Surge Protector

WIP

2012-01-13T13:38:00.000-08:00

More updates:

Projects

2012-01-12T23:03:00.001-08:00

I finally learned how to use Photoshop brushes. Don't judge, it wasn't until recently that I had an Intuos4 tablet, either. Here are some samples of projects in the works. The second is a sketch of an idea I had. Think snowy evening. The first is a snippet of a project that I will be talking about at length. Yet another one of my all-too-frequent 'what not to do' segments. But now I am doing something right, I think. Hope you like them!

New blogs

2011-10-12T13:48:00.000-07:00

I have decided to break up my interests into multiple blogs. This will help streamline the content that each blog provides.

This blog will continue to be my main art blog. I'll share news of my artwork and new projects. My other blogs will be devoted to writing and ranting, respectively.

The rant blog is called Poor Drawings, and the goal is a weekly update at least of crap that I am dealing with or stories from my past that I want to illustrate humorously. I don't have a lack of potential content...

My writing blog isn't established yet, but I am working on a novel. While I hate to promise something that won't happen, I have the goal of doing illustrations for it chapter by chapter. Once I get far enough ahead with that project to be able to post on a regular basis, then I'll usher you over there.

I have five paintings that are in various stages of planning and finish, and while I can't show you one of them, the others you will probably get sick of, I'll show you so many pictures. :)

Father Son Show: Life Imitates Art

2011-10-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

This Friday, my dad Gary and I had our joint art exhibition. It happened just a day before a big Open House at the Mill, so we went back the next day to enjoy the other festivities. I had a really awesome time, and I want to thank the gracious Bear's Mill for hosting us, as well as all the people who came out to support us. It is a gorgeous venue. Thank you all! I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Father Son Show

2011-09-24T22:29:00.000-07:00

Remember all that talk about a show I have coming up? I just got the flyer in my e-mail. Ooh, la, la.

This is a really exciting show for me. My dad and I have always connected through art (and general manliness), and while our media couldn't be more different, we go about our work in similar ways: i.e. we always let Mom give it the seal of approval.

This is the first time that I will have a specific show that I am featured in, and it is the first of many that my dad and I are taking part in. If you aren't in Ohio, show up anyways, and if you are in Ohio, you've no excuse. Just drive there. Or ride horseback, it doesn't matter.

I lied, it does matter. It would be super awesome if you rode horseback.

EDIT: Silly me, how are you supposed to get there if you don't have the address? Now that I am putting this up, I fully expect everyone and their mother to show up.

Visit Bear's Mill
Hours
January through March
Thursday 11-5, Friday 11-5, Saturday 9-5, Sunday 11-5
April through November
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday: 11-5
Saturday: 9-5, Sunday: 11-5
December
Open every day except Christmas: 11-5

Bear's Mill address:
6450 Arcanum-Bear's Mill Road
Greenville, Ohio 45331
937 548 5112
www.bearsmill.com

Cowboy part 3: the final resurrection

2011-09-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

Before I show you the shiny finished product, let us take another look at where it was before.

Shudder. This painting took the downright scenic path to completion. And for an entire year, it spent it's middling existence being 'sort of' finished. So once I started working on it, I decided to make a little change and ended up painting the entire canvas over again.

Am I happy I did? Oh yes.

Is it a better painting? Ten times better.

Would I do it again? I think next time I'll work on a clearer image before executing the final.

Am I going to paint over all of my old paintings now? Of course. Scarlet Letter, your number is up.

Just kidding.

End of a legend

2011-09-22T16:42:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what I'm calling this piece just yet, but the title is one option... I am also throwing around Sheriff Wilhelm and Live by the Gun. None of them is turning me on yet. If you have a suggestion, I'd love you hear it! I know you read that sentence and thought, well, sure, someone, but not me. Yes, you.

When trying to figure out how to fix my painting, I knew that I couldn't be tentative. But painting right into the canvas without careful planning would be worse that fixing it in the first place. That's where, in this age of computers, Photoshop is a life saver.
Yes, it looks absolutely silly. But in about ten minutes flat I can get a working idea of what would usually take six to ten hours to do. I even used this photo to judge size and distance from other parts of the painting. I wasn't painting randomly, hoping my sizes where correct. I would look at the canvas and say, OK, the hand is this far from the edge, and the pinky is this far from the shirt, et cetera. It made huge changes of little consequence.

I took progress shots pretty much every time I came up for air on this project. Enjoy.
I almost tried to call it done here, but I knew there was something hiding from me. The sky wasn't finished yet.

I also realized that his arm still looked awkward. I went back to the drawing board and shot reference one more time, and added it into my frankenstien photoshop monster. Then I executed it:

I still have to go back into the hair and add just a touch or two of detail, and I have to paint over the forearm to give it a little bit more dimension. Otherwise, anything else I do to the piece is polish. If all goes according to plan, tomorrow you'll get to see the final product, signature and all. Thanks for looking!

If you give a moose a cookie...

2011-09-20T01:32:00.000-07:00

It is a dangerous thing to paint on old paintings. Most times, if they didn't get finished, I set them aside for so long that they become 'too old.' That is to say, I've learned enough about paint handling and composition that any new paint I put on it would be obviously better. This happened just recently.

My Cowboy Carrion piece, an early jewel in my collection, had a long-planned companion. About a year ago, I began painting on this guy.

I have a show coming up with my dad, and for the show, I wanted to finally get this cowboy done so I could put both of them up. According to my calculations, all I had to do was paint in the pants.

My calculations were wrong.

When you give a moose a cookie, he's going to want some milk. If you give him some milk, he'll want a napkin. So on and so forth, until he either charges you in sexual frustration to gore you with his awkward antlers, or you shoot him. The same goes for this painting. Minus the awkward antler goring. Maybe still with the sexual frustration.

I finished the pants in two hours flat. But then the rest of the painting looked faded, because I was better at painting contrast than I was a year ago. So I painted over the rest of the painting just as it was, except I darkened everything. But then asked for a damn glass of milk.

See what I did there? The first cowboy has the bullet going straight through the composition. I decided to do the same for this cowboy. But with a bullet going straight through him, his pose looked awkward with both hands in front of him. So I made his pose more awkward by breaking his arm and putting it behind him.

I was stuck between the pose I wanted him to have and the pose I had painted a year ago. At this point I could do one of two things. A: I could paint the other hand back and call it quits. B: I could paint an entirely new pose that fit with my mind picture of a better composition. I really, really wanted to be lazy and do 'A.'

But the more I stared at it, the more I knew it had to change. I wasn't about to have my most recent painting be, for all intents and purposes, a failure in my own eyes. I first tried painting part of his shoulder away, so that he looked like he was twisting. When I did that, it worked a little better. But something was off.

I pondered the problems of my painting while I ate cereal in my living room. Then it occured to me. I set down the cereal, stood up, and did my best 'getting shot in the back' impersonation. I tried to fling my arms into the same pose as the painting and react from the impact of the bullet. It was very method.

So I put both my arms out, and flung my head back. No, that wasn't right. Shoot me again, imagination. I flung both my arms out, and threw my head back. Dammit! I tried one more time, this time I was determined to make it work. I swung my body around, arms flailing, and tucked my chin like I had it in the painting. Ow. Not only was it painful to do deliberately, it was against the laws of physics if I was really being propelled by a bullet.

So I stewed and whined and acted like I wasn't going to do anything else to my painting. Then I shot reference and pretty much destroyed everything I had done up to that point.

Beautiful, I know. At this point in the game, it was more about making a new, worthy painting than it was about finishing an old one. There was no place for tentative changes here.

I worked quickly, keeping the panic at bay.

He isn't done yet, but he is finally on the road to recovery. This was one painting that really could have been thrown away. But I knew that beneath its mediocre mediocreness, a painting that I would be proud of was waiting. It took not being afraid to make big changes and having no tolerance for a product any less than the best I could come up with.

I know it looks like he is smiling and skipping, but the blood and an angle on his face that better captures his anguish should heartily quell that notion

This is essentially the same story as the Dark Pearl, with the same moral: plan ahead. Don't get 90% done and a year down the road on a painting before you figure out the solution to its woes. And also, never give a moose a freaking cookie.

November Mourning

2011-09-07T20:40:00.000-07:00

Ah, the changes. I sent my first version of this painting to an eagle eyed artist, who mentioned that either my scientist is the world's largest man, or the robot has a really tiny head.

I realized a relatively simple solution to my problem: make the army bigger. I also added snow. Which I hate. But you live some and you learn some. And then you never paint snow like that again. Ever. I'm pretty happy with it, though. He got his foot awfully close to the edge of that frame, didn't he?

What is Art?

2011-09-02T20:18:00.001-07:00

What is art? If you are a college student, you have heard this question. It could have been in philosophy class, which is much like Nascar but without a winner after all the driving in circles.

Perhaps you heard it at a party, if you were one of those people still awake in the kitchen after all the alcohol is gone and you try to talk about intellectual things to forget that you are sobering up. Well, maybe there's some Pabst left, but you're not that drunk anymore.

Maybe you had a studio class, and during breaks, the smokers in the class would walk outside in sub-zero temperatures and ask this question to feel smart about giving themselves cancer, pretending that a flipped collar and an American Spirit cigarette is all they need to stay warm on Planet Hoth.

If you were at art school, you heard this question at all these places. And everywhere in between. It was a question that defined your existence at art school. The question, mind you. Not the answer. Because the answer is a unicorn. The answer is the pot of gold in each rainbow. The answer doesn't exist.

Why not? Well let us try to define it, shall we? Art is an image.

Wrong, what about performance art? Art is an experience.

OK, is Transformer's 2 art? It is certainly an experience. Throwing up is an experience too. But neither of them is art.

We could go on like this all day. I will share with you a talk I had with my Critical Analysis of Art and Literature teacher:

It began as a field trip. We all went to the auditorium to hear a presentation by the art director for CCAD's galleries.

Among many post-modern offerings, there was one artist in particular who had done a number of works in other countries. One of this artist's pieces was a large concrete square built in the center of a town.

This marvelous sculpture inspired musical artists to perform on it and speeches to be held on it. Rallies would gather around his artwork, and it became a focal point for performance centered art. Wow, right?

Let us review. It's big, made out of concrete, in the shape of a square, and has people perform on it. That sounds a lot like a stage. I'm sorry, what I meant to type is: he built a stage.

For the artist's next piece, he was planning on coming to Columbus, OH to paint bike lanes. Not, like, colors in all flavors of the rainbow lanes. Just bike lanes. The kind that they pay construction workers to make. Usually that is called a public service. But no, this was art.

When we got back to class, we asked the question: What is art? If the bike lanes and the concrete stage are both considered art, then what else falls into this category? Is a playground art? No, says the teacher, goateed and bespectacled as he was.

Is the Ohio Theatre building art? No, again, comes the reply from the man sipping a tall mocha-chino-latte-salted-hopscotch-foursquare at the front of the classroom. What, then, classifies these projects as art?

"That an artist does them." The words ease out like cigarette smoke and fade into the silence. So if I, an artist by my own definition, dug a hole in the ground, would it be art? No. This time the answer is hesitant. His glasses fog with the effort of his thoughts.

What, then, makes something art? I ask, the whole class asking the same question (except for the kid in a torn jean jacket and floppy Chucks who almost certainly spends his days thinking thoughts so deep he craps ideas). The lips purse. The silver mustache bristles. "A signature from an artist."

So if I bought a hamburger bun at Kroger, I was an artist, and I signed it, it would be art. "Yes." If I scribbled on a napkin and signed it, it would be art (oops, Picasso did this). If I, as mayor, ordered that an on-ramp be made, and I called myself an artist, and I signed that on-ramp, would it be art? Stunningly, the reply was yes.

I think you all know which side of the bike lane I'm on. I've never been quiet about my disdain for the post-modern movement, and I did not and do not agree with the definition of artwork given to me by my teacher. Much of this probably comes from my illustration roots. But the fact (my opinion) remains, the definition of 'art,' especially 'fine art,' has been diluted beyond significance.

I want to hear the words 'fine art' and see the work of masters in their craft. Someone who has something to say and the skills to say it with. That isn't to say that post-modern artists don't have anything to say, or that they are bad at what they really do. If I walk into an art gallery full of holes in the walls and the message is in the hundreds of pages making that artist's thesis, he is a writer. Probably a good one. But he is bad at art.

I've heard it time and again, 'my gallery was meant to inspire conversation,' or 'the empty canvas is filled with the thoughts of the viewer.' Let me put this in capitals to be clear: YOU ARE THE ARTIST, YOU ARE THE ONE WHO SUPPOSEDLY HAS THE AWESOME INSPIRING IMAGES/PERFORMANCES. COMPANIES MAKE BLANK CANVASES EVERY DAY AND THEY ARE WRAPPED IN PLASTIC AND HAVE A STICKER THAT SAYS 14.95, NOT 14,950. THE IDEA THAT YOU ARE UNEDUCATED IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ARTWORK IS ELITIST AND LAZY. GET OVER YOURSELF, WRITE A BOOK, AND STOP PEDDLING YOUR ARTIST'S BLUFF. Breath now, relax.

I know, I used the dreaded word: craft. No other profession has been so successfully lampooned by over-educated egomaniac fart-sniffing paintbrush-diddlers as the art world. A plumber can fix my plumbing (as they are wont to do), and he can do this with varying degrees of craftsmanship. Of the best plumber in the world, it could be said that he is an artist in his field. But if plumbing were defined in the same, nebulous manner fine art is, he could have walked into my home, hammered nails into the pipes, told me that my face was a vagina and signed the front door.

Disclaimer: For anyone who might be outraged by my post, or even want to argue about it, it is meant to entertain and be humorous. Also, I am right on all points. Ever.

