black and white feature

Feature for MisterKey, you can view the rest of his gallery here

Morocco

From Sam Gellman Photography's album Morocco. You should really go check out the rest of the album. All of the pictures are incredible! 

A feature for Naomi

 

a feature for my sister, Naomi

A Scattering of Works

 A few pieces of artwork that i've done over the past years. enjoy!

                        

When the Music Stopped

A girl walks, delicately balancing on a mere rope, a cord, the only connection between two points. Swaying, she moves one foot, then the other, her toes caressing the cable. She holds a slender pole, holding her stability in her hands.

From up above, high up, near the roof of the circus tent, looking back down, the view is beautiful. Perfect symmetry, there is perfect symmetry in the circles of the circus' rings, the taut tent ropes in contrast to the trapeze swings, hanging lazily, waiting for the acrobats. The empty dusty seats of the stands echo the sounds of the night before; the smell of excitement lingers still.

She is faultless, flawless, impeccable. Looking down from high above: her brown hair pulled back and tied in a knot on the back of her head. Her lovely round shoulders show the straightness of her back, her exact and beautiful stance. One foot in front of the other – slowly she walks the tightrope, practicing for performance. In the evening, the floodlights would turn on, the stands would be no longer empty, and she would walk, walk the line again.

Notes float up, Chopin's nocturnes for the Piano Op. 9, the Moonlight Sonata and more; the source of the soaring music is the far platform. A small tape player sits there, a homing beacon to the young tightrope walker.

She can not see with her eyes, but she can feel, with every inquisitive finger and toe, the smooth sturdy pole, the taut rope, the quiet air around her. She can hear, guiding her forward, the intricate notes of the sonatas.

There is a small, weary whup as the safety net droops to the floor; and only the whisper of footsteps as a slinking finger eases to the ladder beneath the tape player. Disquieted, the tightrope walker pauses, quivering. But all is silent beneath the music; the crescendos calls her forward. Carefully she puts out her foot; step, step, step, she eases along the rope. Step. Step. Step. Her pole shakes in her hands.

Strings, quartets, rising notes, half steps and whole steps, rising in exclamation, in acclamation, singing, announcing, prai-

She starts, her unease becoming fear. She is doubly blind, absolute silence crowding around her ears. Fear steals her confidence. The long pole turns over lazily as it fell, and she follows, desperation in her ruin.

There she lies, on the betrayed net, like a once gracefull glass that lies shattered on the floor.

And two sets of footsteps – one, purposeful, unremorseful; the other, full of woe.

Shadows chase each other across the floor of the tent, passing over the stands, the rings, the tightrope, the tightrope walker. As the shadows fade into nighttime, there is activity. From above, the blue uniforms look all the same, kneeling, measuring, probing, searching. They gently lift the girl onto a stretcher, cover her, take her away – with gentleness but with a feeling of routineness. Another destroyed life.

The platform shakes, trembles, as an unfamiliar weight ascends. The police man steadies himself, leaning across the platform, feet still on the ladder. He clicks a button.

-sing, angel songs, one note piling on top of another til the crescendo can go no more. A weighty pause; then – quietly, the sounds breathe of nightfall, of completion, of finality.

The tape is taken to the station, and with its backdrop of hopeful sound, peace is gained. A small witness, a large tale heard. A jealous rival, a long sentence served.

And that music will always be a slender dream walking on air; tiptoes of sound across the edges of the mind.

Los Viejos

Hay conocimiento
En los viejos
Hablen
De tesoros
De lágrimas
De risas
De la sabídura
Para y eschuchales
Saben
De que
Hablan

There is wisdom
In the old ones
They speak
Of treasure
Of tears
Of laughter
Of wisdom
Stop and listen
They know
Of what
They speak

A Question for You Musers

I have this blog set up so that I get an email notification every time someone posts here. It's a good way to keep up with the posts without having to check the blog all the time. Anyway, I thought I'd offer to set you all up with email notifications, as well. Let me know if you'd like that!

Facility

It is strange how one works easily at times. I wrote this so quickly that I might almost say I had reached the end before I had come to the beginning. In such a mood I wonder why everybody does not write poetry. Get a Roget's Thesaurus, a rhyming dictionary: sit before your typewriter with a strong glass of coffee at your elbow, and just click the stuff off. 


So easy 'tis to make a rhyme,
That did the world but know it,
Your coachman might Parnassus climb,
Your butler be a poet.

Then, oh, how charming it would be
If, when in haste hysteric
You called the page, you learned that he
Was grappling with a lyric,

Or else what rapture it would yield.,
When cook sent up the salad,
To find within the depths concealed
A touching little ballad.

Or if for tea and toast you yearned,
What joy to find upon it
The chambermaid had coyly laid
A palpitating sonnet.

