weathered bus ticket. In faded letters were the words "Fog Bus-Lifetime Pass." Thinking little of it she put it in her coat pocket (as with most libraries in old houses this library was best used when wrapped snugly) to ask her grandmother about later.

One evening, several months later, Ella was walking home from the university library. As was typical of November evenings in her town a thick envelope of fog had descended limiting vision to a few yards. The mist swirled and dampened each of her footfalls as Ella passed through the dusk. The world belonged to her and seemed only as big as her next step and so she was startled to see lights and feel the rumble of an engine on the usually deserted gravel drive between her house and the campus. As she stepped aside to let the motorist pass her heart suddenly leapt. The vehicle had come to a stop not far behind her. All manner of worst case scenarios flashed through her mind as she willed herself to turn toward the vehicle. Instead of her would be assailant all that she saw were 6 headlights and a glowing destination sign reading "Elsewhere." As Ella stepped closer she discovered that the lights belonged to an oddly shaped double decker bus. The engine shifted keys as the bus continued to wait. Cautiously she climbed the small steps at the front of the bus and pushed open the ornate door leading inside. As she stepped in she was startled by a figure seated in a gloomy cabin to her side. He slowly held out his gloved hand. Ella was at a loss for she had no change for fare and no... ticket. She quickly fished around in her pocket and produced the strange pass she had found. The figure held it up to where his face must have been hidden in shadow and then handed it back to Ella. She put the ticket into her pocket and asked the bus driver where she should sit. In response he slowly flicked his hand at a small sign that read "Occupants must stay seated while bus is in motion." Ella nodded and flashed a slight, nervous smile at the shadowed figure of the driver and hurried up the steps to the second level and slid into the first seat she found.

The bus shook and the motor growled. Outside the windows the fog swirled and the landscape crawled backwards. As the minutes passed Ella watched through breaks in the fog as the familiar shapes of her city give way to vast expanses of strange land. Sometimes the mist would part to reveal what looked like the caps of mountains far below or what looked like an Austrian castle or, more often than not, a sprawling plain with tendrils of fog reaching out toward a moonlit horizon. Ella turned her attention away from the window and sized up the interior of the bus. It was mostly gold and red, well lit, and buffed nicely. There were what looked like advertisements along the ceiling but the further back they went the more they seemed to be offering discontinued products from eras long past. And then she noticed the other passenger. It was a tapir, of all things, and it was staring at her from the back seat. Ella quickly turned and stared forward with her hands clenched. The absurdity of the entire situation suddenly descended upon her and she felt panic grasping at the edge of her consciousness. After a tense minute of reasoning with herself she turned slowly back to see if the creature was still there. Indeed, it was and still staring. Ella turned to face the front again. She weighed her options and decided it would stand to reason that on a ride of this sort she probably ought to go and sit next to the only other passenger on the bus. Ella stood, walked to the rear of the bus, and sat down in the seat beside the tapir. It turned to stare over its dangling proboscus and asked "Are we there yet?"

Straw Reaper

2009-11-04T22:52:00.000-08:00

Some farmers work so hard and so long that they forget they are farmers. They stop being straw reapers and become Straw Reapers... or Corn Reapers...or Gourd Reapers...

The Wraith of Leaves

2009-10-28T21:46:00.001-07:00

"Where do leaves go when they die?"
Every scruff covered face at Tony's Cafe turned and cast incredulous grimaces upon Hunter Jackley. It was the kind of question that NO one asked men frequenting greasy spoon diners at 5:38 AM on a work day. Flannel rustled and worn caps on worn heads slowly shook as 15 men turned their attention back to biscuits and gravy, coffee, and the morning paper. Hunter was slightly younger and more introspective than the rest of the morning crowd at Tony's. He always sat by himself in the corner by the window and stared at the park across the street where he was caretaker. When talk of football standings rolled about the cafe Hunter would posit some conversation stopper about lacrosse. If a discussion about cattle sales stirred then Hunter would undoubtedly muster a remark about his favorite calf, whom he had named Delilah. If men spoke of the early freeze, Hunter would ask "Where do leaves go when they die?"
No one could quite get used to his remarks and Hunter never could manage to speak his mind at a socially sound time or place. He was the sort of man that knew things reserved for the very young, the very old, or the deepest kind of dreamers, none of which Hunter could be described as. Hunter possessed, however, the surprising wherewithal to contain, or at least partially conceal, the things he knew. Typically, his remarks were rooted in one of these odd fragments of cognition. Like when he asked "Where do leaves go when they die?"
Hunter had been staring fixedly at a spot in the deepest part of the forested park. Perhaps, had they looked in the right direction with the right sort of empty mind, some of the older men at the cafe might have seen a dark, blurry shape hovering in the shadows of the bare fall elms. Hunter saw it because he was Hunter. A shape, mostly leaves, shadow, and rag was drifting in and out of focus. It seemed to inhabit several spots at once and never quite caught the light like it should have. It was a ghost and Hunter knew it, though he had never seen one. The strange thing to Hunter wasn't that he was looking at a ghost but that it seemed perfectly natural. Looking at the specter made him feel that he had discovered an answer to a question that he had never asked but desperately wanted to know. "Where do leaves go when they die?"
Hunter finished his hash browns and cold buttery toast, crossed the street, and waded into the leaves carrying his rake. All that grey morning as he raked leaves he felt as if he stood on sacred ground and the ghost watched. As he raked Hunter thought, as often manual labor will force one to do, of strange stories. Perhaps in each leaf husk was a fleeting tale of good and evil, of joy and sadness, of fear and peace to tell. As Hunter raked and piled the leaves it seemed to him that each rustle and mutter was the last telling of these tales. By the end of the morning, Hunter had raked all the multitude of leaves from the damp, cool grass of the park. As he leaned his rake against a tree and removed his cap the specter seemed to waiver and fade. It raised a hand like a gnarled branch and held a small leaf. The leaf seemed to linger, bright green and alive, for a moment longer than the rest of the apparition and then, was gone.