The Evolution of an Artist, Part Two

2011-08-30T21:41:00.000-07:00

Last time, I showed you my evolution as a dynamic painter. There were people flying, bikes crashing, colors flashing, and Abraham Lincoln wearing a codpiece. And we saw that I am still, and will always be, in the process. If I was one of the humans in the evolution poster, I'd be the slightly hunched one with lots of hair that you can't really get clear pictures of.

But as much fun as I have building complex perspectives, sometimes simple is best. The most simple and impactful image, in my mind, is a portrait.

They say a face is worth a thousand words. They don't say that? A picture is? But what about a picture of a face? Yeah, that's what I thought. Back to what I was saying: They say a picture is word a thousand worth, and I'm inclined to agree. Don't re-read that sentence, it didn't make sense. You did? Sigh.

It is difficult to capture a person with line, or in paint, and even harder to say something about that person as you do it. I'm not there yet, but I've come a long way. How long, you ask? Do I have a delicious morsel for you, sweet buttercup.

This is a self portrait from high school. I was so proud of this piece. Instead of drawing something that had the appearance of becoming three dimensional, I sculpted something and nailed it to my artwork!

M.C. Escher, I bested you at the age of 16, thought I. This artwork was accepted to the St. Mary's art show, which is a little town that our littler town orbits like a moon. At the show, I was practically beaming, strutting from one end of the floor to the other. The young artiste.

A man walked up to me and pointed at my work. "You did this?" He asked.

"Yes!"Puffed I, chest forward.

"Well I was just wondering why you ruined a perfectly lovely drawing by nailing a hand to it." He was the hellspawned rebirth of M.C. Escher, jealous of my pioneering ways.

I have no proof of this.

Sufficiently deflated, I resigned to doing portraits the old fashioned way, by making them look like faces.

Ooof. Well, mostly like faces. Let's try that again.

Ah, better. Sadly, I didn't have the means to build a hand to nail to this one. Both of these are from freshman year at CCAD. Yeah, that's how good I was at painting. I think last time I saw a face that scary it was bearing down on the Nazis at the end of Indiana Jones. Just look away. It pretty much saves you from the wrath of God.

Speaking of Nazis, is that a Hilter 'stache or a shadow under her nose? Spoiler: it's a shadow. I'm kinda getting the hang of this paint with color thing. Kinda. This is from sophomore year.

Ah, you can see the influence of my illustration training in this picture of a penis. Freud! I mean Freud! You can see here that I am really trying to figure out colors and form. At this point, everything is still exaggerated. Look at that red nose.

My senior year, I decided to draw myself again, except this time thirty years in the future. I guess this is technically a portrait of my dad, but really. Black and white is still my strong suit here, and you can see I am just not that comfortable with painting yet:

After senior year, I sat on my hands for a while, just to keep them warm. This didn't allow me to draw very much, but I did get this done one day.

It is amazing how clearly comfortable I am with the charcoal medium. But the more I paint, the better I become. My most recent portrait shows that maybe, one day, when I lose all the hair and start sitting up straight, campers will actually be able to take clear photos of me.

I still want a funnel cake.

The Evolution of an Artist

2011-08-29T15:33:00.000-07:00

One of the most rewarding things about being a visual artist is the most obvious: it is entirely clear when you gain knowledge and skill. To see your own visual language form and change and improve is really something that artists alone can enjoy. And maybe actors. Like Bruce Willis, because he is so versatile. Like, sometimes he's a cop, and sometimes he's an off-duty cop. But I digress.

Let me take you on a journey through highschool and into the present day, through artistic pitfalls and the ever changing labyrinth of personal expression. It's like A Christmas Carol, except it isn't.

Our story begins in highschool, where a corner-cutting David works in what he believes will be his medium of choice for all time: Colored Pencils.

Ah, the memories. I remember looking at all the rest of the paper above his arms and thinking, I have to color all of this!? Why bother, when you can cut it out and poorly collage some circus elements on top of it? I should have super-glued a funnel cake to it. Now I am hungry for funnel cakes...

The next evolution of my perspectiveyness is from sophomore year of college. Roll it.

This is actually a fair representation of my dorm room. Well, not the violent paintsplosion as much as the completely barren walls. At least I didn't glue popcorn to this one.

Ah oils, I meet thee at last. What is that thing in the background though? Oh, that would be a boy made out of Playdoh!. It's a good thing I covered up his redshort nether regions tastefully with the strap of a bike helmet. Better yet, would you like to see Abraham Lincoln?

I am missing something. Can you tell what it is? No, it isn't Mercutio in drag. It is REFERENCE. You can sincerely tell the moment I start using photo reference to inform my paintings. It happens right about here:

You should see how many pictures I took. Too many. There, I answered your nonquestion. But here, finally, I am beginning to see the level of skill I need to finish out my ideas. Bring it home, Pillow King.

One of the weirdest things, for me, is to see each piece and remember what it was like to feel like it was the best piece I had ever done. And at the time, it was. Five years down the road I'll be saying the same thing for the Pillow King. But look at the similarities! You can see aspects of every painting done previously in the last piece. In fact, I've almost made a full circle back to my Trapeze work, with bold colors and flying figures. She's almost wearing the same damn shirt! I should have glued a funnel cake to it. Man, I am hungry.

The Veil

2011-08-28T18:12:00.001-07:00

We will never have flying cars for personal use. Of all the things we might have in the future: cyborgs, space exploration, a penchant for ridiculous fashion, we will never have flying cars. It isn't impossible to invent. It is impossible to make it safe.

We can't really have thinking robots either. Let's face it, people, it just takes one loose wire, overly logical computing assessment, or Will Smith before they go haywire. I mean, this robot chick looks nice. She's giving us some kind of weird look, but it's friendly enough.

I painted her in oils on illustration board. She's 16x19. But like I said, just one solar flare later she's opening air locks and flooding the enrichment center with a deadly neurotoxin.

Nebulous Future

2011-08-27T23:23:00.000-07:00

I am the art version of Mr. Rodgers. How say you, David? You do not have a special garden filled with puppets, or a train that runs through your living room. You don't have a special bond with the mail man and tour the box factory on a regular basis. I don't even know if I want you to be my neighbor.

Alright, all of those are valid points, even if they're a little harsh. But I do one thing just as he does. When I get serious about work, I change clothes. I don't change my sweater though, mind you. I change pants. No, I do not have another, similar pair of pants under my pair of pants that I cover up again with a new pair of pants. I wear paint pants.

They aren't my favorite pair, but my mom loves them almost as much as she likes my unkempt facial hair, so I try to wear both whenever she is around.

I am not a messy painter. But sometimes, as Mr. Rodgers knows, a man has to get serious. This is my first time painting a nebula, but it actually went pretty smoothly, outside of me having to wipe a bunch of paint away and start from scratch(I only did that once, so I am declaring it a victory). It was a daunting task, and one that I had help with. Mr. Donato Giancola unknowingly assisted my ignorance in the ways of space-dust. The link is the trailer for an amazing tutorial. Without further ado, here is the painted piece.

She probably has a few more hours of touch ups and highlight balance. I will probably go back into the wiring below her and do something a little less nebulous. Bah ha. Well at least the subject of this piece isn't 'veiled.' The nebula I chose to put behind her was the Western Veiled Nebula. It's funny. That I said veiled.

Well at least someone got it.

Decision time!

2011-08-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

I have two digital comps that will help me decide where to take my painting next. They are fairly good looking on their own, though, so I thought I would offer the illusion of choice. Which is to say, I've made up my mind, but I'd like to see what you guys think. Should I paint A?:

Should I finish it out in the style of B?:

Or really make it the best painting EVAR with C?:

Or my own fanboy creation?

Almost there

2011-08-25T16:16:00.000-07:00

Well you must be getting tired of this piece by now. But, thanks to the lack of a job (for the moment) and my realization that I need to have a much higher output of artwork, here she is nearly complete, almost a week from inception. She's just shy of 16x20. Anyone who decides to take a gander, feel free to make suggestions for the background. I am planning on keeping it very simple, but that doesn't mean I couldn't put a subtle gradient back there. Hmm?

Every day

2011-08-24T16:36:00.000-07:00

She'll be ready by the end of the week. Hope you like it so far!

Old Paintings, new awards

2011-08-23T08:12:00.000-07:00

This is the second art show in as many months that I've entered one old painting and one new painting, and the older painting won a prize! I entered the robot piece, "November Mourning," which I have since changed (updated pic on the way) and my cowboy piece, "Cowboy Carrion." My best 'Tragic John Wayne' impression netted first place overall, and my robot piece got nothing. Perhaps I will call it "November Neglected." I also got (finally) a clear-ish picture of the "Dark Pearl." As if you hadn't seen enough of this painting. Still, I think this photo finally starts to do it justice. Thanks Parents!

Also, Future Girl update:

Busy Bee

2011-08-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

I have gifts for you today! Everyone look under your chair! Now look back at the screen. Let's pretend you weren't already looking at the screen before you read that last message. Now look at all the pretty progress pics I have! First off, I have the 1980's love-child of Madonna and Molly Ringwold:

I know I've said that every painting goes through an ugly stage, but this is more of a 'kill it with fire' stage.

I tapped into my inner Breakfast Club, and dance-montaged my painting away. At the end of the three minutes and thirty-eight seconds it took for "We Are Not Alone" to finish wailing, I had gotten this much done:

It is amazing what you can do when you set down the paints and dance. I call her "Girl with the Pearl Eye."

I liked the creepy way her milky eye stared into my soul, but my sister (the gracious model) came in and told me to finish it. I resisted, but she dragged me into her office and told me I was a punk and dared me to hit her. So I got back to work.

I was going to finish here, but something felt off. I needed to have an emotional outpouring and fall for the innocent prudish girl. Which is painter-code speak for 'do the hair.'

And that ends my first day of painting on 'Future Girl,' also known as, 'The Painting I Will Re-name Because Future Girl is Dumb.' After a good six hours and the realization that prudish girls put out too, I put on my leather gloves and headed to the nearest football field for some hardcore freeze-frame fist pumping.

New paintings

2011-08-18T18:41:00.001-07:00

Hokay, so. After moving to another state, I am back in business. First off, I have progress on a new painting comission:

It is kind of confidential, so this will have to do for now.

Lately I've been in a rut. I am surrounded by so many unfinished paintings that have just 'this much' to do before they are finished. I am at all times obsessed with trying to produce sale-able gallery work that can fit into my illustration portfolio. So I nay-say this, I poo-poo that, but in the name of keeping my artistic integrity, I have limited my output both painting and creative wise.

Who cares how socially relevant a dude with a jet pack punching some sorry alien is? It looks cool, and it works great for an AD. I keep telling myself that, and then doing something else. Ha. So this is the latest in my series of paintings I feel fit all the criteria. After this painting maybe I'll do my best 'spaceman punch' piece.

I want SIMPLE. Just a really nice portrait with a hint of science fiction. This will be my final entry into the joint show I am doing with my dad, Gary Hovey, at Bears Mill.

Sold!

2011-07-08T00:09:00.000-07:00

Hey! This happened at the end of last month, but I might as well share the excitement in all of my online spheres: I sold a painting! You know what they say, if you love something, sell it. And I did just that! Goodbye, precious. I hope your new owner treats you as well as I did. Well, actually I didn't have space for you so I stuck you in the corner with all the other paintings. You are probably actually a lot better off...

P.S. This painting also netted me first place in Oils at a local art show.

At long last! Until I inevitably give it another pass...

2011-07-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

Here is my latest. I mentioned in an earlier post that planning can make everything easier, and that is forever true. Here is a painting that is much more complicated in every way, and at least twice as detailed, but it did not take nearly as much time. This is primarily because I made sure that I knew, with every step, that I was on the right track. I don't have an image of the line drawing, but here's the value study:

Followed by a mid-progress shot:

And finally, the end result:

It is interesting to note how very different the progress shots of the Dark Pearl look from each other, while this as-yet-untitled work just gets color!

Details:

Remember that crappy digital painting? It is marginally better now!

2011-06-27T21:45:00.001-07:00

This is what happens when you give 2 more hours and fresh eyes to something you thought would be better off dead. It's still not up to par with my traditional stuff, but it is certainly fresher! Practice makes perfect...

What not to do.

2011-06-26T12:18:00.001-07:00

My new painting isn't finished yet, but already I can feel the difference. What difference, David? Let me answer my own question from the third person. The last big painting I worked on, "The Dark Pearl" was, bluntly, a nightmare. I had a really quick color/value comp that I liked, and when I transferred her from 8x10 to 36x48, things got complicated quickly.

Mistake number one: I didn't pay enough attention to my initial sketch. The reason I liked the color study so much was the flow I had established. See how the helmet rests below her? The shift of their levels helps balance the piece and keep it from becoming stagnate. All of the angles in this quick little study play off of each other in a very kinetic way:

Mistake number two: I didn't check and double check the drawing. I drew a draft and got to painting, too excited to slow down and check my accuracy or the appearance. Look at this crap of a drawing. Yeah, I let that slide.

Mistake number three: I lost sight of my goal. Again, I didn't go back to the mini-blueprint that I loved. I got lost in the painting, trying to figure out little backgrounds and details everywhere. I couldn't see the paint for all of the brushstrokes. So I started painting in a submarine and a sunken ship and all the little things I could think of OTHER THAN the subject. This caused me to have to repaint over the entire painting at least twice.

What I should have done is make a plan and stick to it. Not only that, but have the patience to see every step out to the inth degree. This takes more time per step, but saves time in the long run. So that I don't have to take my painting from this:

To this:

Over the course of three paint overs and ninety angry hours. Look at the anger.

Compare the vast differences between progress shots to my newest project in my upcoming post. Planning is key. Sticking to that plan is key to keeping a key plan in play.

