We are friends because, if for no other reason, you share in my complete awe of the intricate beauty of the world around us.
The sky calls to us
And if we do not destroy ourselves
we will one day venture to the stars
Sunday, September 27, 2009
This summer I read The Hobbit for the first time, and just last night I finished The Fellowship of the Ring. Reading the books makes me appreciate what they were up against when they made the movies. It also reminded me of this very old and very funny gif. Enjoy.
Ninja Wizards
Ninja Wizards
I've never been one for quoting the Bible, but of all the stories we discussed in our Religion classes, one stuck with me- if only because it always confused me. Forgive any misquotes, for it has been a very long time..
The story went something like this: a father had two sons. The older one was always faithful to the father and stayed with him, working for him; the younger one left and wasted all his money living it up, gambling or w/e. The one who left quickly ran out of money and was forced to work really bad jobs to get by. Finally he returned to the father and, humbled, asked for forgiveness. The father welcomed him back and loved him more than the son who had stayed. Annoyed, the older son asked why the father favored the one who abandoned him, when the older one had always been faithful. The father replied: because the one who left came back; he was tested and he returned.
I didn't understand this story for years, until I realized I was looking at it all wrong. It was never about the result; it was about the journey getting there.
The story went something like this: a father had two sons. The older one was always faithful to the father and stayed with him, working for him; the younger one left and wasted all his money living it up, gambling or w/e. The one who left quickly ran out of money and was forced to work really bad jobs to get by. Finally he returned to the father and, humbled, asked for forgiveness. The father welcomed him back and loved him more than the son who had stayed. Annoyed, the older son asked why the father favored the one who abandoned him, when the older one had always been faithful. The father replied: because the one who left came back; he was tested and he returned.
I didn't understand this story for years, until I realized I was looking at it all wrong. It was never about the result; it was about the journey getting there.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I pulled out my colored pencils, all ready to work on the first in a series of studies leading up to the drawing I want to do, and... the charcoal called out to me. This was supposed to be a study of blonde hair, and I ended up spending the least amount of time on the hair itself (actually, I was just starting the shading when the sun dipped below the horizon and my room got dark.. damn sun only staying out until 6pm in AZ.. and have you tried to shade by artifical light? Yeah. It sucks.)... Hopefully more to come.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Finger-food fine dining began our evening ("the best Ethiopian food in town!," you laughed), and sipping tea in the jazz club/art studio turned restaurant while nibbling the exotic flatbread and spices set the mood beautifully. As the dusk rose we walked, through the adorned stone courtyard past crowds gathered around dozens of performers. Music of every kind floated past: haunting pan pipes, joyful chanting in Hebrew, rhythmic, soulful Creole. So many gathered at one stage that we were pressed close in the swaying crowd, our bodies moving with the dancing. We escaped to the quieter halls of the museum and searched the traveling displays for the ancient volumes you seeked ("our own quest," I smiled). Too short it was.
You drove us back from the mountains, the top rolled down with cool air and light jazz floating from your car as you sped up to 90. The wind whipped my hair around as I turned my head back to watch the stars, slowly disappearing behind the fog as we raced through the night. You looked at me and laughed, elated, reckless and carefree, as we shared that moment beneath the stars.
You drove us back from the mountains, the top rolled down with cool air and light jazz floating from your car as you sped up to 90. The wind whipped my hair around as I turned my head back to watch the stars, slowly disappearing behind the fog as we raced through the night. You looked at me and laughed, elated, reckless and carefree, as we shared that moment beneath the stars.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Was checking out at Target today, and the cashier sees me bring up a cat litter box, litter, and a big bag of cat food.
Cashier: *gleefully smiles* "Awwww, you must have a new kitten!"
Me: "No... just have a really fat cat who eats and poops a lot."
Cashier: >.> "Oooookkk......................." *goes quiet*
Hey, there's just more of him to love.
Cashier: *gleefully smiles* "Awwww, you must have a new kitten!"
Me: "No... just have a really fat cat who eats and poops a lot."
Cashier: >.> "Oooookkk......................." *goes quiet*
Hey, there's just more of him to love.
Friday, September 11, 2009
I'm kicking the habit of drawing in class. I zone out and start doodling in my notes, then 10 minutes later I look up to find the professor somewhere in second-order tensor analysis and I don't even know what a tensor is.......
Sometime this weekend I'm going to start some color and texture studies to prep for the drawing I've been wanting to do for years. If any are good enough they will end up on here.