The sunlight broke through the heavy morning fog and Hunter caught a faint whiff of crocuses and melting snow and then the fog swallowed up the morning.

Nooks and Crannies

2009-10-21T21:49:00.000-07:00

Archibald liked used books...

Stone Fiddle

2009-10-15T22:12:00.001-07:00

Emmebath found the stone fiddle in one of the least productive of Potterton's copper shafts. She thought, at first, that it was a fossilized instrument, akin to those weird looking shellfish that often turned up in the mines. The foreman assured her that no dinosaur but her played the fiddle and laughed the find off as another of Emmebath's idiosyncrasies. That night after dinner the old woman put that fiddle through its paces. The low notes seemed to moan with the sound of plate tectonics while the high notes screamed louder than the crack of frozen granite. Late into the evening folk tunes filtered through the canyon, filled the mines, and echoed over the stones. And the stones responded.

When Emmebath finally lowered the fiddle and her bow there was a faint ring of dust encircling her on the floor. Several pebbles had traced paths across the clapboard floor and outside the door all the flagstones from her yard perched as if listening. Emmebath struck up another, louder jig and the hillside fairly danced as she summoned every stone within 1oo yards of her old shack.

News spread over the town and up the canyon the next day that Emmebath could command rocks. Most folks assumed it was more Emmebath idiosyncrasies and headed back to the mines or out to the gardens as usual. But the few who payed a visit to her place soon discovered what a boon a rock moving fiddle player could be. Rock walls shot across the landscape over night. Cobble streets sprawled about the township in a few hours. The primary mine shafts doubled in depth each day. Emmebath and the fiddle became the creme de la crust. Everyone heaped gifts and payment on her for help with work from sculptures to buildings. Mining was more lucrative, tourism soared, and the town looked and felt as comfortable as could be. Then the rockslide buried most of Potterton.

Apparently the surface stones weren't the only ones moving closer to Emmebath's fiddling. The entire mountainside had shifted ever so slightly each time the strings vibated and finally gave way and came crashing down. The slide buryed the town and its inhabitants and sealed off the small road that led to the outside world. Emmebath kept her head about her and played the whole time the slide was happening.

Rocks swirled around her forming a protective hall as, fiddling, she backed away from the tumult of stone. At last she stepped out from the swirling rubble and dust, collapsed in the grass and dropped the fiddle at her side. Emmebath lay there breathing and considering. After several long minutes she propped herself up. She had come to a conclusion. The responsibility for this disaster rested squarely on her shoulders. Seizing the fiddle once again, she drew a dischordant sound from the strings. As the notes penetrated the rock mounds Emmebath dragged the chord into a single, sustained, high pitched whine. The mountain of rocks quivered and began to move, almost imperceptibly at first, toward the lone fiddle player. Dragging and sawing, dancing across the strings and flinging notes to and fro Emmebath played as she had never played before. The entire mountainside began to hover and then move around her. Louder and faster the fiddle music went. With a grey blur and thunderous cracks the stones swirled round and round the old woman.

When the survivors of the rock slide gained their bearings they quickly noticed a solid stone pillar towering over the edge of their town. No one knew at first where it came from but most could guess. On quite summer nights rumor has it that if you press your head against the pillar you can still hear a fiddle playing inside. The pillar is called Emmebath's Idiosyncrasy and the people of the town know it brings good luck.

Parasite Streets

2009-10-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

Wherever there are humans there are parasite streets. In every well-used lane and path there lurks the possibility of a street that runs north by down, uphill both ways, and from yesterday to tomorrow. Any familiar path in the woods can, in an instant, be lined with strange houses from every era. Every comfortable little street with tidy houses might, in the blink of an eye, be a lot filled with mysterious artifacts and fantastic dwellings.

Parasite streets appear and pass on in a matter of minutes and any hapless local who crosses from our world into those silent lanes may never again wander this time, space, or reality. No one knows who built the roads or why they now lead to elsewhere. It is of no importance. All that matters is the warning posted at the entrance to one parasite street called Lmoma Rd.

The one who posted the warning is gone and few remain who can read the archaic script that offers a final warning to anyone who should stumble upon Lmoma Rd.. The marks in cuneiform read simply:

"Turn back from Madness".

What mysteries lie at the other end of Lmoma Rd.? Is Madness a name or a condition? Who was the one who returned? How did they and from where? These questions are best left unanswered. If the wise heed the warning at Lmoma Rd. the road will simply pass on bearing no lost wanderers.

To the Moooon!

2009-09-30T22:20:00.001-07:00

Recently graduated from college and quickly disenchanted with the working class dream, young Thomas Hepler longed for something more. One day he was stuck for one of many long sessions of stalled rush hour traffic. Thomas, as he was wont to do in such situations, began wishing for the ability to instantly transport wherever he looked...

he was now falling from the overpass into downtown. With 2.3 seconds to live and a rush of adrenaline Thomas quickly surmised that, 1. his wish had come true and, 2. it would be useless unless he glanced at a nearby stretch of grass...

birds scolded as they took flight from the long grass surrounding Thomas' car. Adrenaline mixed with overjoy as Thomas glanced out over the bay...

the car rushed toward the water as Thomas glanced at the sky above his suburban home...

the ground rushed on as he quickly eyed his driveway...

Thomas had made it home in one piece though his car straddled the curb, sidewalk, and driveway. He had returned home from work in 24 minutes. He had almost an entire hour on his usual time. This called for a celebration! In 4 seconds flat he arrived standing at the local confectioner's stand. He ordered a beverage and an orange-cicle and was on his back porch in 3.1 seconds. He sighed happily as he sat down in his chair. Glancing up, he noticed the moon was...