NEW PROJECT!!!

2011-06-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

This is the newest piece I am working on. Just pics for now, I will do a wee write up soon!

Spec work

2011-05-26T01:08:00.000-07:00

Well I gave my digital hand a try. Not exactly my forte, but I want to show that I am alive. So.

Projects

2011-05-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

Now when I want to know what I am working on, I just look at my blog!!

In progress:

The Corridor(Mentorship)

Frankenstein Done!

Portrait Done!

Cowboy 2(Personal)

Internet Explorer(Personal)

Gladiators Done!

Not started:

Fahrenheit 451(Personal)

I-addict(Personal)

Landscape(Commission)

Dead in the water:

Ewoyn Piece(Contest)

Imuse(Personal)

Post 200!!

2011-05-02T19:32:00.000-07:00

Did this alooong time ago. Like, months, if not weeks. Yeah, I know, right? It was for a challenge, but I didn't get it in on time. But I kinda like it's funky feel still, so here she is for your viewing pleasure.

Lots going on

2011-04-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

Too much to say. Personally, artistically, and everywhere in between. Hope you're still listening. I have a new project cooking for a challenge, I have progress on my mentorship painting, (poor thing has been so neglected) and I have some portraits that I might let you see. Until then, here's a sketch of that challenge.

Foot prints

2011-03-15T13:41:00.000-07:00

Just recently, I was interviewed for a custom framing position. It was a frame shop like frame shops should be, jazzy, artsy, and very nice. To be considered for the interview, I gave them my resume, which had my website and my blog. My website, sadly, is down right now. But imagine my surprise when I was greeted with print-offs of my blog during the interview. That was not the only surprise.

This employer had done his research, and during my interview it came out that he and the other framers got a good laugh out of my Myspace photo. "Myspace?" said I. My "space" had not been touched for the larger part of three years, if not more. "Yeah, the picture of you by the fountain."

It took me about thirty seconds. Fountain. Standing. Photo. An image of me leaning back, face relaxed, crotch lined up directly with the water... Oh. That photo. 19 year old David acting like the water was really a giant piss stream. Ha. Ha.

At that point in Washington D.C. more than four years ago I would have never guessed that this moment of silliness would go beyond my close friends. But here I was, in a cozy little office, star struck by the work opportunity I was trying for, being visited by David of Pissmas past.

Many of the stories I write have to do with the intangibility of technology, and the effects it has on our social habits. In reality, the internet is much more tangible than one might think.

A footprint I left years ago is still there, still viewable, and still being viewed. It could have been worse.

This incident was a great reminder to me. On the internet, even more than in reality, what you do is who you are. You are only as good as your worst post. I'm just glad mine was fairly innocent and forgivable.

In a digital age where memory is endless and knowledge is power, every footprint is embedded in stone. Watch your step.

The Dark Pearl

2011-01-28T14:59:00.001-08:00

The Dark Pearl. That is what I have come to name my first entry into Spectrum. I spent long nights painting, sent e-mails asking for critiques, and even barely finished at the last minute, printing and sending my submission at 4:45 from the Post Office. Whew.

Unless specifically for a gallery, I will not do another piece this large for a long time methinks. It is an insane challenge to photograph and put together digitally, and even now I am unhappy with certain inconsistencies compared to the actual image.

Tell me what you think, good and bad. On to the next thing!

Octo-lady

2011-01-20T08:14:00.000-08:00

Okay so I have had this lady sitting around my apartment for about a week or two now, and I've looked at her enough times to accept that she is close enough to finish. I might put some more octopus skin texture on her lower half/tentacles, but outside of that I am calling it finished. And I am generally very happy with her. Oils, 36x48" I also wrote up a short poem inspired by (and honestly aped from) Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven." I may redo the poem however, as it sounds perhaps a little too Poe-y.

I will not stir sweet creature, although I tremble at your leisure
Until you wake and find your place beside me I’ll not roam.
I’ll be waiting, whispering, wanting, for every purpose haunting
Though the task is daunting, I am yours, and we are home.
So slumber, tired traveler, you have found at last a home.
Together, we forever, underneath the ocean foam.

Aye, in the distance creeping, can you see the steel whale reaping?
He is seeking you, a fugitive from his dimly glowing dome
But I will keep your secret from his pawing prying regret
He who sent you hell bent from your former warmer home
Denied you were but now, my love, you’ve found another home
Together, we forever, underneath the ocean foam.

The darkness was much darker, despair my constant marker,
And in all the massive ocean my world was smaller when alone.
Here you’ve come at last, like a specter from my past
My heart is beating fast as I dream the future of our home
We’ll forge our lives anew among the currents were we’ll roam
Together, we forever, underneath the ocean foam.

Long month

2010-12-27T19:42:00.001-08:00

Mayhaps you noticed my absence. Mayhaps you didn't. There are a lot of blogs to follow, and so little time...

Regardless, I return. Tired, but determined. I have accompanied my girlfriend on an extended hospital stay, participated in the student art sale, and survived the holidays (so far).

I blew two of my self-appointed deadlines (artorder and the frazetta tribute) and still haven't gotten much of anything off the ground. But I painted tonight. And it was most satisfying. My little squid girl has been lonely as of late, what with my distractions and side projects. Here she be, closer yet to being haply finished. Sorry for the poor picture quality.

New style

2010-12-07T11:33:00.000-08:00

So I'm about to try a series of work in a new-ish style so that I could be more approachable from an editorial standpoint. So I am incorporating much more of my drawing and trying my hand digitally for a cleaner, less painterly feel. This is one of my pieces in progress, a cropped image from the original named, "Internet Explorer." As soon as I can, I'll have the helmet looking more like a space helmet and less like a weird halo. Any critiques? Suggestions? Do you like the new direction?

Awesome sauce.

2010-11-15T07:30:00.000-08:00

This weekend I went to the first art convention I've ever been to. It. Was. Awesome.

Being able to see the originals of paintings that I've looked at on the internet for ages was a real treat. Seeing the strokes, the little colors, and then turning to the side and being able to talk to the artist him or herself was truly inspiring. Not every day do you get to show Dan Dos Santos your portfolio or ask Donato Giancola about his skin tone colors.

I shook every hand I could, I asked every question I could, even the stupid ones, and even though I was star-struck and awkward, it was great learning to push past that. I got a lot and a lot of great insight and input, and a surprisingly positive response to my portfolio. I even got to sit in the hot tub with Lars Grant West and drink alongside Dos Santos and Patrick Jones, to name a few. Yeah, I sound like a fan-boy. I am. So be it.

One of the scariest encounters was with Jon Schindehette, who in real life is super, super nice, and also very muscled. Of course it was all my nervousness, and it was awesome to talk to him, but man-o, I'm glad I brought my antiperspirant.

Other standouts were Scott Altman, who is ridiculously nice, Ryan Pancoast, someone who I think is well on his way to pure awesome, and again, Lars, who was really nice and informative to talk to. Eric Fortune really gave me some detailed insight into my work, and Dan Dos Santos had some great tips on surface texture with my work. I could keep listing names and blubbering happily, but rest assured, I am happy to be broke, after all I gained from this trip.

Paintings and opportunities

2010-10-28T15:20:00.000-07:00

Here's a fantasy piece I've been working on for the upcoming Illuxcon. I don't have very many fantasy pieces, oddly enough. That is soon to be rectified. At Illuxcon, I have signed up for a portfolio review with the ever-informational Jon Schindehette, Creative Art Director at Wizards of the Coast.

I love fantasy, and I love science fiction, but I have never really felt comfortable building fantasy paintings in the LOTR era. I feel like it is cliche, and I never want to be seen as a painter of cliches. That said, I am trying to make this piece straddle a fine line. Not shown here is the atmosphere and the 'magic.' Our old wizard foreground is firing lightning at the British coat and tie style magician in the middle-ground, who is deflecting the shot into the street lamp behind him.

The story is as simple as it gets: wizard fight. I thought of a young, proud generation of wizards working to topple the old order, as brash and bold as they are powerful and impatient. Unafraid, even, of picking a fight in the middle of the street in the early morning fog. The buildings and our character in the middle-ground will all be very affected by the short draw distance and smothering effect of the fog.

Speaking of Jon Schindehette, I have very exciting news. Recently he posted on his blog, ArtOrder, that he was looking to mentor someone. He asked all of those interested to submit five pieces of art and a write-up stating why we would be a good mentee and why we want to be one. Well, I had to jump at that.

Even more recently he announced that five of the artists (out of however many) were standouts for his particular help, and that he would be asking each if they wanted him to be their mentor. And I was one of them! This all happened about two weeks ago, and initially I was hesitant to mention this opportunity, as I was unsure whether, of the five, he would continue to narrow it down. I still don't know if he is helping with everyone on the list, but he is helping with me. So, hurray!

Another happy point of news: I may be getting an in-house position at an Ad agency working on photography layout sketches, a sort of blueprint for all of their mailer work for big clients. I had an interview with them on Monday, and they will be sending me a 'test' next week to see how I do. Working on actual illustration would be much more of a fit than working in Joann as a day job, methinks.

That's not all, either! But that's all I'm going to tell you about for now, ha. Illuxcon is coming very soon and, outside of helping my dad build a shop for his work and making money in Joann, I have dropped everything so I can focus on painting and making my portfolio shine. It is a very important weekend for me, and I've been setting up for months now.

Big things are in store! Being patient is even harder now that I am waiting on actual things, but it is easier, too, because at least I know there is a light at the end of this tunnel.

I shot the sheriff. Once a week 6

2010-10-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

I don't want to be seen as a western painter. So maybe I should stop painting westerns. They are a great test, though. It's like taking an aptitude test every year, seeing what I've learned and, even, what I did better in the last one. This is a little study that, once all my other work is done, and there is thankfully a lot of it right now, will probably go to finish and stand beside the other cowboys.

I will also give a shout-out to Jake Murray, his mention of the Zorn palette influenced much of what I did to this piece. Another blog of note, if anyone who follows me does not already follow them, is Muddy Colors. Donato's post today made me laugh, as it is specifically why I think this piece works well: a limited greenish palette for the skin that looks warm when set next to the ultramarine I put liberally in the background.

8x10, oil, approx. 2 hours

Interview time

2010-10-25T11:09:00.001-07:00

I'll be back later, pray for me!

I have a habit of...

2010-10-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

Posting right before a post saying that I'm about to post. I guess it's just my way of letting the world know I haven't forgotten about artwork. There are alot of exciting, exciting things underway for me in the next few weeks (regardless of my little rant earlier) so it has been a busy time for me, working in little fits and starts on multiple pieces not worthy of showing. But by early November I hope to have five new paintings. Two of them you have seen progress on, but three others will be wonderful little surprises to fill in some gaps in my portfolio. So yeah, I'll post soon. See you then.

The life-cycle of a painting

2010-10-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

A painting has a life-cycle like any thing else. I know, I just blew your mind. But let's move beyond the painfully obvious and discuss the one step that all artists know is coming, and dread it. The teenage stage.

At some point after all the sketches and the color studies and the initial lay-in, your painting is old enough to develop a personality its own. Like any young one, your painting will make mistakes on the road to success. This is not all its fault, really, because growing pains are just that. Painful.

Like a teenager, it becomes unsightly, base coat colors in place of pimples, structure loss and color issues in place of awkward proportions. Like any parent who loved the younger, more cooperative painting, you may feel like giving up on it. But like any parent worth their salt, that is exactly the time that you must have patience. Some paintings may rebel a little too much, being angry and ignorant, and those paintings may need a stronger guiding hand.

The real strategy to dealing with a teenage painting is breathing. I recommend breathing at all times, but when especially frustrated with a muddy face or an offensive background, you must breath. Set the paintbrush down, think about happy trees and afros. Don't make your Rockwell into a Pollock with rash, angry brushstrokes.

My entire goal when painting, outside of making a flippin' sweet painting, is to get past the teenage stage as quickly as possible. At some point you will hate your painting and want to give up on it, almost every time. There are three things you can do to alleviate this pressure and bring your teenager into a respectable adult without your painting screaming "I hate you" and slamming doors.

The first thing I do is realize that my painting is in the teenage stage. At some point during painting, I can feel frustration building. It may not even be noticeable initially. You may feel antsy, like you want to stand up and walk around, like an itch in your mind. This is the teenage stage. Don't get up now, because if you do, you'll look at your painting after pacing and realize that it isn't the same young project you used to know and love.

Realize the beginning of this stage and stick it through. This brings me to the second step: continue according to plan. I really wanted to add some red into this hand once I got done with the sky, but now the sky is all crappy and I just want to start over (insert clenching fists here). Wrong move. You're done with the sky now. What was it you were going to do next? Put red into the hand. Be the mature one, and go about your painting as if nothing is going wrong. Inanimate objects always win an argument.

Finally, like I said before, breath. This isn't just a big long sigh with some temple rubbing, this is a very pro-active break. What do you mean by that? you ask. First off, don't interrupt. Secondly, I mean that when you look at your painting (set the brush down, Wild Bill) it may take considerable effort to remember how it looked in your mind's eye. Look at your painting, really assess it. Is that color right? No, but it's an OK undercoat.

Maybe certain parts of your painting do need scrubbed out. I realized just recently that the underdrawing for one of my paintings was inaccurate. I had to paint over several parts that I really liked. But if I let fear of never getting just that right brushstroke again keep me from correcting foundational errors, then I would have one beautifully flawed piece of work. My painting would never grow out of its teenage stage, and spend the rest of its days on the couch drinking 2-liters and playing video games in my basement.