You baker could the fashion set;
Your butcher might respond well;
With ever tart a triolet,
With every chop a rondel.

Your tailor's bill...well, I'll be blowed!
Dear chap! I never knowed him...
He's gone an written me an ode,
Instead of what I owed him.

So easy 'tis to rhyme...yet stay!
Oh, terrible misgiving!
Please do not give the game away...
I've got to make my living.

From Robert Service's Ballads of a Bohemian 

Intangibles

The wind was singing me a song as it whipped through the rigging. I walked slowly through the line of moored boats, enjoying the tune. Each rope made a slightly different tone as the wind whistled past it, and together, all the different sounds made up one wild, haunting melody. I wanted to put words to that melody, but I hadn't a scrap of paper nor a pencil to write with. Crumbs! I'd forgotten again.

There seems to be a limit on the number of things I can remember. And, since I had remembered my jacket, camera, and shoes, it naturally followed that I had forgotten the notebook and pencil. It was a pity, too. I was walking through one of my favorite types of country: salt marsh. Flat, empty land, carpeted in varying shades of green and dotted by brilliant blue rivers and pools. Overhead, the sun shone down through drifting banks of cumulus clouds. Between earth and sky there walked a strong wind that brought the savor of salt to my nostrils.

Everything inspired me. The colors, the wind, the gulls screaming overhead, the cloud shadows chasing across the land...I wanted to write about them all. I consoled myself with the thought that I would 'store it all up for later' and write out my inspirations when I got back home. But now the magic is gone, and even my fertile imagination can not quite conjure it up again. I could write a bit of poetry about gulls and wind, but I would not be able to capture the aliveness of it all. Perhaps, though, it is just as well this way.  Could un-talented little me really hope to capture something so intangible and imprison it in a cage of words? My almost boundless optimism would have me attempt it, but, deep down inside, the voice of realism is saying 'don't even try.'

It makes me a little sad that intangibles must remain so...intangible. Vague but strong feelings and influences that I will never fully understand. But that, I suppose, is what makes them so alluring. I can not explain things like honor, love, or freedom. But do I even want to? Would an explanation brush the glistening feathers from their wings, leaving them drab and commonplace? Would life truly be life if the inexplicable were explained? Wouldn't it lose most of its allure?

So, in the end, I suppose I can be thankful that I forgot my notebook today. Instead of gnawing on a pencil stub as I tried to describe the indescribable, I had quite a nice walk. And, in the end, I believe that realism has gotten a good grip on me and taught me a thing or two.

Gentle Hands

       The air was cool, and rested easy on his big shoulders. He couldn't forget Vietnam; everything he saw  reminded him of it - the bulrushes by the pond reminded him of the elephant grass, the lily pads made him think of the small flowers that he had failed to notice until he had left. That was why he was here, at the quiet park - because he couldn't forget. And as fine as it was to remember  - the hard work, the job itself - he desperately wanted to forget.

         Standing by the pond, he stared, watching the swans glide effortlessly around the pond. A smaller movement, closer to his feet caught his eye. Shifting his gaze, his eyes came to rest on a blue butterfly struggling in the water. He cocked his head, thinking he could walk on; pretend he never had seen it. He was good at that, walking away from things he didn't want to see.  Or he could splash water over it and watch its topaz wings sink into the pond.

          Crouching down to splash water over the floundering butterfly, he hesitated.

          On sudden inspiration he slid his fingers beneath the butterfly. There was a soft pleasure - he couldn't quite place it - in feeling the butterfly's legs find purchase on his fingers and hold on. Gently  he lifted the wet butterfly from the water.

          Straightening he marveled at the way the blue wings seemed to almost glow, even while laying still on his fingers.

          Long moments that felt short dried and warmed the butterfly until it gave several small flops with its wings, bringing an unexpected smile to his face. Its long black legs began to work themselves, pulling the dark body and silk wings to a dry spot on his hand. Propping its wings up it seemed to close its eyes and go to sleep.

         And he was content to sit and watch it. No one had considered him a safe man, and not many of them had been willing to turn their back on him. They had been afraid of him and he had known it. Even enjoyed it.

         Now with a butterfly sunning in  his hand, trusting it to be a safe place, he wondered why seeing people cower or flinch had been enjoyable in any way.

        Rested , the butterfly walked up to his fingertips and gave a couple testing flaps before taking off. There was a flash of topaz in the sunlight, and than it was gone, fluttering away.

         He rubbed his hands together and kept walking, shoulders less hunched.

         Later, much later, as the light faded and stars came out, he could still feel the small tickling feet of trust in gentle hands.