Sabbath Painting With Jeromite

2009-09-26T22:30:00.000-07:00

It was a typical Sabbath afternoon with my painting buddy. Nerd talk, singing of crass songs, reminiscing, bemoaning our lack of art supplies and preparation. It was followed by dinner by his lovely wife with most everyone on my blog roll to the right. Then it was over to my fiance's for BSG and more food. Then Mom came by.

What a perfect Sabbath.

The painting was a 4 by 6 little study of the Walla Walla Valley from the foot of the blues. I am discovering the importance of adding lots of little hint colors. A blotch of red on top of a moss green group of trees conveys the idea of several leaves that have turned far better than any attempt at actually painting them could. The overall effect of little color dashes brings what might otherwise be a hundred like green strokes into a landscape. And I love grain elevators. There is something innately romantic about them. Do you have any odd attachments to other landmarks or other large, inanimate objects?

The Holes

2009-09-23T22:01:00.000-07:00

For some reason the moles in Taylor Granbury's back yard were impossible to kill. They had never been particularly bad until one summer when, on a whim, Taylor dumped Corry's Slug and Snail Death into one of the holes. The next week there were even more holes (deep under the ground a blessed crop of molds grew thick like clay in the absence of the slug scourge. More baby moles, more elder moles, more matron moles, more patron moles). The next month Taylor tried an old rancher trick. Shocking the heck out of the ground with generators and jumper cables (The bowels of the earth opened up and shook with energy)...

More later.

The Other Three Bears

2009-09-16T22:41:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time in a great forest lived three bears. Bear Shark, Bare Bear, and Bear Cat. They did not get visited by any little girls which was right and appropriate since they were in no way right or appropriate. They lived in a cave unhappily ever after and now they are long forgotten which is good. The end.

Posting a Pile of Paintings

2009-09-15T21:50:00.000-07:00

I have a bunch of paintings to post since I've been doing sabbath painting again. But really, this is an excuse to talk about my dream video game. Since Beatles Vs. Ninja Turtles Vs. Zombies Vs. Lego Vs. Rockband amped over 9000 will never be released this will have to do. Here is the obligatory art. I was at Rosario 3 weeks ago and enjoyed getting a sunburn along with a finished painting.

Here There Be Monsters

2009-09-09T22:28:00.001-07:00

The maps all said there were monsters at the edges of the unknown. Mariners brought home tales of horrible beasts like the Kraken, the Sirens, Yacumama, and the Sea Monk. Many of these monsters had roots in uncommon sea animals. Many were real. Chadwick Chumbucket, a pirate on the Brigantine Proud Jehosophat knew about the real ones. Chumbucket sailed only in those uncharted waters beyond which point there were monsters. Chumbucket was the first of the Monster Hunting Mariners.

Scare Human

2009-09-02T21:41:00.000-07:00

The crew of Crow Creek lumber camp arrived one dewy morn to a most unusual scene...

First Day of School Invitation

2009-08-20T11:41:00.001-07:00

Who wouldn't be excited to come to the first day of class after receiving this in the mail? Yes Chris VanAlsburg is my theme author for the year. Yes I will be emulating his style constantly.

Mana Glint Seed Co.

2009-08-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

Have you ever heard of Scoffer County? Probably not.

If you had, you would have also heard of Arby Duane Scott, the local dry cleaner and part time soccer coach. He was better known as the man with three first names, or threesome for short, and it was he who received the first seed packet in the mail one cold February afternoon. It was sent to him with no return address. The packet was from a company called Mana Glint Seed Co. and it held 5 or 6 dozen small seeds. Threesome thought it a bit odd but planted several among his starters. A day later the milkman, the undertaker, and the entire School Board found identical packets in the mail.

Over the course of the next week , a total of 33 people received the strange packets and over half of them planted starters. When the spring sunshine started to warm the black mud of Scoffer County there were no less than 100 planted starters from those mysterious seed packets in gardens and greenhouses. The people who had planted them were overjoyed as the young plants shot up several feet in height during the first weeks of spring. Word spread as the plants, now obviously a variety of tomato, became local legend. Those without Mana Glint Seed Co. seeds began paying exorbitant amounts for the few unplanted seeds that were left. By June the plants had grown to monstrous size and had taken over most of the garden plots that hosted them. It didn't matter, though, because the first red, cantaloupe-sized tomatoes were harvested and eaten as a treat the day summer break began and everyone agreed that other crops could languish this year. Those tomatoes were good eating. But that was when the trouble started.

Since Threesome had planted first, and eaten first, it was Threesome who went missing first. The day after he called to tell his friends about what a delicacy these fruits were, he stopped showing up for work or taking calls . By the time the people of Scoffer County caught wind of what was going on and went out to check on their acquaintances, all they found were patches of Mana Glint tomatoes towering 20 or 30 feet high where homes had once stood. Anyone who went searching for clues in the tomato patches never came out. The sheriff and the local police force were quickly flooded with calls about some voracious tomato variety but when they reported to the sites all they found were halves of houses, front bumpers of cars, and anything else that hadn't yet been swallowed in the onslaught of tomatoes.

The last anyone heard of Scoffer County was a call to the national guard from a desparate sounding police deputy. When a few troops arrived at the border the next day, all they saw was a colossal patch of withered tomato vines and a county line marker. The Scoffer County side had been roughly removed.

No one else but you and a few National guard troops have heard of Scoffer County. Don't bother Googling Mana Glint Seed Co. They don't exist. And when you get seeds from them in the mail, just toss them out.