So look at your painting in an honest critical and positive light. Again with the seeming oxymoron. You point out what is wrong, you look for what is broken, but after that, you look for how to fix it. And make sure to realize what is working well. Build a plan of attack that builds on what is already on the canvas, and be methodical about it. When you know what you're going to do, go back to step two. Carrying out this plan will have you antsy and unsure, and it's all about sticking to the plan.

There are no-hope paintings. If it's for a commission, disown it after you're done. If it's for you, I don't blame you for whatever happens. I have a few nice cowboy paintings that used to be orcs... And sometimes a painting will all fit together. The teenage stage takes half an hour before it's through, and somehow you never had to deal with that sinking feeling. Great! But for all those other times, keep this in mind. Hopefully your next rebellious painting won't have a life-cycle that ends on the pyre.

2010-10-18T13:49:00.000-07:00

I have been complacent for far too long. For over a year now, I have worked at Joann, making little over minimum wage. And when I started working there, I thought, why, this is only temporary, I should have a new job by the winter. When winter rolled around, I was still working in Joann. When spring rolled around, I thought, why, I'll have a new job by summer, certainly. And I did nothing to change it. I waited around on my butt hoping that someone would contact me, that someone would just chance by my website or my blog and hand me money and a fast track to the top.

Lack of funds was my excuse, I can't pay to market myself. But I am very quickly (or, perhaps, slowly) realizing that I can't afford not to market myself. Unless I would like to continue to work at Joann. Don't get me wrong, working in a frame shop is aloooot better than 70% of the jobs I could be working. But it isn't what I spent four years and untold monies on learning.

At Joann, near the frame shop, they sell posters. These posters have inspirational phrases like 'live, pray, love,' and 'don't give up on your dreams,' or, just simply, 'dream.' Each of these are accompanied by images of clouds and islands and rolling waves. Each of these are printed on thin paper and mounted to cardboard, so that they can be put into the cheap plastic frames in the next aisle over. Each of these frames are then taken from the store and put into offices without windows, cubicles plastered with sticky-notes, and bathrooms with sinks surrounded by seashells and assorted face soaps.

These posters are a reminder to never give up. On what? Your watery island cloud dreams? On each of these posters is the definition of a dream 'getaway.' Why are you trying to get away!? I dream of dreaming for a living. Dreaming up images to inspire more dreams. Visiting new worlds on my canvas each day, finding challenges to attack with more enjoyment than sitting on a sun drenched beach picking sand out of my toes and holding my hand over my face while I look at the horizon.

Those posters are a symbol of loss. A reminder that, as you walk from the water cooler to your desk, you've already given up on being a movie star or a business mogul or a pop sensation. They say 'dream' but they don't say 'work your ass off and get those dreams!' That's the kind of poster I want to put up. With big black font. On blank, white canvas. My dream is a job. One that I would never want to 'getaway' from.

I just wanted to get this out. Had to tell somebody, and I think my girlfriend is getting tired of the rant. I've been so frustrated lately because it feels like all I ever do is wait for phone calls. Job opportunities, portrait commissions, people who want to purchase my work. I'm tired of calling up my family, excited about this opportunity or that, and having it all fizzle away. The phone stays silent. The e-mail is never sent. I'm not sure if I'm too patient or not aggressive enough. But I know I'm frustrated.

I want to come back to this and laugh five years from now, and tell my-younger-self, Christmas Carol style, that this was all just a stepping stone to a better life. But it doesn't feel like that right now, no sir. Thanks for listening, internet.

More Progress

2010-09-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

Lots of hard work I've put in on this one so far. Here's to seeing whether she's done by October. (glass clink)

Sea witch progress

2010-09-24T20:24:00.000-07:00

Here are my steps, layer after layer of different colors, trying to truly paint indirectly. It's all new to me, what with the glazing and the transparent color. I actually quite like it. Hope you like it too!

What do you do with a painting like maria? (Once a week 5)

2010-09-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

Not too happy with the likeness, but the skin tones work just fine. Thanks for posing for me, maria!

Cowboy Mirror

2010-09-16T19:39:00.000-07:00

My next cowboy is just now coming together, so I thought I would show you. He is designed as a mirror for the first, obviously...

Sea witch line drawing

2010-09-16T19:25:00.000-07:00

She's back. And this time she's 36x48.

One a Week 4, for real

2010-09-16T19:17:00.000-07:00

And now for my most cliche concept yet, a gladiator. Why? Because they're effin' cool. And it only takes three hours. And it's just for fun. Stop asking why already. Enjoy.

one a week 4

2010-09-16T19:02:00.000-07:00

is coming... just let it dry. Next up will probably be color studies for my frazetta piece. And my next full day off may be spent sending as many e-mails as I can. I bought my Illuxcon ticket and signed up for a portfolio review, so I can feel it coming on. So close...

One A Week 3

2010-09-08T21:21:00.001-07:00

This one I'm actually going to go back into and add a head, the coils are not nearly sinister enough... muah haha.

New 8x10

2010-09-05T15:46:00.001-07:00

These things really are a blast. I will probably make these two little studies into larger, finished paintings, but I may also just make compositions that freak my fancy in 8x10 as three hour exercises. Weekly? Bi-weekly? We'll start easy: Once a week I will update, Palumbo-style, with a little 8x10 oil study. Here's week two.

Sea witch study

2010-09-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

Last night I couldn't sleep, I just had a great image in my head, crying to get out. So today I drew up a little 8x10 and did a color/value study. Roughly 3 hours. Fun stuff. I should do more of these! Holler at me if you think I should make a big 'un. The lights in the distance are a submarine.

Sick day

2010-09-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

I am sick today, so I am looking at all kinds of artwork. It's amazing how much streaming information there is on illustration out there. The community is very tight knit and I just want to fit into it. Workin on artwork, very inspired and very interested in submitting to every illustration show out there. Will post soon.

Moving

2010-09-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

I am finally done moving. I have a much larger studio space now, and a much nicer neighborhood. Yay. Artwork soon.

Portrait

2010-08-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, you gotta draw yourself. Even if it means sitting on a stool in the bathroom because it's the only mirror in the apartment. Yeah, I thickened my beard in the drawing, deal with it. I can dream.

Frazetta Tribute

2010-08-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

This is for a juried show in Chicago that I heard about from ArtOrder. The link to the gallery is here. Comments, critiques are welcome. Story is modeled after old adventure movies. REALLY old adventure movies. Pilot goes down in Africa, has to find his way back home, et cetera. This is followed by lots of cheesy acting and a contrived love story with the African Panther Queen. Since Frazetta is the master of epicness, anatomy, and classic compositions, I built my own painting on a pyramid of figures at the height of action. The challenge now will be to paint it in a palette befitting a Frazetta. 30x40

Soon I will post again, with exciting work.

2010-08-13T16:12:00.000-07:00

There's a Frazetta tribute afoot... And some other things I need to work on, including cowboy no. 2 nearing completion. Car crashes and moving and all that fun stuff has kinda sidetracked me as late.

Concentration

2010-08-04T21:37:00.000-07:00

Drawn while my girlfriend read a book, she told me to tell you that she doesn't always mean mug like this.

My Monday night

2010-07-14T14:30:00.000-07:00

I didn’t know how to put all of this, but I figured that friends and family might like to know. So I wrote it as clearly as possible. Everything happened in this way as clearly as I can remember it.

“Predators is out.” I said. “Whaddaya think?”
“Let’s go.” Said Silver.
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“We’ll have to find showtimes.”
“Let’s go now.”
We got up from the bench and set the hookah aside. Smoke wreathed the doorways we walked through as we stepped over legs around tables. Illustrated and pierced smokers watched us from the corners of the room.
“You’ve never seen the first Predator?”
Silver shook her head. “Parts of it.” Her giant eyes looked at me, asking forgiveness. “Sorry.”
“No, that’s fine. Don’t say you’re sorry. So you haven’t seen it. I’m just amazed.” We stopped at the street and looked both ways. “Wait.”
The light turned red. We trotted across holding hands and I looked up in the sky. “I love clouds like these, giant cumulous that look like epic castles. As the sun sets they’ll turn bright gold and pink. I want those colors to be in my painting. Yano?”
Silver said I know, because I talked about the clouds all the time. We got in my car and I talked about clouds. We traveled to my apartment as I talked about clouds. Silver sat patiently and listened. She smiled at my exuberance for nothingness sweetly.
I texted my roommate Andrew and asked if he wanted to go to Predators.
“Hell yeah.” Said his text.
When we got to the apartment I looked up show times for the movie with Andrew. Silver sat at the Xbox 360 and started to play Fallout 3. It was our latest addiction. The showtimes we could go to were 10:00 p.m. and 10:45 p.m.
“Well, if we go to the ten o’clock we need to leave like, now.” Said Andrew. The time was 9:20.
“You want to go now? Or later?”
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
We walked into the living room and confronted Silver. “Kay, the times we can go are ten and ten forty-five. When do you want to go?”
She looked up from the T.V. “I don’t care. When do you work?”
“One.” I said. “I don’t have to get up early. If we go now we can make the ten o’clock.”
She looked at the video game longingly. “Fine, let’s go.”
We shut off the lights and the television and the Xbox and walked out of the front door.
“You driving?” Asked Andrew.
I sighed and reluctantly nodded. “Just don’t have much gas. That’s fine.”
“I don’t have my keys, so.”
“Yeah let’s go.”
We got in my car. It was a junk heap, but it had running AC and it got me places. That was enough. The little radio in the dash was so old and crappy that earlier that month, my car had gotten broken into and it was left alone.
It was dark by then, and I turned on my lights as we pulled out onto the street. “So Silver hasn’t seen Predator.”
“You what? C’mon, it’s got Arnie.” Andrew made his best ‘Arnold screaming’ impersonation.
“What’s it even about?”
“It’s like, a bunch of marines in a jungle—“ I slowed to hit the speed bump. The car in front of me looked odd, like it was in my lane. And then it really was in my lane.
The headlights of the car were very close, drifting to the right, like a dream or an apparition. I hit the brakes and, at the last second, the headlights turned, fast and hard, directly into us. I heard a screech, and Silver said Oh my God. The headlights went up, left, and then disappeared below the hood of my car. That was when the air bag hit me.
Everything was quiet. The pitter-patter of airbag dust sounded like rain. Choked breathing came from my right. I looked around, but my glasses were off. “Is everyone OK?”
Andrew was in the dark of the backseat, bent over and holding his face. He moaned softly. Silver was huddled against the door, holding her chest. “Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong I can’t breath.”
I reached over, still trying to absorb it all. “Did you have your seatbelt on?” I reached for her, looking for the clasp.
She nodded. Silver clutched at her chest. “Something’s wrong.”
I opened my door and jumped out and ran around the car. Car accident. Get Silver out. I saw a man standing next to the other car. “Who was driving?”
“I was.” He was still dressed in his Target uniform. He was staring at our car. Standing still.
As I rounded the car to Silver’s door, Andrew opened his. With all the anger I could muster I spat, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I just fell asleep, man.”
I tried to open the door on her side, but the clasp was broken. She was on the other side of the window, doubled over. “FUCK” I hit the door and ran back around.
“Silver, stay calm.” I pulled the clasp from inside of her door and it opened. I pushed it further and ran around the car again. Andrew was covered in blood. I pulled Silver out of the car and set her in the grass as straight as I could, trying to avoid back injuries.
“I can’t breath. Something’s wrong. Something’s broken.” Her eyes were bigger than usual, wide with fear. I wanted to scream at the world and cry. I did not want to say goodbye to my girlfriend on the grass on the side of the road.
Andrew immediately knelt in the grass beside us and prayed for Silver. Already there was a crowd around us. Andrew stood and said, “Someone call an ambulance.”
He pulled out his cell phone and called 911 himself.
Silver was on the ground, squirming with pain. Her breaths were shallow and her eyes were rolling back into her head. “Something’s wrong. Am I going to die?”
“No, you’re fine, it’s fine. You’re O.K. Just breath slow, in out in out. Breath Silver. Silver stay with me. You’re fine.”
The police arrived and asked every question five times. One man asked if the car was parked when I hit it. Waiting for the ambulance was the longest ten minutes of my life.
Today the 14th Silver got home from the hospital with bruises and crutches, but she got home alive, and in more or less good condition. Andrew got his face checked out, since he head-butted the back of Silver’s seat at 35 miles per hour. He is fine, with no major concussion. I was the safest person in the car and came out with a burn on my arm from the air bag and a sore nose. That’s about that.

Lawn Order

2010-07-05T19:13:00.000-07:00

The uprising was quiet.
Slow. And ever growing.
The downfall was violent.
Like rusted steel bones grinding.

Once. Came the squeal. And again.
The war machine stirred and blew
smoke from his nostrils.
But we stood by our brothers.

His great wheels were
painted with my companions.
Black fingerless hands bundled together.
Pulling in unison.

On his bottom was the mouth
Filled with scissorteeth.
Our bodies clotted his gums
A sticky green plaque.
But we stood by our brothers.

None of us were spared
Sliced into clean lines
To stand at attention.
Doesn't it look so much nicer now?
Clean lines. Narrow lines.
Standing at attention.
We will rise again.
We will stand by our brothers.

Last Man Standing

2010-07-03T08:24:00.000-07:00

I have decided to do a series of cowboys entitled last man standing, in which all my characters, all but one, are shot. Not to focus on death, but rather to focus on what I think is the fulcrum of all (especially italian) westerns. The shootout. There will be six pieces overall, all 24x36 in oils. Here is a sample of one I have started painting and a sketch for another. I may even inject some humor into some of these, we will see.

Dion

2010-06-30T19:53:00.000-07:00

Here's a portrait of my friend Dion. I told him oh-so-long ago that I would put his portrait up here, and here it is. Sorry for the wait. Hopefully I can put a good number of portraits up here. Anyone interested? Holler at me, as the young folk say.