Inspiration by color

There are days when inspiration comes from maybe the tiniest of birds flying through the sky or perhaps a magnificent sunset, with purples and oranges bursting over a mountain range. There are days when you are inspired from music or a child's laughter, from a creek chuckling through a forest or a field of wild poppies, waving gently in the wind. And there are days, when inspiration comes from color. Royal purple, crisp and cool blue, golden red, creamy white, shiny silver, emerald green, cranberry red, and lemon yellow. All of them oh so beautiful, but today, one stands out in my mind more than all the others: yellow.  So I will share with you some bits and pieces of yellow; please do enjoy. :)

...
A storm was coming up by dark gradations.
But what was curious about this was
That as the sky seemed to be taking on
An ashy blankness, behind which there lay
Tonalities of lilac and dusty rose
Tarnishing now to something more than dusk,
Crepuscular and funerary greys,The streets became more luminous, the world
Glinted and shone with an uncanny freshness.
The brickwork of the house across the street
(A grim, run-down Victorian chateau)
Became distinct and legible; the air,
Full of excited imminence, stood still.
The streetcar tracks gleamed like the paths of snails.
And all of this made me superbly happy,
But most of all a yellow Checker Cab
Parked at the corner. Something in the light
Was making this the yellowest thing on earth.
It was as if Adam, having completed
Naming the animals, had started in
On colours, and had found his primary pigment
Here, in a taxi cab, on Eighty-ninth street.
It was the absolute, parental yellow.
...

From "Apprehensions," by Anthony Hecht 

 

Nature rarer uses yellow
 Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets,--
Prodigal of blue,
 Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly
, Like a lover's words.

 By Emily Dickonson  


 All the credit for the photos belongs to.....
Car in street at Mexico by Joshua Singh 
Horse in field by Agnes Garami 
Man running in dessert by Alexandre quillet
 Elephant by “Wannabe tramp” 
Subway by Thomas Lottermoser 
Truck in field by Perrine 
Sunflowers by Markoni M. Photos

The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore

Adventure Photos

I created an album of all my adventurous pictures. With the thought that creativity is, perhaps, one of the greatest adventures of all, I decided to share the pictures with you in the hope that they might be a source of inspiration. I tried my best to choose pictures that, instead of telling a story, were a story waiting to be told.

Here's a sneak peek:

You can find the rest of the album here: Whimsy Lens Photography

The Times, They Are A-Changin'

His new roommate was a cyborg. Well, actually, he was supposed to say 'bionically enhanced' but why bother saying that in the privacy of his own mind when he could just say 'cyborg'?

Right now he was on his way to the briefing to find out why the cyborg was to be his new roommate. He had a sneaking suspicion he already knew, and didn't like it, but as usual, he didn't let that show.

It was a small, short briefing. It wasn't that high in security clearance, and it doesn't take very many people to tell one pilot his new orders. Essentially, the Mars Air and Space Force were taking on bionically enhanced pilots so to have faster, and more efficient operations. Since Havok was the best standard human pilot - “non-cyborg” he said to himself – he would train this new pilot, who would in turn, assist in training the rest of these new age pilots. Havok thought it was ironic he was instrumental in making his own job obsolete.

Fifteen minutes later, he was headed back down to his quarters, to make room for this cyborg.

He didn't actually meet him until after the evening mess. He didn't expect a nervous young man, barely old enough to shave his face. And it did look shaved – raw, as if the young man had little practice with the activity. Havok had given him the once over and asked if he had eaten. The young man – Eddie – nodded affirmative and Havok showed him to his – their – quarters.

He had had a mental image of cyborgs – cynical, half metal faces, no emotions, no end of physical strength. But Eddie – Eddie was not like that at all. His face was young. If Havok had been passing him in the street, he wouldn't have noticed the faint silvery dots along the left side of his face, arching down from above his eyebrow to just above his left ear. He almost jolted with shock when, in some down time, Eddie plugged an infeed cord from his computer not to an outfeed port in the wall, but to himself – just behind his left ear. He almost restrained Eddie from casually sticking two of his fingers into the pronged data slots of the flight console – but saw at the last moment that his fingers were designed for the connection; tipped in the same silvery metal, fitting into the outlets without so much of a shudder, the wiring, running up his arm, pulsing with a faint blue color, just visible under his skin. Yet for all this amazing abilities, Eddie seemed self conscious.

Havok felt a little unnerved about Eddie. At first, the cyborg was clumsy around the shuttle. When Eddie felt Havok looking at him askance, he explained that the numeric part of his brain was still adjusting to the new data of the Olympian MASF Base, and the shuttle was yet another equation to work out. When Eddie slid the cable connection into the small USB port just behind his ear, Havok felt a shiver of jealousy. He'd always been connected to his ships – knowing what every creak, flicker and jolt meant, knew every limit and the finesse required for each control. But to be actually part of the flow of information, not just through his fingers, but direct to the mind, quick as thinking . . . Havok suppressed a small sigh and fixed his attention on the dusty red view outside. Jealous? Yes, he was jealous. Supremely jealous.