Sometime this weekend I'm going to start some color and texture studies to prep for the drawing I've been wanting to do for years. If any are good enough they will end up on here.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
First there were three.
Their path guided by both friendship and love, three companions shunned the world and the rules and created their own of each. They did with three what others could not; attempting new challenges, and each they faced, excited, determined.
Then one found a different path. The three where broken. And, for a time, all was quiet. The remaining two saw others come and go. They found a new place. There they found strangers, at first, and slowly friendship grew.
The time came to make a choice. The friends, once only strangers, stood up for what they believed in.
And then there were five.
Bounded by trust, strengthened by respect, the five walked together, undaunted. What started as a glimmer with the three burned fiercely in the five; no challenge was too great, for their strength came from both within and from each other. They did it first, and they did it best. Word spread of the five, and others looked on in wonder, attempting the same. None came close.
After all this time, the memory of the five still shines brightly.
Their path guided by both friendship and love, three companions shunned the world and the rules and created their own of each. They did with three what others could not; attempting new challenges, and each they faced, excited, determined.
Then one found a different path. The three where broken. And, for a time, all was quiet. The remaining two saw others come and go. They found a new place. There they found strangers, at first, and slowly friendship grew.
The time came to make a choice. The friends, once only strangers, stood up for what they believed in.
And then there were five.
Bounded by trust, strengthened by respect, the five walked together, undaunted. What started as a glimmer with the three burned fiercely in the five; no challenge was too great, for their strength came from both within and from each other. They did it first, and they did it best. Word spread of the five, and others looked on in wonder, attempting the same. None came close.
After all this time, the memory of the five still shines brightly.
Released today, one of the first images from the new and improved Hubble. Good stuff.
Something else for lolz and ponderment..
Why 09/09/09 is So Special
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
"The father asked the son, 'where have you been?'
'Father, I have been to the Land Beyond Escape.'"
His eyes shone with intensity as he spoke of his dream. "I've seen a place, in my mind, that I've never been to, and yet each night I visit."
"There is an old legend I once heard..."
Then he spoke of a place in the desert, and within that place, it was told, is a lost treasure of great value. An old Spanish gold mine is said to still exist somewhere in the mountains. As the legend goes, a prospector found the gold, but took the location to his grave. Now called the lost Dutchman mine, many have ventured into the mountains seeking the prospector's treasure.
"The Superstition Mountains they call that place now," he said, "and I believe that is the place in my dream: the Land Beyond Escape."
"We will go," he said, "to settle my mind," and would speak no more about it.
"So we are treasure hunters now?" I laughed. "How will we succeed where others have failed?"
The same intensity again shone in his eyes. "Because I know where to look."
Scattered maps and countless miles later, we now approached the mountains. Occasionally a turn here, or a building there, was punctuated by a glimmer of a memory from his dreams. A hot, dry summer breeze swept by and whispered as it picked up dust from the landscape; barren, save the occasional Saguaro cactus. These tall and ancient desert inhabitants saw much and told little, silently watching over their desert home. We were just two of many visitors who had passed into their land.
Turning off the road, we sought out the quieter trinket shops and stands. While browsing the pottery and handmade dolls he would casually mention the legend of the mine to the shopkeeper. Usually he received a shrug or a suspicious eye; many tourists had come asking the same, and he was paid no more attention than the rest.
One small shop, as quiet and unassuming as the rest, stood alone with its back to the mountains. Build entirely of wood, it looked to be very old, and inside the air was hot and musty. Bits of colored rocks and large, polished slices of geodes littered the countertops, and the walls were covered with old framed photographs.
In the back, alone, sat a crusty old man with a sweat-stained shirt slowly wiping clean a glass case with a large nugget of gold displayed inside.
"Come for the mine, have you?" he said, responding to the question but not looking up. "I know where it is."
For hours we sat and listened to his stories; he told of the old legend, and all that he had ever heard in his years living by the mountains. Many years had passed since he stopped looking for the mine himself, he said, when the mine found him. He stood and pointed to a framed photograph on the wall above our heads.
"There she is: old Blue Bird." The yellowed photograph showed a group holding shovels and pickaxes, standing in front of a cave in the mountains, with a single wooden sign above their heads reading "Blue Bird Mine." The old Spanish gold, he said, was long since gone. He believed that it and the old Blue Bird mine were one and the same, and that all of its gold had long ago been mined.
"That doesn't keep people from looking," he said with a grin. "And here I am still, years later. Sometimes a place just won't let you go."