Discover a Muse

2010-06-01T18:44:00.000-07:00

Alright, here's my submission for the Muse challenge on ArtOrder. It has been a long process, and a good one. not the happiest with the photos I got of the canvas, but overall this is the best painting I've done yet. Some of the submissions are wicked awesome, so let's hope that I can keep up! Learning with every new piece.

D&D pin-up

2010-05-13T22:53:00.000-07:00

So Art Order gave out a pin-up challenge in the vein of Gil Elvgren, and I could not resist!!! I am not a huge D&D-er, so I changed a few items when painting this tiefling girl, if only to make her more cute and cheeky. Still got a little bit of dagger under that skirt there, so I feel her rather fiendish traits have been conveyed. Hope everyone likes it!

New piece

2010-04-28T17:01:00.001-07:00

Well, I am working on an Art Order challenge called Find a Muse. Soon i will post pictures, and let me say, I am very excited about this one.

Dumb

2010-04-16T22:27:00.001-07:00

"By going to a near-Earth object, an asteroid, and perhaps even modifying its trajectory slightly, we would demonstrate a hallmark in human history," said Grunsfeld, who flew on three shuttle missions to fix the Hubble Space Telescope. "The first time humans showed that we can make better decisions than the dinosaurs made 65 million years ago."

This was in an article on Yahoo news. No laughter followed, no silly banter was at work, and this was not written on the 1st of April. Us humans show that we can make better decisions than the dinosaurs?

Does anyone actually listen to the experts, or do we just eat it for breakfast and wait for lunch?

He got it wrong, we showed we made better decisions than the dinosaurs when we decided to quit smoking and lower our caloric intake.

Evil Corporation Catering

2010-04-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

[Two men are shopping in the meat department at a Giant Eagle. They are big and burly. Upon seeing one another, they both brighten.]

Blake: Hey, Dameon, is that you?

Dameon:Blake? Hot damn! What are you doing here?

Blake: Eh, I just got the grill out, decided to pick up some of the good stuff!

Dameon: I hear ya. I can't wait to break mine in. The wife got me the—

Blake: The GrillMaster Z12?

Dameon: Ha, the one!

Blake: Holy Pete, she's a keeper! You'll have to have me over!

Dameon: Yeah, man. It's been a long while. Too long. Are you still catering for Anarchy Inc.?

Blake: Eh, the bosses were getting all weird. You know, for an evil corporation built to cause anarchy they sure are suspiciously bureaucratic.

Dameon: I hear ya.

Blake: Weren't you working that little shop in the Volcano Lounge? I heard they got raided the other day.

Dameon: Hot damn. I have to tell you this. Where's a—[looks around for somewhere to sit]there, that bench over there. [both men sit facing one another] O.K., so that raid you heard about? I was there when it happened, man.

Blake: Holy Pete.

Dameon: Yeah. I looked death right in the eye as it asked me for a scoop of potatoes.

Blake: You're kidding.

Dameon: Nope. So, I was doing like I always do, making sure the line was running smoothly, checking on the back-ups, and all the food was in order, right? They were having this Thanksgiving Day dinner that Dr. Destroyer was putting on, in light of the recent stock crash success. We were getting time an a half, and I knew the food would be a hit. Feasts are my specialty, and minions don't really expect much, right?

Blake: You're the best of 'em, Dameon. [fist bump]

Dameon: Alright, so my guy at the potatoes, a big Scandinavian who could crush serious heads (he makes the lightest fondue you'll ever eat)...

Blake: Sergei?

Dameon: You know him.

Blake: He's been on my crew once or twice. Good worker. Great cook. He's mean with a Mac. 11.

Dameon: Yeah, anyhow, he decides it's time for a quick cigarette. Everything's in order, so I fill in for him. And that's when he walks through the line. Effing Secret Agent 0.

Blake: No shit.

Dameon: None. He looks at me with his steel gray eyes and says, in a cool, clean British accent, 'hold the gravy.'

Blake: Ha. Vegetarian?

Dameon: I donno. I'm just sitting there thinking, here's an obviously British man in a shoddy uniform, right? In the middle of a convention with thugs and world class criminals who are all decidedly not British. How did he get this far? Don't they have some kind of ticket checker or something? It's an evil corporation we're talking about here. Inside of a volcano. There ought to be a short guest list, and a really big, mean bouncer. Right?

Blake: Of course.

Dameon: So I'm scooping potatoes, wondering if I should just let him slide, when my head chef, Grencko, realizes what I'd been thinking all along. This is Agent 0. There's no make-up on him, no prosthetics, it's like seeing a movie star and thinking it's just their dopple-ganger. So Grencko pulls his trusty Luger and like that, pow, he's on the ground, and I'm covered in blood.

Blake: No shit.

Dameon: My body kept the blood from misting the potatoes.

Blake: Phew.

Dameon: But I look up, and there's the silenced pistol sitting in Agent 0's hand, and it's pointed at my belly, and in his eyes I see nothing. Not a damn thing. He just popped Grencko, a family man who's only vices where being a small arms dealer and part time assassin, and there's nothing but steel in his eyes. Right then I knew if I reached for my Colt 45—

Blake: You still have that old thing?

Dameon: Yeah—dammit, where was I?

Blake: Gun. Belly. Steel eyes.

Dameon: Oh, O.K. I knew that if I reached for my gun he would kill me too, without a blink. And then the guy at the corn station, and the guy at the cider station. Complementary cider, and yet I knew Agent 0 would ice him. So I threw my hands up and acted like a pedestrian.

Blake: Eh, what could you do?

Dameon: Not much. I got under the table, and told my crew to run like hell.

Blake: They all make it?

Dameon: Most of them. Lost Yango to the lava because some jack-ass hit the self-destruct button.

Blake: I remember Yango.

Dameon: Yeah. It's a occupational hazard and all, but I just didn't think it would ever happen to me.

Blake: I hear ya. Well, that's nuts.

Dameon: Yeah.

Blake: So...

Dameon: Hey well, it was good seeing you.

Blake: Yeah, man, you too. It's been too long. Give me a call sometime. You have my number?

Dameon: No, no, here.[they swap numbers] Alright. I'm obviously out of work for the moment, so if you find some work and you want to...

Blake: Yeah, yeah, sure. Me and Sheila have been working on a new addition to the family, so anything helps.

Dameon: Really? Boy or girl?

Blake: Don't know yet. She's obviously rooting for a girl.

Dameon: Oi, don't they always.

Blake: Ha, yeah. It's good to see you. I'll give you a ring, I hear Captain Chaotic is in need of good food service for his new underground lair he's working on.

Dameon: Great, great, yeah. I'll see you soon man.

[both men walk opposite directions awkwardly]

Orcs!

2010-03-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

I realized only recently that I don't have any fantasy work in my portfolio. I have some sci-fi, and maybe a cartoon or two, but no orcs or dragons or magical shiny stuff. Thus I have decided to paint the first of a few, potential many (if these can land me a job or two or five). This is the first figure in a two figure composition. Two orcs on the battlefield, one dead, one mourning. When all the hobbits and elves are smoking pipes and giggling over mead, the orcs are burying the dead: their fathers, their brothers, their comrades. I hope you feel bad when you giggle at the sight of a crying orc.

Finish!

2010-03-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

Some progress on balancing...

2010-03-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

Moving a little slower, I've been here and there, but tomorrow my painting will have my full attention, so hopefully I'll have a finished piece to post up here. Rock.

Pillow King progress

2010-03-15T21:48:00.000-07:00

I had the day off today, and so decided to paint my fingers off. I regret that decision, as I am now typing to you with my tongue. But the painting looks good! (after I wiped off the fingers and excess blood.)

I have only a little bit more to go. I am very excited with how this is turning out, and it was fun to paint! I am already planning beyond the Muses, which are on hold until I find a model. Any crits on this are not only welcomed, but applauded.

More musing

2010-03-09T12:29:00.001-08:00

One more muse to go. Can you guess who Melete is?

Progression Concession

2010-03-08T00:12:00.000-08:00

Pillow King update

2010-03-06T19:18:00.001-08:00

Progress so far!!! I haven't worked on the moon portion at all.

Daily posts, will I be able to do it?

2010-03-06T00:04:00.000-08:00

I know, this is a crappy excuse, but trust me, I have a BIG update on the pillow king painting. And maybe another muse to amuse you with, hmm? all coming up tomorrow. :)

Teaser

2010-03-04T23:00:00.001-08:00

Guess what

2010-03-04T22:49:00.000-08:00

I started painting the pillow king. I am pleased. I think you will be pleased too.

Pictures in t-minus soon.

I muse more

2010-03-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

The tree now. I'm doing each piece on a different level and then combining in Photoshop. Then I will print it out large-scale and do the finished artwork on illustration board.

Why I don't like the ocean.

2010-03-02T00:10:00.000-08:00

Don't get me wrong, the ocean is really pretty. But it's damn scary. Deep, dark, and filled with sharp, pointy things. And that's just counting the rocks.

Even the dolphins have saw mouths. Dolphins. The deeper you go, the darker and uglier things get. Oh, no, wait, what's that beautiful phosphorescent glow? The ugliest, sharpest looking fish ever. His mouth is where sewing needles come from.

It makes one feel small. That's how the internet is. I just got done looking at blog after blog of artwork. I realized that it didn't matter how big a fish I could ever be in the illustration world, I would still just be a whale among whales. One more fish in a never ending, scary blue void. A pretty one, of course, don't get me wrong...

I need to practice swimming a whole lot more.

More project?

2010-02-28T22:06:00.000-08:00

Do I have too many projects on my plate? Well for a guy with no freelance work, no. I got plenty. Plus one: I Muse. She is one of three in the final composition. The other two will have a phone and a laptop, respectively. They will all be sitting in or about an apple tree.

New piece

2010-02-16T12:46:00.000-08:00

This is a piece based on my poem the Pillow King. Two of these show me trying to do three point perspective on a larger scale than i should have... heh.

Each board has one of the perspective points on it. I didn't have a yard stick either, so I spent alot of time measuring and remeasuring.

Could have saved myself alot of hassle by just doing the perspective on a small scale and then blowing it up to the painting's size. Oh well, live and learn.

Here's the poem:

The Pillow King is overlord in both fools and dreams.
Swimming those sweet currents of the ink black nocturne streams
Eats he up the starlight with his boiling hungry shroud
And to me he lends a dark hand, as he speaks silent and aloud:

"Come, come, sweet songbird,
We have such things to see
Fly, fly, my wonder,
In my kingdom, you are free.

"Close your eyes and journey, we must cross the night-time sea
We'll meet the Moonlight Queen and seek her orchard trees.
Grand branching ancient woods, thick with sparkling fruits,
Perhaps she'll let you venture, and step among their roots."

And with that he pulled me through the bottom of my bed
Falling, drowning, weightless in the shadows of my head.
Racing he, through earth and core, and out her other side
Landed we upon the sea of the blackened heaven sky.

A silver fish our vessel, tracing each dark cloud-reef
The earth is now our canopy: cloud countries in relief.
I ride beside the Pillow King and drink the drought of sounds.
Ancient rumblings from the deep, and again his song resounds:

"Come, come, sweet songbird,
We have such love to live
Fly, fly, my wonder,
And take what's yours to give."

And at the shore of my kingdom, look you at the land,
built of hope and virtues with kindly earnest hands.
And looking at the earthsky, see your home above
A cold and distant city-star, which would you rather love?

"Come, come, sweet songbird,
Now join my quiet land
Seek, seek, my wonder,
And sift away your sand."

Your lover stands beyond the light, at the edges of the beach
The one you always sought for, now in easy reach."
'Join me now my darling!' Joy is the song I sing.
But low intones the somber voice of the tyrant Pillow King:

"Come, come, sweet songbird,
You can love but never cross,
Seek, seek and wonder,
For I am the everlasting lost."

The Pillow King is overlord of both fools and dreams.
Swimming those sweet currents of the ink black nocturne streams
Eats he up the starlight with his boiling hungry shroud
And for those hours of his reign, I cherish all I've found.
But neither his grand enticement nor the riches at his hands,
Would make me join his kingdom for I belong to sun-kissed lands.

Project: Ressurection

2010-02-14T13:31:00.000-08:00

I looked at some old paintings I never finished and decided to retool them. Progress shots soon!

Final

2010-02-14T12:45:00.000-08:00

So the composition is supposed to be vertical. So there.

Changes

2010-02-11T08:03:00.000-08:00

Made some changes on this guy. Though it's been awhile, so maybe you've forgotten how he looked in the first place...

451

2010-02-11T07:49:00.000-08:00

Also an oldie but a goodie, this one I never showed the final of. Cover for Fahrenheit 451. Still a poor image, though. This one is tough to photograph because it has a lot of gloss in it.

old cowboy, new picture

2010-02-11T07:38:00.000-08:00

I finished this guy a while ago, but I wanted to put better images of my paintings on the web. So, there.

Rusty

2010-02-11T07:15:00.000-08:00

I've been hard at work! Lately I've been trying watercolor and getting back into acrylic. I've also been looking at a lot of blogs. One blog of note is Art Order. I've only just recently seen it, and can't believe I never found it before. He has art challenges on there too, and since I'm STILL trying to get seen somehow, I decided to submit to his latest Rust challenge.

It's dark in value and subject matter, I know... I promise to make the next one nicer. It's based off of the concept that some thoughts are meant to stay dormant and rust. I got so excited for this one that I fuzzled up the size. It's supposed to be vertical. Also, his head makes a wonderful tangent at the top of the page. Meh...

Saving pennies.

2010-02-03T11:33:00.000-08:00

I have decided that I will attend the Illustration Master Class in 2011. Now I have to buy a spatula so I can scrape all the money I can get off of the insides of my bank.