Lack of Accomplishment

2009-08-12T19:47:00.000-07:00

I have found it difficult to start art lately. Since I have been gone so much of the summer I've found that, upon my return home, all I want to do is laze around. School starts back up in a week and a half, though, so I have been trying to get about my usual routine. But, just when I was achieving this, the common cold struck. Be warned friends. Stay away from my house for a few days. This:

is making my life misery and you need not participate. On a brighter note one of the places I went in the last few weeks was Bremerton via the Pike St. (or thereabout) ferry. Here is a blue ballpoint sketch of what I saw that day:

Oh yes, and Ninja Steve...

Ms. Rosie Cutler is a Witch

2009-07-29T19:22:00.000-07:00

In Cowl Creek Ms. Cutler's yard is where the older kids threatened to banish younger kids if they didn't share their best lunch items. That house was where two teenagers entered and supposedly vanished during the 70s. Only the most daring pranksters dared toilet paper the place come Halloween.

That was because Ms. Rosie Cutler was a witch.

She sat on the front porch and knitted all the long day. Her yard was filled with 4 generations of cast off household fixtures and an even more venerable tradition of dandelions. The house looked like it should have fallen over a century ago but, by some mysterious power, was still holding together.

Obviously, Ms. Cutler was a witch.

One Thursday, instead of being occupied by Ms. Cutler, the only thing on the porch was a pile of knitted goods, old lady affects, and yarn. This seemed within the realm of the believable except that Ms. Cutler had supposedly occupied the porch every afternoon except Sunday for over 230 years. Supposedly. To have her absent was construed as a bad omen, great luck, a reason to plant tomatoes early next spring, and any other urban nonsense that could be offered around the gas pump at Nobi's Station that afternoon. Word spread all over the county like a conjured plague of locust and by the time school got out the kids had gathered around the hedge outside her property to gaze at the absence of Ms. Cutler.

But the witch hadn't left.

As the fine folk of Cowl Creek gazed on, it was Jenny Franklin, a first grader from Carver Elementary, who pointed out that "That pile on Ms. Cutler's porch looks like one of the cocoons from our science project."

Heads nodded and m-hmmms were voiced as the realization took hold of the crowd. Jenny added that "Over many months metamamorphafis is probably happening inside that cocoon."

The yarn cocoon wiggled slightly and a raven cawed in the distance.

Primates, Patterns, Puppets

2009-07-19T09:27:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I was in Seattle as usual. I had the good fortune of visiting the Seattle Zoo and communing with my closest genetic cousin on the planet. This orangutan was hiding in a burlap sack when I decided to sketch her. She noticed me fiddling with my pen and stuck her face right up against the glass so I touched foreheads with her through the window. She held still for about 10 minutes while I sketched her. That same evening I ran down to a little stream in Mill Creek near Bothell and painted water ripples from a bridge. That is what a sabbath ought to be like.

Sunday found me wandering wide mouthed through the exquisite Jim Henson exhibit at the Experience Music Project / Science Fiction Museum. Meeting celebrities like Rowlf, Fraggles, Gelflings, real Henson drawings, Manamana, and myriads of other muppets was better than meeting living celebrities. Exept for Bruce Campbell. He was even cooler than muppets. And if I actually met Bono maybe that might be cooler than the muppets too.

Can any of you top my muppet celebrity experience with your own celebrity close encounters?

A Couple of Sketchbook Pages

2009-06-09T23:58:00.000-07:00

Summer has washed over me with warm whispers of "do nothing important, especially around midnight." I have acquiesced. Here are some images from the last week or so in my sketch book. Plus a new gimmick. Dustin and I have put a temporary hold on "Teacher Breakfast" in favor of the more caloric and life shortening "Teacher Burger". There are 4 points possible each for "meat", "bun", "fillings", and "condiments" and 4 additional discretionary points for us to award based on things like restaurant aesthetic, side dishes, nice waiters, etc. That means 20 possible. Vote now for what burger we take our gourmand scalpel to next week. With all this new found free time I can indulge you, my noble blog followers, in your choice of sketch subjects. What shall I draw?

Cindarrella

2009-06-02T20:32:00.000-07:00

Christie likes pirates. And Cinderella. So I decided to combine the two into a retelling with this image as the cover. As usual my relationship with photoshop ran hot and cold. Some days we clicked together like a well oiled machine while other days found us mixing like a syrrah and PB&J sandwich meal. Our main reason for fighting was that I would try using transparent colors but she would find it amusing to turn whole sections of the picture transparent.

Oh well. I think photoshop and I may need to take a break, slow it down some, have some space so that I can explore other interests. Like Christie. And Illustrator. But mostly Christie.

The Big Dog

2009-05-16T19:49:00.000-07:00

I went back to one of my favorite places and basked in the sheer sunniness of May in Walla Walla. I perched myself on the flood bank of Mill Creek with a fetching view between two cottonwoods complete with an excellent depth perspective and glowing light. As I was happily painting the color of the river I heard and felt the mighty footfalls of what must have been a prehistoric canine holdover. Far behind the beast was his owner spewing the pleas "leave him alone, good boy, come on!" all three of which the dog ignored. I realized my end was nigh and, refusing to meet my fate head on, simply decided to go out doing what I loved: staring at nature and painting.

The dog thundered right up behind me, touched his nose to my scalp, and, before devouring me whole, sniffed mightily. The sniff nearly wrenched my head from my shoulders but still I refused to turn and behold my end. After a few seconds of continuing to glower over me the mesozoic menace must have heard some small animal dying and thrashed off through the underbrush followed by its "master". I lived and finished a painting.

Don't Climb the Trees in Everglade Terrace

2009-05-13T19:48:00.000-07:00

There were always long shadows on Everglade Terrace. Even on the sunniest of noons the gloom reached out across the street toward the finely mowed lawns of the Willow Grove housing development. Every Willow Grove child knew that something was not right about the curious park across the way though, of course, this understanding didn't prevent the inevitable. Each summer, there were reports of missing children and despite all the grown up furor about how kidnappings were on the rise the local children all knew what really happened.