As we left the mountains, we stopped at a ranger's station and spoke with the man there. He asked if we had found what we were looking for, and when we smiled and told him yes, he offered us a small packet of Saguaro cactus seeds. We thanked him and began to leave, when he stopped us and said,
"Remember to bring those seeds back to the desert once they have sprouted. The spirits of the cactus have always been here, and they always should be."
My companion promised he would return.
Back home, far from the desert, we planted the seeds, and in our window they sprouted and grew. Years later, he visited the ranger station and returned the desert spirits to their home as he promised. The cacti were planted just outside the station, he told me, with a small sign bearing our names.
Many years have passed. Today, I look out at the same mountains and remember. I call this place home now, just miles from where our little desert spirits are planted. And yet I have not been to see them. I wait.
Perhaps, one day, we will meet again. Perhaps that day we may walk together through the Land Beyond Escape and visit the garden planted in our name.
'Father, I have been to the Land Beyond Escape.'"
His eyes shone with intensity as he spoke of his dream. "I've seen a place, in my mind, that I've never been to, and yet each night I visit."
"There is an old legend I once heard..."
Then he spoke of a place in the desert, and within that place, it was told, is a lost treasure of great value. An old Spanish gold mine is said to still exist somewhere in the mountains. As the legend goes, a prospector found the gold, but took the location to his grave. Now called the lost Dutchman mine, many have ventured into the mountains seeking the prospector's treasure.
"The Superstition Mountains they call that place now," he said, "and I believe that is the place in my dream: the Land Beyond Escape."
"We will go," he said, "to settle my mind," and would speak no more about it.
"So we are treasure hunters now?" I laughed. "How will we succeed where others have failed?"
The same intensity again shone in his eyes. "Because I know where to look."
Scattered maps and countless miles later, we now approached the mountains. Occasionally a turn here, or a building there, was punctuated by a glimmer of a memory from his dreams. A hot, dry summer breeze swept by and whispered as it picked up dust from the landscape; barren, save the occasional Saguaro cactus. These tall and ancient desert inhabitants saw much and told little, silently watching over their desert home. We were just two of many visitors who had passed into their land.
Turning off the road, we sought out the quieter trinket shops and stands. While browsing the pottery and handmade dolls he would casually mention the legend of the mine to the shopkeeper. Usually he received a shrug or a suspicious eye; many tourists had come asking the same, and he was paid no more attention than the rest.
One small shop, as quiet and unassuming as the rest, stood alone with its back to the mountains. Build entirely of wood, it looked to be very old, and inside the air was hot and musty. Bits of colored rocks and large, polished slices of geodes littered the countertops, and the walls were covered with old framed photographs.
In the back, alone, sat a crusty old man with a sweat-stained shirt slowly wiping clean a glass case with a large nugget of gold displayed inside.
"Come for the mine, have you?" he said, responding to the question but not looking up. "I know where it is."
For hours we sat and listened to his stories; he told of the old legend, and all that he had ever heard in his years living by the mountains. Many years had passed since he stopped looking for the mine himself, he said, when the mine found him. He stood and pointed to a framed photograph on the wall above our heads.
"There she is: old Blue Bird." The yellowed photograph showed a group holding shovels and pickaxes, standing in front of a cave in the mountains, with a single wooden sign above their heads reading "Blue Bird Mine." The old Spanish gold, he said, was long since gone. He believed that it and the old Blue Bird mine were one and the same, and that all of its gold had long ago been mined.
"That doesn't keep people from looking," he said with a grin. "And here I am still, years later. Sometimes a place just won't let you go."
As we left the mountains, we stopped at a ranger's station and spoke with the man there. He asked if we had found what we were looking for, and when we smiled and told him yes, he offered us a small packet of Saguaro cactus seeds. We thanked him and began to leave, when he stopped us and said,
"Remember to bring those seeds back to the desert once they have sprouted. The spirits of the cactus have always been here, and they always should be."
My companion promised he would return.
Back home, far from the desert, we planted the seeds, and in our window they sprouted and grew. Years later, he visited the ranger station and returned the desert spirits to their home as he promised. The cacti were planted just outside the station, he told me, with a small sign bearing our names.
Many years have passed. Today, I look out at the same mountains and remember. I call this place home now, just miles from where our little desert spirits are planted. And yet I have not been to see them. I wait.
Perhaps, one day, we will meet again. Perhaps that day we may walk together through the Land Beyond Escape and visit the garden planted in our name.
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