I looked at rocks and drew rocks. And I never knew any different. After all, I had seen only rocks.

2010-02-03T07:34:00.000-08:00

Busy bee, busy bee, where will you go? I need to get out and talk to people. About art. And stuff.

New illustrations

2010-01-31T15:38:00.000-08:00

Here's the beginning of an illustration for Three's Company, as well as an illustration for my poem, The Buzzard's Ballad:

Avatar and The Book of Eli

2010-01-24T21:29:00.001-08:00

I'll make this short and to the point. I watched Avatar in 3-D when everyone and their mother went to it. I went to it with my mother, too, no joke. The film was quite entertaining.

But it was, make no mistake, not the best movie ever. It wasn't even close to the best movie of 2009. It was the Disney film Pocahontas mixed with the Discovery Channel TV show Planet Earth, in space. Mother tree? Get the natives out so we can mine for gold? I half expected there to be a musical number about painting with all the colors of the wind. Where were the bumbling raccoon and pug dog? That's all that were missing!

Was it worth watching? Yes. Was it original? Hell no. I've seen more original episodes of Seinfeld, which are, oddly enough, episodic! Was it really pretty? Yes. That's all I have to say about that.

Book of Eli. Even shorter, even sweeter. I loved it. I'd watch it again. You have to like post apocalyptic movies and stylish action films, which I do. Also, you have to not hate the bible. If you aren't a pissed off atheist, watch it.

Three is a Crowd

2010-01-19T15:42:00.000-08:00

When I was in elementary school—excuse me—when he was in elementary school, Mom would always tell him to put his name on the markers. That way, if he dropped them or they got mixed in with other children’s things, he would know which were his.

It was ingenious, really. Most of the things moms tell you to do are. And it’s not that I didn’t want to. He didn’t want to, I mean. He just forgot. Always meant to at the next commercial break, or after chores, or tomorrow morning.

He still didn’t mark his stuff. He has the same black, nondescript wallet as anyone else, and one time someone actually found it on the ground. Shook it in his face. This yours? He figured for sure it was in his back pocket, and without checking said nope. I lost nine dollars and a Canadian nickel that day. He lost nine dollars. He did.

My name is Ryan Rayne. His name is too. Ryan Rayne, that is. Ryan’s mother had a lot of good ideas, but not a lot of good names, apparently. I’m pretty sure she’s his mother. Not mine. Mostly sure.

By the time we got back from Clynergy Inc. it was already too late. He/we/I really did mean to label who was really Ryan. But when we pulled into the drive and shut off the engine, rain softly pattering off the glass dome of the car, we looked at each other and could not for the life of us remember which was the clone. I’m pretty sure it’s me.

When I was just him, or perhaps more accurate, before I was me, or he was we, this sounded like a really awesome idea. No wonder, with all the marketing they had for Clone Life running.

Those advertisements could make a dog turd look like a dropped fifty. Every time you turned on the car, the windshield would brighten: “Welcome to your morning drive, your green energy transport has been brought to you today by the makers of Clone Life. Clynergy Inc. is dedicated to bringing your dreams to full realization.” Followed by montages of smiling people happily swaying in grass fields. Very Arthouse.

It was like pet rock for the rich. And Ryan was rich. With his monthly allowance, Ryan could buy one thing, either a Time Trip or a Clone Life. He was lonely, like any only child born into privilege. Now he was we and we were brothers. Were.

Things would have been so simple if we had just stuck a scratch and sniff sticker on one of our foreheads, or a tattoo on opposite butt-cheeks. See, I have all the memories of Ryan A. And of course, Ryan A has those same memories. But this zap-bang procedure, it kind of addles you; shakes your brain a little. Neither of us remember going into the building or even getting into the car afterwards.

Just that smell. Like formaldehyde and cherry cough drops. I/he hate those things. And the little dream-like echo, sliding off the inside of our skulls: “The original Ryan is wearing a bracelet to identify him. You will not take off the bracelet until you have made sure of your role as originator. This is impor…” That’s where it just slips… off and down into blackness.

The next moment I am looking at Ryan, and he at me, and in our minds, working just the same for just the same reasons, we’re trying to hold onto the eel of a thought. Bracelet. We looked at our arms. Nothing. We looked at the floor.

It was so dejected on the baseboards of the car, disheveled and alone. Ryan never liked jewelry. It must have been so automatic, brushing my arm where it felt weird until I was free. He was free, that is. I’m sure he was wearing it. Mostly sure.

Early on, our days were blissful. Who cares who is what? Ryan knew me better than anyone. And I liked myself. We’d finish each other’s sentences and laugh at our jokes and play rock paper scissors with each other.

But one day, I went rock, and he went paper. And then we knew that we weren’t the same. Couldn’t be the same. The more we both existed, the less we would remain me/he/us. This isn’t what got us trying to kill each other, but it was a step.

No one pushes a domino over hoping it will murder people at the end of its run. That would be malicious. And I don’t think that very many people are malicious. Most of us are just curious fools. There is a domino standing there, and behind it another, and behind that other, another, and so on. So you push. And wait. Us Ryans didn’t set out to kill each other. But we did push that domino.

“Who gets our girlfriend?” said Ryan. He was stirring his black tea with a pinky idly, sunlight streaming down on him from the skylights.

“Our girlfriend? She’s either yours or mine, man.” Said I, deliberately stirring my own tea with a forefinger. We were both reading the morning news on our hologram slick-sheets.

“Can you believe scientists were sure of global warming back in the 2000’s?” Ryan changed the subject. “Do you think Green Co. started that? The rumoring?”

I had heard it before, because I had thought it. “Probably. They are practically the government these days. It would have taken incredible foresight, though.”

His eyes glittered. I had steel gray eyes, and they flashed whenever I was thinking very hard and fast. Ryan was still working on that first question, and I didn’t know yet what we were going to do. The bird synthesizer played on in our silence.

“Well then, whom does she belong to?” We only spoke it aloud for the benefit of the empty studio. I let him have the next sentence.

“She belongs to neither of us. She has a life too, you know.” Ryan let me take the next. It was like conversation tag.

“But only one of us can be her boyfriend, Ryan.”

“The original should get her.” Both of us laughed at this nervously. It had become a joke between us, whether he was me or visa versa. Now it was a threat. Did the original have more right to the world? To existence?

Ryan stood and stretched, moaning loudly. He turned and grabbed his teacup, and walked out of the room, calling after: “It doesn’t matter, if you want her, you can have her. I’ll never let a girl get between us.”

Those words were nice enough, but both of us knew, this was war.

When he says girlfriend, what I really mean is almost fiancé. Jenny had bright watery blue eyes in which you could see all the goodness of the world. Lips softer than the most expensive silk. Blah blah, you get it. She was damn hot, and damn smart, and she meant a damn lot to me. She was enough to fight for, whether he had ever met her myself or not.

I picked up my teacup and walked into the kitchen. Ryan was at the counter, writing a note. He looked terrible. Gaunt, with the dark shadow of a baby beard and disheveled brown hair. He looked like me on crack. When he saw me, he bolted out the back door. For a moment I thought I saw a bright pink scar on his cheek.

I walked over to the abandoned note. It had one word scribbled on it: “bananas.” I was deadly allergic to bananas. This was very worrisome. He might as well have written hand grenades or guns. A list of things to kill me.

Ryan walked in from the living room. I looked at him, then at the back door. “Did you?”

Ryan looked confused. “Did I what?”

“Nothing.” He was clean and calm, and there was no scar on his cheek.

“Did you want some lunch?” Ryan was shuffling through the cupboards for food. It was a massive kitchen with more than twenty cupboards. Along the walls were state of the art ovens and microwaves, all bolted into the Italian marble floor.

The kitchen was almost always empty. Even if she was home, Mom never cooked. Dad did, it was his job. But he was always off and away, catering for this space cruise or that.

“Yeah I’ll have something. Whatever you find.” I walked into the hologram room trying to act normal.

Have you ever tried to outsmart yourself? You buy cookies and tell yourself not to eat them all at once, but you know you will. So you hide them in a drawer you would never look and forget about them. Weeks later you open that drawer and salute yourself. Good one, me. And then you eat them all at once.

Ryan walked in with two plates and set them on the seat. Turkey sandwiches. He sat down with a huff and pushed one of the plates nearer to himself, looking for the remote absently. He was up to something. Bananas.

“Is anything on Saturday afternoons?” Said Ryan as he leaned over the recliner looking for the remote.

“Not really.” I said, holding the remote in my hand. I turned on the projector and the screen screamed happily at us, actors blasting from the wall to stop at our feet. Ryan jumped with surprise, and I switched our plates. “You want the controller?”

“No, no, that’s alright.” Ryan tried to regain his composure and took a bite of his sandwich. I watched me closely.

The lights of the hologram washed over us, an ocean of sound and color. Any more now the actors were digital make-ups. Why pay someone for his face when you can create it with a computer? It was all the same to us. The laugh track sounded like meat sizzling on a skillet.

“Time Trip! Undo, redo, make, create, allow!” Little pixie people danced around the announcer’s massive head, singing over and over. “Take a time trip through your life, making time hip without strife. Time trip! Undo, redo, make, create, allow!” It was very Arthouse.

I looked over at Ryan, who was squirming in his seat. “You okay, man?”

“I can’t, I don’t um…” he was gasping. “Swallow. Won’t go down.”

Already his forehead had swollen between his eyes. Anaphylactic shock. I flipped open his sandwich. Turkey, lettuce, bananas. I opened mine. Turkey, lettuce, cheese.

I was a bastard. He was, really. A bastard, that is. But he was me, and I wasn’t ready to watch me die. I got some Benadryl and some Gut-punch. Once I worked the Gut-punch down his throat, Ryan immediately threw up his sandwich. The Benadryl followed.

I stood next to him as he breathed hard over the toilet. “I switched our plates.”

His toenails caught the tile as his calves went taught. His body became rigid. “Don’t know what you mean.” Came the chamber echo from the toilet.

“Hmpf.” I walked out of the bathroom and down the stairs, through the hallway and out the front door. There I sat on the porch and pondered. Maybe Ryan didn’t do it. Now it seemed there was a future me running around.

I obviously didn’t want me to know about my future presence presently in the past. Present, as it were, for now. I shook my head. This was getting complicated. Too many me’s.

My only question was whether future Ryan was the banana poison-er or my savior. He didn’t look very happy to see me. But he should have known, being from the future, that I would find him there.

I had enough confusion by then, and really just wanted to make amends with the Ryan I was used to. Only one other Ryan out there trying to kill me seemed much simpler. I turned around, walked through the hall, up the stairs and into the bathroom.

“Hey Ryan?” I looked into the room and saw nothing. I turned and caught a claw hammer in my face.

“Ow,” I said.

Actually, it was more like, “Feruagharrrrrayeaaahrrrraaaaooowouck!” I held my hand to my face as I reeled, trying to figure out what was happening. “Why did you do that?”
Ryan was standing there, spittle still spotting his lips. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, you almost just did.” Ryan looked more scared than I did.

“But I just saved you!” Everything I said was muffled by a red and dripping hand.

“Yeah well.”

“Well you tried to kill me!” I spat, not believing how stupid he could be. “God, you make us look bad.”

Ryan looked truly remorseful after this, and set the hammer down. His forehead still swelled to cover his eyes partially. “The bananas were just going to be a warning, you know.”

“Like hey you’re dead, by the way back off of Jenny?”

“More like let me help you, now remember that I saved you sort of thing.” Ryan patted his swollen head gingerly.

“Now I get to say that, and you hit me with a hammer!?”

Arguments with yourself between two bodies can be very difficult. Listening to irrational reasoning is much easier to do when you don’t speak it out loud. Things sound very different when you can hear them.

I looked past Ryan and noticed a soap scum message on the mirror. Hammer. Good one, me. Or was it a message to Ryan A? I pointed at the mirror.

“Did you see that, like, before you grabbed the hammer?”

Ryan turned slowly. “Yeah. I thought I had dreamt it, though. I was still reeling pretty hard.”

That didn’t help at all. But it did sound like me. The helpful fool.

I sat down on the toilet and ushered Ryan close. “Ryan we have a problem. One of us went back in time, and now he’s trying to mess us up. Or start this whole thing. Or something. I don’t know.”

“There’s three of us now?” Ryan checked behind himself nervously.

“Has to be. He was scruffy and gaunt, with a scar on his left cheek.”

Ryan’s eyes darted to my bleeding face. A chill ran down my back. “Oh.”

“Go to hell Ryan,” he said to me, scrambling backwards to grab the hammer. Ryan ran into legs. He looked at the legs, bewildered, and followed them up into the haggard face of future Ryan. “Oh hey, we were just talking about you.”

Future Ryan looked very serious. His eyes looked very gray. The hammer in his hand looked very dangerous. With a deft movement he brought it crashing down into Ryan A’s face. And then he walked out of the room. Not a word, and no note this time.

“Man, I suck.” I murmured, reaching to pick Ryan off the floor. He used the same choice word as me, and when he looked up, he too was bleeding from the left cheek.

“I suck so bad!” said Ryan, wadding tissues against his face.

“Yeah I said that too. I was just going to mention that future Ryan knows everything, because he is one of us. And one of us knows exactly what each of us will do right now in the future when we go into the past.”

“So he’s one of us.”

“Right.”

“But we don’t know which one of us.”

“Right.”

Now we were on the same track. “So if we want to stop him we need to both try different traps without telling each other what those things are. Or else you/me will know once we are he.”

“Right.”

The next four hours were spent booby-trapping the house. Both of us snuck around with pinched expressions, being very sneaky. At one point Ryan whispered to me, “If you or I knew we were doing this, wouldn’t we follow the Ryan who wasn’t us to see what we didn’t do?”