The stupid children would climb the trees in Everglade Terrace.

And that was that. They never came back. The police would do the cursory harassment of the local oddball residents, the firemen would dredge the river, and the photographs would appear on the milk boxes in the school cafeteria but the shrewd children all knew better. You never climb the trees in Everglade Terrace.

Not Yet Finished

2009-05-11T22:04:00.001-07:00

I miss blogging. I miss having a lot of things on my plate but a good many things have sat on the back burner, not forgotten, just simmering. Maybe I am coming back for a taste. This weekend I did my first painting since February and the flavor was good. So good. It was a bit offsetting at first but the thrill of laying some pigment on a rough, thick sheet of paper was back quickly. Spring is here. Art is on!

I am back.

This one was painted from just outside Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle. You can see the mountains beyond the Sound as you look west. The painting was only about 5 by 8 inches. The weekend was great.

Watercolor Again

2009-02-09T20:49:00.000-08:00

Twitter Blog Time. Light. Cold. Sigh. Winter. More Important Things. Enjoy.

What-Ho?! Another Photoshop Design

2009-02-06T05:05:00.000-08:00

I've been away and happy. But I miss my routines so back to it.

I did this little piece for my favorite local store (and for some nifty in- store credit). Doing this ad convicted me of my shoddy approach to design. Design has always been a bit of a questing beast for me; it was always bigger than I could get my mind around and too elusive to pin down. The best I could do was to hold onto the few scatological traces of design concept I discovered and then continue the futile hunt to grok the thing.

Please feel free to constructively shred this piece with some criticism. Maybe your comments will help me finally subdue design.

Christmas is served!

2008-12-24T15:23:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas. I've been happily absorbed in other things in the past few weeks so art has been simmering on the back burner. I cooked up this painting a year ago. My stepdad is a hardcore fisherman. Those are iceflows on the river. I am a hardcore watercolorman. There were ice crystals on my palette.

This one is from a year and a few months ago.

They are about to be served up for Christmas gifts so I decided to post them for posterity.

Acrylic II

2008-12-10T22:36:00.000-08:00

I rejoice! Tonight I finished my second acrylic painting. I've learned a bit since the first one and I am starting to figure out how all that watercolor practice can translate to this strange new medium. The process is completely reversed. Instead of building shadow and darkness onto areas of light, instead of preserving transparency, I slather on dark colors and then build up light over them to reveal the shadows. Chiaroscuro is KEEN! Here it is. I am happy with it. It's nice to see growth happening. I hope my paintings continue to get incrementally better.

Dry Paint Spell

2008-12-06T22:54:00.000-08:00

Getting things done is getting hard lately. Having days off for Thanksgiving has given me a fierce lazy streak. I've been painting and sketching but not nearly as much as I intended to. What's more, after last week's watercolor conundrum I have pretty much resorted to acrylic indoors until February at least. Oh, and speaking of acrylics, my second offering is almost ready. I can't wait to show it. Here, have some sketches until then.

Time for Watercolor Hibernation

2008-11-30T08:56:00.000-08:00

The fog is back and the light is homogenized into grey blandness. Welcome Walla Walla winter.

I went out watercoloring yesterday for the first time in over a month and remembered why I stay inside to paint this time of year. Colorlessness aside, the temperature is too cold to allow paint to dry outside. Instead of building many layers I usually end up with a blended, muddled mixture of color, pretty in it's own right but not my goal. The second problem is the light. When Sol finally peeks through the narrow horizonal crack between grey and more grey it's usually to moon the valley with gold and red for 5 minutes before dashing beyond the mountains. Trying to capture that is problematic since I believe art should be luxurious, intentional, and, as such, SLOW. The sun setting at 4:00 encourages only a mad dash of mixing and slathering paint before all memory of light and color vanish. Getting out earlier is difficult with my Sabbath routine in place. Maybe I'll convert to Sunday worship.

2008-11-14T21:30:00.000-08:00

God is good lately. Which means I am pleased with life. He is not so good when I am disgruntled. I think it would suck to be God. Maybe perfection is not letting whiny get to you though...

I have been really naughty about art lately. I keep finding myself drawn to warm inside social events rather than to going out painting or to solitude in my studio. Perhaps that is the nature of winter.

Here are some sketches from a while back. The latest ones are all unfinished so you can see what I was doing 2 weeks ago.

2008-11-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

It's been years since I did any acrylic (with the exception of One Hot Tomato) and the experience of smothering that big, blank canvas in color was moving. I gained some respect for photoshop in the process. I remember Mr. Wishart, my High School Art teacher pshawing computer art sighting the smell and feel, and I would add unpredictablilty, of true paint as an irreplaceable and superior experience. I would tend to agree. Photoshop, however, provided a safe haven for experimenting with transparency and design without the hassle of wasting pigment (27 bucks for a 2 paintbrushes and 4 medium tubes of paint that will be used up by the end of my next painting). The two mediums compliment eachother. Maybe a brush and a stylus can play nice in an artist's hand. Speaking of photoshop, does anyone know a way to get that glare on the bottom left and the shadow on the top right evened out?

Politipost

2008-10-31T22:14:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am voting. Most of the issues were cut and dry for me. Many of the candidates were an easy pick. But that presidential bubble sat unfilled for 3 hours of research. I love Nader. The guy takes some radical stances on most of the issues but what he says really makes sense, particularly in terms of education. Furthermore, he was willing to take the ProjectVoteSmart political courage test, something Obama and McCain both declined to do.

But then there is Obama. He has captivated me with his bold statements on religion, support of programs like Head Start, and reforming the No Child Left Behind policy. I have slight reservations about him but that "hope" concept he built his campaing on is so appealing.

Currently both bubbles are filled in. I feel like I am taking the GRE and there are 2 answers I am sure are right but to fill both is certain failure. Which bubble do I erase?