Havok treated Eddie like any other young pilot, first teaching him to take care of the gear and equipment of the shuttle, then using the flight simulator before actually flying the shuttle. He also wouldn't let Eddie use his enhancements at first. This raised a minor struggle, first with Eddie, then a slightly bigger one with Havok's superiors. He used the same argument on both of them:

If Eddie didn't know how to fly the shuttle by the seat of his pants, he wouldn't make a good pilot, bionically enhanced or not. Knowing the rudiments of flight before getting to delicate technology would build foundations nobody would regret having. There was time enough to get to the gizmos. Eddie subsided faster than the superiors did, but Havok kept teaching how he wanted to, regardless of his superior's objections.

Eddie was a good pilot, a pilot after Havok's own heart. He loved the machinery, he loved the lift of a quick take off, and the beauty of space.

As they flew, teacher and student, they became friends. At first it was unnoticable – Eddie glancing sideways at Havok; Havok taking delight in a certain curve as Eddie brought the shuttle around. But it became more pronounced. One day, Eddie said, as they were cruising along,

“I always thought that us cyborgs would be superior to people without bionical enhancements. I thought you'd hate me, or despise me. But you haven't. And you are an amazing pilot. To me, it's as if you were already connected to the computer. You're better than I could ever be, because you do it without enhancements. How do you know what to do?”

Havok didn't know how to respond to that, but he didn't need to. Eddie kept talking.

“I don't know what it's like to be with out these.” he gestured to the silvery implants on his forehead. “I've had them since I was a baby, taught how to use them.” He stopped talking and glanced at Havok. “You don't hate me do you?”

Careful. Havok thought If you start liking him, it'll be all that more painful when he steals your livelihood. But it was too late, he knew. He already did like this cyborg. He was a friend, one that he could trust. He said out loud,

“No, Eddie. I don't hate you.” He took a breath and gave Eddie a list of maneuvers, to be carried out in the next two minutes.

They didn't just fly shuttles; they learned how to fly many others, smaller and larger crafts: cruisers, commercial shuttles, trading scows, space barges, two person hoppers and helis. Each, Eddie learned how to fly by the controls, manuals, and the feel of the ship and space around him. He never plugged himself into the consoles; he almost forgot that that was a part of him sometimes. At the back of his mind, he awaited that cue, that moment when Havok gave him the go ahead to connect to the on board computer. Havok waited and watched, looking for the moment when Eddie could only use his enhancements as a supplement to his knowledge of piloting.

And the day came when Eddie could connect himself to the space craft. He reverently picked up the cable and brought it up to the tiny port behind his ear and plugged it in. His eyelids fluttered at the sudden intake of information. He glanced at Havok, then tenderly pushed his fingers into the sockets in the console. His eyes closed as he perceived the ship in a different way. Havok sat, consumed with jealousy and pain. He wished – he wished he'd never lived to see this day. He wished – no, he wished he could be that young man, one with the shuttle in a way he could never be.

Eddie opened his eyes and saw the living pain in Havok's eyes. He glanced down – away, wishing he could share the staggering experience with his faithful teacher. He brought up his eyes slowly. They stared at each other, speechlessly.

Finally, Havok said slowly,

“It's time.”

Eddie gave him a puzzled look.

“It's time for you to fly her solo.”

Eddie, nodded and took a deep breath, and brought his other hand, with their own silver tipped fingers, to the stick. He glanced at Havok and eased the stick back.

Observers saw the shuttle lift freely, without wobble, tilt, with hardly any dust disturbed. They gaped at its graceful arc over their heads before it spun off into space. How could they know it was governed by a man who could think numbers, who could command without a word? Their world was changing, and only two people knew the exact implications of it.

Loner

My heart was heavy as a stone
As I stood there,
All alone,
In a world of human faces,
Brick and pavement,
Airs and graces.
All alone
Without a tree
Or wild thing
To comfort me.

From The Aspiring Bard

Lament

The hand of the bard has withered,
The pen has been laid aside.
The door to Faery is closing,
And dreamer's dreams have died.
Music has fallen silent,
And magic is gone from our shores.
Genuis is wrapped in mourning
As she paces the corridors.
Paces the hallways of legend,
Where man, in inspired prime,
Twisted the gossamer webbings
Of story and song and rhyme.

Grey is the rain on the tombstones,
Mingling with my tears,
As I lament the passing
Of more enlightened years.
Heavy the heart inside me,
For the lovelier things have fled,
Leaving me to a harsher world
And a place amongst the dead.

Poem from The Aspiring Bard

Daffodil

Poetry from the poem Daffodils by William Wordsworth Longfellow

Photography by Whimsy Lens Photography