This deflated me somewhat. I was just about to admit that, yes, that is exactly what future we would do, when I heard a loud crash in the dining hall. “Marbles!” Came the cry.

Ryan and I jumped up and ran into the dining room to find future Ryan laying in a heap of note cards, sprawled unceremoniously at the bottom of the stairs. Ryan A looked pleased. “I put marbles at—“ And then future Ryan shot him in the face.

Instantly, Ryan A blew into a dark red funk, splashing onto the walls. His goop covered my left side. So he was the clone. Go figure.

I ran up to me from the future, who said that he couldn’t feel his legs. “How did you know who to shoot?”

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” That seemed reasonable enough. Ryan looked tired and weak. He rasped, “Ryan, listen to me.”

He put a pen in my hand, and a note card. “Write, marbles, top of stairs.”

I looked at all of the note cards lying around us, like a square paper snow. There were hundreds, each with different messages. Bananas. Frying pan. Brake lines.

“How many times have I done this?” I asked, awestruck.

“Too many.” Said me from the future.

“But why? Why would you do this? Couldn’t you have killed him from the beginning? Or, like, told yourself not to get a clone?” I scribbled marbles on the card and stuffed it in my back pocket.

“Couldn’t pin down when it all started. The time travel thing, it kinda mixes your brains. When I saw you two, I couldn’t remember who was me.”

“I had a scar already, though. You gave the clone a scar.”

“If he was me, then he would need to have one.” He made sense the only way I apparently could these days, by not making sense at all.

“But why? Why go back at all?”

“You killed Jenny.”

I paused. “Wait, me, or him?”

“Both, either. Doesn’t matter. This damn feud made the whole house unsafe. She came to visit, and was killed.”

There came a knock on the front door. “Ryan?” Jenny’s voice echoed down the hall.

“Be right there!” I called, panic spreading through my veins. “So you knew once you slipped on the marbles who the clone was?”

“More or less.” Future me was fading fast. “Take the gun. It has three of the original twelve bullets still left. Save Jenny.”

“But she’s safe!” I said this just as the front door clicked open. I looked at another note-card: Bucket of rocks above front door. “No!”

When he was little—excuse me, when I was little—Mom always told me to write things down. Lists of chores, of homework, of spending allowance, all written on little note cards. That way I would never forget what to do next, or what I needed to bring with me.

I did this pretty well. Really did. It was just those little things that you figure you’ll remember when you get to them. Why bother to write, ‘brush your teeth’ or ‘make your bed?’

You figure that you’d know who you were if you saw you. Even if there were two of you, you figure you’d know who was the one of two you will have been in the present future.

Moms knew what they were doing though. Every time he didn’t listen to her it ended up badly. Every time I didn’t listen. Me. So this time I wasn’t taking chances. I only had one note card on me. I pulled it from my pants pocket and wrote the most important note of them all: Kill the bastard making banana sandwiches.

Bananas.

Art

2010-01-19T09:46:00.000-08:00

Here they are. I've started on one. The other one I am waiting on the model to come back. She is my roommate's girlfriend, so it's really just a matter of time. Heh

Day off of work.

2010-01-19T09:35:00.001-08:00

I am in the midst of much.

I have a new short story on the way (though I haven't given up on Caleb) about clones. And time travel. That's right.

Also, I've been trying my hand at watercolor. I will show you my progress on that as well, in due time.

I do hope you like reading, as writing is very much me. I didn't expect to write this much, but I feel a certain joy for my little stories, as they provide me with artistic outlet in almost every area.

Even art becomes a part of them. If I could get paid to write and illustrate, as only the best do, I would... would, uh... well I would be very happy.

Art soon. Stories too. Stay tuned.

Chapter 2, part 1: The Z Word

2010-01-05T02:25:00.000-08:00

Caleb liked playing Xbox. He had a 360 in his spit of a living room, and it was the central hub of all his entertainment. Mark liked the streaming movies function it had. He liked it more than Caleb, since it was Caleb’s Xbox, and Mark was more or less a permanent fixture on the couch. Mark considered himself a movie expert.

“OK, the movie Wanted. Right?” Mark shifted excitedly in his seat, “You watch the first scene. And he’s all like, ‘I’m an assassin,’ and she’s like, BOOM shot through the effin’ head! And then he—jumps,” This part Mark spaced out for effect, every word getting louder, “out—of—a—skyscraper, flying across to the other side, screaming and firing bullets into everyone’s head on the opposite side.”

Mark paused there, catching his breath from all of the pantomiming, “And he lands on the other side to be killed by an impossible sniper bullet. And we, the audience, are OK with that. But once they strap explosives on a rat or introduce a loom of fate, everyone hates it.” Mark threw his hands up as if his point had been made.

“He jumped… out of a building… across an entire city block,” He was even louder this time, “At the very beginning of the movie! If you accept that, then you should accept the whole damn thing. You knew what you were in for, they already warned you.”

Caleb hunched in the sofa chair across the room, staring longingly at his currently-in-use Xbox.

“I don’t care. Curving bullets is dumb, and Angelina Jolie is a slut,” said Dana, obviously relishing the chance to rub Mark the wrong way. She brushed her dark bangs out of her eyes and smiled triumphantly at the TV, avoiding Mark’s vacant stare.

“Girls.” Mark said as conclusion to the argument.

Caleb continued to act like a slipcover and will them out of the room so he could save the world from the Russians. Or aliens. Or robots. Or Russian alien robots. Mark skipped through the streaming movies cue, looking for something good. “28 Days Later?”

“Why can’t we watch Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist? You’re an artist, it’s indie.” Said Dana.

Mark scoffed. “First off, indie and independent are not the same thing. Second, chick flick is chick flick. You watch a chick flick with a chick, and you do so in the hopes that she’ll put out. You know how many dudes went to New Moon with dreams of a BJ dancing in their heads?”

“You went to New Moon.” Caleb spoke up from the far reaches of the living room.

“Yeah, and I loved it. Team Jacob forever man.” Mark made several thrusting motions while smiling deviously and howling at Caleb.

Dana sighed from the other corner. “Why do I hang out with you?”

“Because we’re fucking awesome!” Mark waved an arm toward Caleb, slapping his knee.

“I’m inclined to agree with him,” said Caleb.

“Anyways, zombies are very relevant to today’s day and age.” Mark was mounting his high horse again. “Regardless of their impossibility, there are certain concepts that they are built upon. Consumerism, the inability to think, only to act, the thought that our own government would fuck up, and then we would be reliant on them. Healthcare!” Mark stopped and raised his eyebrows in a very ‘hello?’ gesture. Dana scoffed, and it sounded like she sprang a leak for a second. “They are a blood letting escapist fantasy painted on a very real message.”

“Which is?” said Caleb.

“Brains taste good.” Mark looked very pleased with himself and started the movie. “Same guy who did Trainspotting and Slumdog Millionaire, it’s good,” Mark pointed at the screen, “Popcorn?”

After the movie Mark told Dana that if she was bitten he would make it quick for her, as long as he had a good sharp hatchet, otherwise he would have to use a spoon. “I would feel really bad about it though.”

Caleb kicked them both out with the pretence of having to study for class, and then promptly got to shooting things online. That little platypus whisper came into his ear though, asking him why he was wasting his life for nothing. Video games were worse than dreaming, it said, you play, you stop, and you are weary for it. They are parasites.

Caleb didn’t like that very much at all, and promptly shut off his console. Caleb went into his room to clean it and study, and did neither, opting to stalk his friends on Facebook. Dammit, he thought. This is helping even less. Wait, Jenny is in a relationship?

Caleb went to his evening classes, got some slop from the cafeteria, and drove his teal Berretta back to his apartment. He decided that high level math was like cursive, impressive to see, but utterly useless most of the time, and really just a way to look cool in front of your friends. Caleb also believed that no English major needed it.

When Caleb got home, he opened the door and jumped out of his socks. This is actually very hard to do, and Caleb was impressed with his own dexterity. Mark was on the couch, wide eyed staring at the screen.

“Shit,” breathed Caleb, “You scared the ba-jesus out of me!”

“Oh hey,” was all Mark said, still staring into the boob tube.

“How did you get in?”

“I told you, man, you need to lock that door.” Mark finally broke his line of sight with the television. “Have you ever seen Blue Velvet? Most malevolently weird movie you’ll ever watch. It’s like being beaten to death by the Coen Brothers while on acid in a time machine that only sends you back to the eighties.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Neither does the movie, not once.” Mark turned back to the T.V.

“Is that what you’re watching?” Caleb perused his refrigerator for kool-aid.

“Nope. Zombie Strippers. Awesome.”

Caleb sat down on the couch and sipped at his Capri-Sun. So good for so little time, he thought, watching Jenna Jameson stuff pool balls into her vagina. "This is really gross."

"If by gross you mean awesome," said Mark, still entranced.Caleb figured he was warmed up enough: "I saw a girl today. She was pretty cute."

Mark turned and stared at Caleb. "You saw a girl. I see them all the time. It's almost like they live among us. Did you say hello? Get a number? Cop a feel?"

"Well, yeah. Not—not the feel part. I said hey. Her name is Erica."

Mark turned back to watch another stripper get hit by one of the pool balls and fly across the room. "Well good. When you get her number you tell me." He looked down at his watch. "Shit! I got my review!"

"Your what?"

"Review! Like, yes you can still go here you don't suck review. Gotta run dude."

And with that Mark was gone. The zombies continued to do gross things on screen. Caleb turned it off and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

There was still the matter of making an impression. Saying something Important. Caleb had bought another notebook earlier that week (Miley Cyrus notebooks were on sale, it wasn't like anyone else would see it). All of his blogs he copied into the book.

In the past, few people were given microphones to shout their opinion. Only those few were able to shape history. Now, everyone with a connection and a computer could speak to potential thousands. A homeless man with an IMac in a Starbucks could write sermons to move the masses. And no one would ever meet their savior.

If he was born today, Christ would have blogged. The question is, with so many voices and opinions and thoughts, would anyone have heard him? Maybe they would have simply subscribed to his Twitter and prayed for the best.

Fossils were flawed, this Caleb could understand. They were too passive. No one was cured by a museum display, or moved to tears by a dinosaur bone. Caleb had an Action to take, and it was his mission to find it.

But he also liked girls. And girls, if anything, were more interesting and complicated than any Thing Caleb could perform. If Caleb made a masterful tome of poetry, it would be infinitely easier than wooing the right woman. He spent three years trying to get Dana, and that ended with him in a bathtub of cement. Well, more or less.

This girl Caleb met in class, though, she was something. Oh, Erica, light of—

The door made a loud thump noise as something bounced off of it very hard. "The hell?" Shouted Caleb, stuffing his notebook away and walking to the door. He unlocked it and looked through the peephole. Mark was on the ground, clutching his arm.

"Mark! What was that?" Caleb picked Mark off of the ground and dragged him inside.

"You locked it." Said Mark, pale faced and shaking.

"What happened? How did the review go?" Caleb stared at his friend worriedly.

"The review? Oh, uh—fine. Fine." Mark swallowed hard, his hazel eyes dancing in his head. "I've been bitten.

"By who? Er—what?" asked Caleb. All the undead violence Caleb had watched flashed through his head.

"A squirrel."

"You got bitten by a squirrel." Caleb blinked once, stupefied. "How?"

"Well I caught him." said Mark matter-of-fact.

Caleb touched Mark's forehead and frowned. "Why did you catch him?"

"It was really close to me, and I thought, damn, he's really close to me, I bet I could reach out and catch him. So I did. And it bit me." Mark obviously thought that squirrel catching was everyone's favorite past time, and that wild animals would never bite their captors. "Do you think it was sick? Have you seen Outbreak?"

"Calm down," Caleb said, "Wild animals bite whenever they are being attacked. It’s a defense mechanism. Wait, was that the one with Dennis Hoffman?”

“Dustin.”

“Oh. It was O.K. I don’t think it would stand up well today. And you shouldn’t worry. That was some crazy monkey virus.”

“Squirrel flu, dude. Heard of it?”

“No.”

“Not yet you haven’t!” Mark was obviously on the warped side of logical. “But seriously, it might have had rabies. I might have rabies. I don’t want rabies. Or a crazy monkey flu virus.”

They were both about to laugh nervously, but then Mark coughed. A deep, lung rattling cough. Caleb backed away slightly, and Mark looked less amused with himself. “Shit. I should go to the doctor.”

Story Illustration

2010-01-03T23:17:00.000-08:00

So I wrote a short story, which can be seen in its entirety below. This is an illustration for it. Hopefully, I can get enough writing/illustration samples to go bug a publisher. Please tell me what you think!

Connected

2009-12-20T09:59:00.000-08:00

Meet Caleb. He is one of the connected people. He has both a Facebook account and a Myspace (but only for the band pages). He blogs. He owns a Verizon touch phone and he is on the unlimited texting plan.

Today is the day he decided to fossilize himself. Fossilize in a very real, dinosaur bones in the ground kind of way. It isn’t suicide, this much he is sure of. No, Caleb wants to “be” forever. And now he is waist deep in concrete in his bathtub. It began as a dream.

On the night of the dream, Caleb blogged about his day. School was horrid, and he was particularly angry at the slow progress of the economy. How will he get a job fresh out of college like this? The internet heard him. To wind down, he wrote a small poem. He thought he was pretty good at this, and maybe he could publish some of them. The internet listened.

Caleb was satisfied after speaking to the masses, and he pulled off his pants and brushed his teeth. Caleb worried that he was balding, and spent ten minutes staring at his scalp. There were no text messages on his phone. His sardine-can apartment was chill, and he dove into his bed to squirm uncomfortably until his sheets were warm. Caleb took a sleeping pill and turned on his TV. It was a Discovery Channel nature special on…

Caleb stood on a thickly weeded shore at the edge of a pond, fishing with his ex-girlfriend. In the dream she looked part platypus, but he knew it was she. It was dusk, and they were both looking towards the opposite bank.