Oh yeah, art. I have been ambivalent about a lot of my work lately. I suppose that is a desirable reaction for a viewer but I wonder if that is good for the artist. Blech. Artist. That word sounds so pretentious and loaded.

Renewal

2008-10-25T23:33:00.000-07:00

This is what I painted in Sandpoint, ID as I was looking southeast over the lake.

Rejuvenation is a necessary thing. I keep a quote on my desk at school that says something like "Renew yourself each day. Do it again and again, and forever again." This weekend I visited Sandpoint, ID and observed several of my dear teacher friends as they worked. Between mountains of victuals, time for art, and great company I find myself ill-rested but perfectly renewed. I feel like I could start work tomorrow but I still have a day to relax and mentally prep. How do you best clear your head and renew?

Late Nights and Hot Blonds

2008-10-16T23:23:00.000-07:00

This little painting is an interpretation of a friend's poem entitled, in part, "One Hot Tomato". It was supposed to be art nouveau, I guess.

I wonder if doing art right before bed is getting me keyed up. I keep laying awake thinking of creative stuff. For hours. Unfortunately, it's the kind of creative stuff that you think of around midnight. Like a mobile constructed out of old books painted primary colors, or like how to build a better wizard hat for my math class, or whether or not I have memorized the ingredients for my favorite cookie. What do you think of while lying awake at night?

Cold and sumac

2008-10-12T22:32:00.001-07:00

This painting taught me: Stop while you're ahead.

Yesterday was cold. As I blew futile breaths to warm my tense purple hands I realized that soon I will have to hang up the watercolor backpack for a few months and set up shop in my studio. Gabe of Penny Arcade fame has inspired me with his game related paintings. Every week he posts he is better and I want to see if that happens to me. Tonight, acrylic begins.

(Seriously, try that link up there. It is worth your every mouse swipe).

2008-10-09T21:51:00.000-07:00

Busy. Look. Enjoy. Obligatory other words.

Walula Jct. and 4-Year Old Wisdom

2008-09-27T20:32:00.000-07:00

Sailing, painting, eating, and friending has enriched my last 24 hours. I am happy, if not a bit weary.

One other thing. I have always shied away from calling myself an artist. There is something presumptuous about it, something a bit too final for my liking. It's like calling yourself a lover, or a believer, or something equally ambitious. A four year old observer of this painting asked if I was one. I asked him what an artist is. He said an artist is someone who likes to paint. What do you think an artist is? Is the four year old right?

This Drawing All Things Devours

2008-09-17T22:06:00.001-07:00

This little lovely has eaten up most of my art time for the last 2 weeks. It did teach me a lot about how to control graphite and how important it is to take time when you are relearning a half-forgotten medium. I also learned that rocks are tedious to draw. And that when you draw light you have to treat it like a liquid, or perhaps more like a mist. It saturates everything near its source and spritzes particles on those objects further out.
More art soon..

.

2008-09-13T20:24:00.000-07:00

I have now settled into a medieval groove in my classroom. The students are in the thrall of such alter egos as the Phonics Fool, the Word Warrior, Ali Baba Book Bandit, and Merlin the Mathemagicain. Mother, Dustin, Jaymie and I mounted dozens of play swords, axes, and armour, paper torches, flags, castle walls and all manner of epic decour on the classroom walls.

In the meantime, I have been busily arting away. In the next few days you, noble blogger, will discover the niftiness that is my August/September portfolio beginning with my sabbath painting.

Pygmalion

2008-08-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

This monopolized many of my artist dates last week. She is done in colored pencil and a throwback to my highschool years of practicing drawing people out of books since I couldn't find models. In this case I used my latest favorite anatomy book. The rigor of drawing something realistic and controlled was a therapeutic diversion from my Dr. Seuss, messy ink, and charcoal drawings. I think I might try tackling realism once every month or two... just to prove that I can.

Sketchlook

2008-08-17T12:05:00.000-07:00

I took Cerise's advice and followed up a link on an artist called Moresukine. The guy's graphic novel approach to journaling his experiences in Japan tugged heavily on my creative urges. For the last 2 months I organized each page of my sketch journal into fun shapes and designs before ever drawing. Not only does it help develop my design sense (a sense sorely lacking) but it also makes my journal a lot of fun to thumb through. I plan on sharing a lot of the pages from now on.

Teacher's Meetings Notes

2008-08-16T00:08:00.000-07:00

Here are my biannual notes from teacher's meetings. This first one helped fill the time during a qualitative research presentation over 3 hours this morning. While they shared their results (which were fascinating and exciting as an SDA teacher) , I drew the old testament.

The first day meetings ran about 8 hours and allowed for a dearth of notes but here is my favorite...

The Day of Rest and Painting

2008-08-09T18:56:00.001-07:00

I have been out painting along Mill Creek today. It was sunny.

I painted last Sabbath at the Bennington Lake canals. It was hazy.

Today I am going to organize my studio. It is messy.
That's all.

Ins and outs of bodies

2008-08-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

I have been exploring one of my favorite life drawing books. Here are the results.

2008-07-24T23:47:00.001-07:00

I was blessed with 2 commissioned art projects at the same time. I could really go for this as a career. Here is the finished logo that I did today for a website .I don't really like this particular pose out of the 3 that I worked up for my client...oooh, I like the sound of that. I've got a client. He chose my least favorite image. That got me thinking, maybe people want something generic since it is accessible and more familiar (in this case he wanted something similar to the energizer bunny). When I go to the grocery store I don't necessarily buy the most durable dental floss, or the most flavorful refried beans; I buy the ones I remember seeing in Mom's cupboard, or the item I tried at a friend's once. Maybe art is like that. Perhaps creating art that is well received is more about familiarity and comfort What do you think? Here are the other kangaroos.

I've got it covered...uh...hah...hah...get it? COVERed?

2008-07-23T11:52:00.000-07:00

Today's blog is brought to you by the letters D, O, N, and E. I have finished my first book cover. I have taken my first tottering steps into the world of graphic design for profit. There can be no looking back. I want some brutal criticism about this design since it is due for submittal on Friday.

Keeping You Posted

2008-07-22T21:37:00.000-07:00

Summer break permits a dearth of creative opportunities. With all this free time I could be painting, posting, and photoshopping daily. In a sense I have been. I have a pile of work to share with you, fine viewers. Count on several posts this week. Let's start here. This is the most in depth and time consuming painting I have ever done. It took me 4 days of intermittent work and the help of my roommate to make it happen. Here is what my canvas looked like
before:

and after:

So yes, I have been busily painting. Check out another painting at the top of the blog. It is a slide show depicting the evolution of a watercolor. Enjoy.

A long time ago...

2008-07-04T23:20:00.000-07:00

YES! I came out as the man in the Star Wars Personality Test. Unfortunately my suave recklessness was nullified because Jar-Jar was also on my list. I want to know who you think you are and then, if you take the test, who you got rated as. Taking this test adds +10 awesome to your stats.

Your results:
You are Han Solo

Han Solo		73%
Lando Calrissian		72%
Chewbacca		68%
Luke Skywalker		67%
Anakin Skywalker		60%
Jar Jar Binks		58%
Princess Leia		57%
Mace Windu		57%
Qui-Gon Jinn		53%
An Ewok		53%

Even though you've been described as
reckless, selfish and cocky, you're the
type of person others love to be around.
People like you because you're a scoundrel.

(This list displays the top 10 results out of a possible 21 characters)

Click here to take the Star Wars Personality Test

This 4th of July I spent hiking and playing in the Minam Canyon in Northeast Oregon, not far from home. Here is what I saw.

Post post grad, painting and glad.

2008-06-28T22:53:00.000-07:00

I learned some interesting points with this painting today.

1. Mask the light ripples in the water after painting a light layer of underwater scenery. The light reflection on water allows you to see very little underwater. The medium reflections can be represented by simply painting what you see underwater. The darkest reflections on water reveal the most underwater scenery.

2. Adding a hint of what is behind the grass or other plant growth keeps it from looking like green lump. Just a few extra gaps to reveal the rocks would have helped liven that grass up.

3. When picking a location to paint it is important to sit down and look around a second time before getting out your materials. That second look often reveals that there isn't really anything of interest to paint. I had spotted a nice landscape but when I sat down my perspective changed and it looked far less interesting.

4. Pick a spot to paint where shadows won't reach during the process. It is impossible to outpaint shadows; they will crawl across your subject like a really fast snail.

I had missed sabbath painting. The out of doors is the best classroom.

Buh-ma-muh-ma-muh-ma-muh-ma...

2008-06-12T21:11:00.000-07:00

I turned in my records book, my report cards, cumulative folders, portfolios, and end of year checklist a few hours ago. I feel really empty now that break is here. Here is an image of some of my notes from the teacher's meetings last Monday. I'm not sure if this makes me a bad teacher, or an awesome one...

The Owl Pellet

2008-06-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

Summer break is an unfair notion. I threw the party to end all parties last Friday and sat in my classroom afterwards thinking "Whew, it's over." But it wasn't. Summer break is a coy mistress. Two days after it began I found myself between a rock and another harder rock as I ran off to Spokane for teacher's meetings Monday, came back to Walla Walla for teacher's meetings Tuesday, and then, joy of joys, got to squeeze misery mortar between them with a pile of grades, records folders, and financial acrobatics.

Today I left work early and did art. Summer felt a bit closer. And now, for the long promised but oft missed Weird Story Wednesday. No text. The picture tells the story. I thought I'd try my hand at light bloom effects. It's easy to get carried away with opaque paintbrushing (especially with a mouse) but the barn owl is the right blend of goofy and ominous and the night colors please me a lot.

"Shall We Be Friends Son of Earth?!"

2008-05-31T15:35:00.000-07:00

In the last 24 hours I finished my sketchbook and my masters degree. Keen. Here is the last sketch from my book complete with mouse edited photoshop. Erg. My wig for a Wacom tablet.

I realized that learning photoshop is like being in grade school again. A few months ago my creations were like big blotchy tempera monsters (I hope this link is satire). Now I am to that artistic phase where my works are like the cover of a pink binder with BFF written over and over and meticulously colored using magic markers. Soon my photoshop creations might even smack of sword and sandal warriors drawn in colored pencil on the back of pre-algebra assignments .

One last thing, bloggers, when you click on an image it pulls up a giant sized file that feels like an examination of the pores and follicles of my painting. Is there any way to shrink that linked file?

2008-05-21T20:58:00.001-07:00

Today I joined an invite for a community art blog. I am...happy. The group consists of several old artist friends and a new one who's art I look forward to taking in more. We are wrestling with names, imagery, and ideas at this point but I will link as soon as the dust clears. Until then here is an image about my idea for the group name, "Seraph Complex".

This second image is the beginning of a series I am planning for Wednesday nights each week. That's right. A friend of mine recommended that to maintain my paltry viewership I should post regularly. So, welcome to Wierd Story Wednesdays, your forum for strange story starters. I will post a blurb from a story that makes very little sense & that I will never fully tell and then I'll add an image to cement the ambiguity. Photoshop and I have been taking some time apart to explore other options in our lives. She refuses to reveal text that I type and so I have left my unedited scrawls to describe Straga Nan, the wandering hill.

2008-05-15T21:39:00.000-07:00

I find this trio of characters to be an effective description of myself. Some days I feel like the idealistic and worldly Mary sitting at the feet of God and simply happy to learn and share ideas with those around me. Some even better days I feel like the Master of universe as I teach, love, and heal the human race. Most days I feel like the bitchy Martha amidst a cacophony of "dontwanna" while picking up after others. I think that woman was right on telling Mary off. Yeah, that puts me at odds with Christ but I spend a fair amount of time at odds with him anyway; it kind of goes along with our relationship. I wonder what Martha's reaction was to being told off.

I like Jesus' left hand doing the awkward leg rub thing. I would like to imply more subtle body language when drawing but that would take actually doing figure study and not just landscape all the time.

2008-05-03T22:13:00.000-07:00

Today for Sabbath painting I went to the vale of farms lining Mill Creek just east of town. I was disgruntled when, as per usual, the clouds flitted in and filled the valley about the time church was finished (1:00) and I was thinking about heading out. The clouds behaved well for me and helped light my 3 small paintings in a cozy, rainy day fashion. I am happy with them all. 'Nuff said.

2008-04-29T21:48:00.000-07:00

I went to see Ben Folds at Gonzaga this weekend. This guy could teach Jerry Lee Lewis how the piano should rumble. I looked around and noticed that the average age was exactly not 30. It was probably not even 25. I felt old and hung my head, revealing a slightly balding patch shimmering in the stage lights. It was at that point that I noticed how all those people were beautiful when feet came into question. Smiling and grimacing, slender and fat, guys and gals, they're all in that sketch and they are all equal and attractive.

Ben is in the bottom of the sketch singing about what a joke are white people, and black people, and Ben Folds, and how generally *#&@$ed up people are and how, frankly, its okay. Or maybe I read too much into it. Note the cookie tin lid, maraca, and 2 flavors of altoids that he threw inside the piano for one song. It sounded like a robot with a keyboard for a voice trying to talk about a marching mariachi band. It was a worthwhile evening. Although he cusses a lot...

Shame on Me

2008-04-19T18:13:00.000-07:00

I mean to post. Why should hours of working on that dratted masters project stop me from doing what I love? I think I will better regulate the things that fill my paltry spare time. Maybe BSG can wait an extra day so that I can post, pray, read, and do the things that generally enrich my life.

Here is my watercolor from today's excursion. I did it from the edge of a bridge below Bennington lake next to the Community College. I am happy with it although I am weary of complex undergrowth. Representing that in watercolor is a bit of a problem. Any ideas?

This next image is of a painting that I did in February and I have been meaning to put it up. It was really cold but just warm enough to get out and start painting. You can see a little bit of green just starting to happen. Frankly, I love this one. I think it is because it is one step closer to the style of Alan Lee who I a want to be...except for the teeth.

The Masters Project

2008-04-18T18:15:00.001-07:00

This wicked little creature is the reason I haven't blogged. It is the reason I will continue not to blog or see my friends or play or enjoy life. This is the first of a host of little animals that form the basis of my masters project: Phonemals: A Collectible Phonemic Awareness Instructional Tool (or some title equally as cumbersome) due in a few weeks. Good-bye for now world. I will see you on the other side.

More Grey Days

2008-04-07T21:59:00.001-07:00

This piece is another fine example of photoshop madness. Note the encroaching shadow on the left edge of my picture. It's as if a nazgul were sneaking down 3 mile road while I painted.

The Red will surely help me overcome this relationship hurdle so that photoshop and I can make beautiful art together.

It was overcast as usual on Sabbath when I went out to paint. I will be a adept at making washed out light effects and grey tones. Stay tuned bloggers, the sun will shine some Saturday and I will be there to capture it!

April 1

2008-04-01T19:22:00.001-07:00

I whipped this one out this afternoon during my prep period at school. It is a quick study on the horrors of classroom management and how badly wrong it can go when you mix chocolate with children. I'm not completely happy with the way the face in the top of the right third turned out. It is supposed to represent me at a loss for what to do by 3:00 in the afternoon. I will probably rework some portions of it later...

2008-03-28T18:55:00.001-07:00

Friday night is here. My last night in Shonto. I love this place and I hate leaving; I hate leaving Gradschoolnothing, the beautiful people here (Navajo are lovely), the clear air, and I hate leaving the lack of responsibility... although I have been grinding through masters research this week (at least 30 hours of work this week). I have found ample time for playing Kid Icarus and sketching despite the masters beast riding on my conscience. All told this week has given me time to center my life and get back to a healthy routine. I think I can step back into teaching with a burst of joy. I miss Walla Walla but I could skip town with a smile...provided my beloved people decided to move out here with me. The one thing I don't hate about leaving is I get to see my beloved people soon. I will post some trip sketches and photos soon. Photos huh. What a concept.

The second image is a painting I did a few hours ago of the Anasazi ruins in Navajo Monument. I love the one Gradschoolnothing did (top) and I think the two convey a complete picture of what we saw from 500 feet above the canyon floor. My painting begins with the hollow on the left side of his. This place is heaven. Especially the Navajo burgers.

2008-03-22T22:52:00.001-07:00

Today was my first Sabbath painting venture beyond the confines of the Walla Walla Valley. A dear friend of mine whom we shall call Jason Lyman was staying the night here with me and was brave enough to come along and sit on a still-closed forest service road (too much snow on the road, especially in the canyon bottoms) with me for almost 3 hours. As we were readying to leave the dratted Tri-Cities inversion meandered in and washed out all my color and a lot of my contrast on what had been looking to be a sunny afternoon. The result was a cold and greyish view of Mill Creek Canyon. Even so, the dulled colors made for good practice for making my eye pay attention to hue.

I imported and color corrected my photograph with photoshop. We are having our first small relationship quarrel. I wished to be rid of the shadows around the border of the image while photoshop refused any compromise in the matter. Any expertise from those of you who have had flings with photoshop would be readily accepted.