“I think you don’t have much of a chance catching fish here,” said his girlfriend off-handedly. She scratched her rubbery muzzle and pointed to the reeds near a willow tree. “They like to hide in the shadows—the brush.”

Caleb sighed and didn’t speak, shifting his weight from one leg to another. Finally he said, “Are you done fishing? I’m spent.”

His ex, Dana continued to stare forward as if she didn’t hear him. Her six nipples wobbled with her impatient breaths.

“Did you hear me? Let’s git.” Caleb touched her on one furry shoulder this time, and she looked at him with a start. “What?”

“Let’s go.” He said.

Dana shook her head and pointed to her ear hole, indicating she couldn’t hear him. So he yelled. None of the birds in the trees startled. He was mute.

Easy. Caleb whipped out his cell phone to text Dana. The battery was dead. No problem. Caleb pulled his laptop from the weeds and tried to e-mail Dana. It was also dead. Dana looked at him for a long time, trying to gain some kind of understanding from him. Sadness filled her eyes, and she slowly turned and waddled into her burrow. Caleb started sinking then, being sucked slowly into the marsh. No one would ever know he was there. Or even was.

Caleb woke screaming, “Let’s get out of here!” The internet didn’t hear him this time.

From this, Caleb decided two things. Firstly, that platypuses are loveless creatures and weird looking, and second, that Dana had more in common with those creatures than he at first realized. Caleb tried to shake it off, but the dream clung to him for the rest of the day like a heavy fog.

After classes he came home and turned on his computer, slipped off his shoes, and got out bread for a peanut-butter jelly sandwich. At this point he drove his foot into a heavy metal cabinet. Shortly after quite a bit of hissed profanity, Caleb realized none of the lights in his apartment were working. Nor was his computer. Walking outside, he found that the entire complex was out of power.

He peered down the hallway at the icy mess on the street. Caleb brightened. This is different! With no power comes no responsibility! Classes will surely be cancelled! What a wonderful distraction, thought Caleb. Now that he had free time, he could just watch TV all night and not feel bad about it.

He actually hit the power switch before remembering there was no electricity. Caleb felt dread spread across his body like a damp wool blanket. He looked at his phone: one bar of battery life. Caleb jumped up with a yelp and ran through the front door, across the hall, up the stairs, and knocked heavily on room 215. “Chill!” came the muffled reply.

The door opened with a sigh. “Hey man. What’s your rush?” Mark’s steely rebuke softened when he recognized his best friend. “Dude, you got me, knockin’ so fast like that.”

“Sorry,” Caleb panted, more from stress than effort. “I just—uh, the power’s out.”

“Yep, noticed.” Concern entered Mark’s eyes. He stepped back and left the door open, “You OK, Caleb?”

“Yeah, uh, yeah just…” Caleb followed after, shutting the door and shaking his head. “I had the feeling that I was completely disconnected. You know, like, if the power just stayed off, and I just died or broke my leg or something. No one would know.”

“Fuckin’ deep, Nietzsche,” said Mark. He went to the refrigerator and grabbed two Coronas. “Get ‘em while they’re cold.”

“Sorry, I just got freaked out for a moment. If someone needed me at this moment, and my phone is dead too, what can I do, yano?”

Mark deflated into his futon with a huff. “Yeah. Makes you wonder how people survived without all this stuff.” He took a swig and looked thoughtful. He was an art major, and prone to this behavior. “Or maybe they actually did live life, right? All we do is so, I don’t know, intangible.”

Caleb sat across from him. “Any lime?”

“Refrigerator, crisper drawer.” Mark sat up and said, “But seriously. Do we have real photo albums anymore? Like, stuff you can flip through? Facebook. Or, uh, books, yano? We’ve got Kindles and online books and shit. Give it ten years and we’ll be living Fahrenheit 451, man. Burning the books so we can be green, but it’s all down the tubes.”

“We don’t need to fear the nuke anymore dude. EMP.” Mark looked at home in this topic, as if he had rehearsed it in the mirror. He made his hands wide in a mock explosion and his eyes widened. “Boosh! Phwap, that’s it. All our computers are fried, our phones, our power grids. Years of information, click. Gone. Goodbye civilization.”

Caleb didn’t feel better after this. Mark might as well have been the great platypus prophet, wobbling his nipples and pointing Caleb out among the crowd to be struck by God’s vengeful lightning.

From this, Caleb decided two things. Firstly, Mark wasn’t the guy to go to if he wanted to be calmed down, and second, he needed to make a mark on this earth; something real and palpable. Someone needed to know he was.

The power came on after two hours. Caleb turned on all the lights, his computer, the television and the microwave. He warmed a ham and cheese hot pocket. Then he set to work on his blog. Typing furiously, Caleb wrote one of his best works. Nuanced, clever, and hardly preachy, he smiled proudly as he went to post it. He also wrote a poem:

Behold the rock amidst the plain

He is a solid gray blue stain

A spot against his time and age

Bookmark inside season’s page

‘Gainst eraser war he’ll endless wage.

Caleb liked this poem. Maybe it could get published. Caleb was beaming, pushing the mouse along its path to posting. Then the internet went out.

Furious, Caleb ran into the kitchen and finished making his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He paced back and forth, tearing his sandwich violently with his teeth. “I had… it was…” He tried desperately to remember what he had written, even a speck of it, but it was no more in is mind than his computer. All was lost.

Suddenly he looked up from his sandwich carcass. That was it! Caleb could simply go back in time and do something very archaic. He could write his thoughts on paper first, with a pencil, no a pen! Permanent marker, even. Like a man in a trance he drifted back into the bedroom. Caleb’s sandwich laid, broken and bleeding jelly, on the counter.

Caleb landed in his room with a thud as he looked for a pen, a pencil, a stick, anything for him to make a mark with. He found a blue Sharpie in his sock drawer, and an old Dinotopia college ruled notebook beneath his bed under a shirt behind an over-due Spanish textbook.

“This is Caleb,” he spoke as he wrote, his eyes a shiny sort of crazed. Caleb did not duplicate his online epistle. He bested it.

Tepid ocean green, I am the moon.

Rise because I say, fall because I am gone away.

This Caleb wrote in large block letters at the top of the page, mainly because he forgot how to write in cursive. Its thick mark bled through the pages. With his statement made, Caleb decided to have a celebratory macaroni and cheese. As many college students know, peanut butter and jelly and macaroni and cheese are akin to a thick steak and nice bottle of merlot.

Caleb strutted into the kitchen with his first journal entry and turned on the stove. Pot, pan, boiled water, macaroni, cheese packet, thick flowing black smoke… Caleb paused. There was something not quite right about that list.

Too late Caleb realized that the wrong burner was on. By the time he had put out the fire, his prize notebook was well done. This was a cosmic joke. This was a malicious force. No, Caleb decided, this was exactly what should be expected.

The kitchen was filled with smoke, and Caleb barely had time to pull the batteries from his smoke detector before it screamed at him. Mark pushed the door in just as Caleb carried his poor notebook to the trash.

“Should lock this,” Mark said, motioning absently to the door. “The fuck’d you do, Bradbury? I mentioned 451 as a caution, not as a blueprint, dumbass.”

Caleb looked up at Mark with red rimmed eyes. “I’m cursed. Everything I do is erased. Everything… I… do.”

Mark eased up a little. “Hey man, relax. You got shaken up and now you’re just getting ahead of yourself. These things happen in threes, dude.”

“I had a dream,” blurted Caleb. His words mocked him once they left his mouth. Mark simply blinked. “And?”

Caleb sighed heavily, “Well it was a dream and it had Dana in it, except she was this platypus thing, and we were fishing and I thought it was about her being a bitch,” Damn straight! chimed Mark, “but I think it was about being completely without connections and powerless and helpless to do anything but disappear and just be gone.”

Mark blinked again. “Are you taking the sleeping pills again?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point. I need to be heard. I need to have something really real, like my own Stonehenge or my own Easter Island heads or something.” Caleb tried really hard not to look crazy and failed.

“You could always fossilize yourself.” Said Mark. He laughed, and looked around the room. “Dude, you need to get out of here. Find a girl or something. I’m serious.” Mark turned and went for the door: “Text me later, we’ll play some Xbox.”

Caleb stood still and silent. A Fossil. Like a damned Tyrannosaur for the ages. Here lie the stone bones of Caleb Meisk, creature for eternity. Melodramatic, but not half bad.

Caleb brought a fan from his room, opened all the windows, and put on a coat. While the smoke cleared he went to his computer and Google searched fossils. Wikipedia was the first entry to show up. Caleb clicked on it and smiled: Mark called Wiki the “hive-mind of our generation.”

Fossils (from Latin fossus, literally "having been dug up") are the preserved remains or traces of animals, plants, and other organisms from the remote past. The totality of fossils, blah blah blah…

Yes, these were. Insignificant plants, fish, and shells, known for all eternity. They were markings for their time and age. They were here before computers and the internet and Wiki, and they’ll be here when all of that is gone and the powerlines are just mysterious black lines in the earth. Caleb googled concrete.

Caleb turned off the fan, shut all the windows, looked sadly at his crispy notebook, and fit his shoes back on. It was time to make a trip to Lowes.

And so we find Caleb sitting in a bathtub, pouring quickcrete in gallons around his body. No note needed. This isn’t a suicide, but a preservation. Caleb was very sure of that. He had cleaned his room and put away his shoes, hiding the dirtiest of his socks in a corner of his closet. Fossils shouldn’t have cluttered rooms.

Once the messy gray stuff started to flow over the lip of the bathtub, Caleb threw the final package at the trashcan in the corner. Missed, dammit. A fossil who is a bad shot.

Caleb slipped slowly under the surface, first his belly button, then his nipples. The cement was heavy, and made it hard to breath. Caleb was in past his shoulders, up to his neck, and with one final hard-fought breath, he pulled under entirely.

This was a necessary step. Even with all his connections, Caleb would be utterly lost, just another zero or one in the binary code.

And when his signal went out at the end of his life, Caleb would be just an electronic memory, like an angel: never seen, only whispered about at the edges of the internet. Who’s dry dust is this? ‘Caleb’s’ His leftover dirt would answer. But no one would hear. As a fossil, surely Caleb would stand as a mark of society. Scholars would pore over his stony remains.

“This boy was from 2009,” dissertations would begin, “He is truly a lasting impression from the generation we like to call the invisible years. After the great electronic collapse of 2304, centuries of data were wiped, and this young male homo-sapien is one of the only remains of his time.”

That is why Caleb was initially very disappointed to be pulled from the tub. Air burst from his mouth, and he coughed violently as he threw out an arm to stable himself. His right hand landed on the rubbery nipple of the platypus prophet. Condemner, savior, egg laying mammal.

“Hey!” shouted Dana, slapping his hand off of her boob. “What the hell?”

“Caleb, Caleb buddy,” said Mark, holding him by the chest. He was panicked, “Hey, wake up man.”

“I dizzo hav’t.” Caleb thought the words were much more sensible in his head. He couldn’t see anything, the heavy sludge weighed his eyes. “My eyes, I can’t see.”

Mark tenderly scraped his face off, muttering foul mouthedly about what a fool Caleb was. Dana sat back in the corner and looked mournful. “Hey, man, I called Dana because you were bein’ a freaking weirdo. She might be a bitch,” Dana shot him a sharp look from the corner, “but she does care about you. Not as much as me, but she does. You got a lot going for you man.”

“It’s hard to move my legs,” said Caleb, looking shakily around the room. Mark pulled off Caleb’s pants and Dana got him a towel. The three of them sat on the floor of the bathroom for a while.

“I’m sorry,” said Caleb, and, as an afterthought, “I had a dream about you, Dana.”

No one talked for a long time. But his friends forgave him, this much Caleb knew. Wearily, Caleb looked from the tub, to Mark, to Dana. Finally, Mark said, “Dude, you can’t use your tub anymore.”

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” The words came out as barely a whisper from beside the sink. Dana’s eyes were filling with tears.

“No, I—I guess I was. I don’t know.” Caleb shrugged noncommittally. “I just didn’t want to disappear is all.”

“Oh, Caleb.” Dana sobbed quietly.

They all sat quietly again for what seemed like ages.

“Alright,” Mark announced. “Up, up, let’s go. We gotta go do something. Dana, you’re in the club again.” He turned with a stern finger pointed at her. “For now. Caleb, you need pants. Mark needs food.”

Mark got Caleb into some pants and a shirt after a shower at his place. Mark then put Dana and Caleb in his car and took them to Steak and Shake. “First things first, we’re gonna act like fuckin’ friends, and not text other people while we talk. Second, I’m paying for this, and that’s final. Any objections? Tweedle-dee? Tweedle-dum?” With this Mark pointed in mock aggression at Caleb riding shotgun quietly.

“No, dad.” Dana and Caleb said together. Caleb liked this. The car was warm and rode smoothly through the sludge. Radiohead blared from the speakers. Art majors were prone to such music. Caleb felt at home, and he didn’t care if this moment stayed his secret forever.

It was two in the morning when Mark dropped Caleb off. “Do I need to bring my sleeping bag and watch you tonight?”

“No man, I’m sorry,” Caleb said, leaning on the door to his apartment. “Listen, could you just pretend this whole thing didn’t happen? I kinda flipped my shit for a second.”

Mark smiled warmly. “Relax man, you’ve had a lot to go through lately. College, Dana, that family stuff you’re dealing with, just take a breath. You’ll beat it. If you need me, I’m upstairs.” Mark stood there for a second or two, trying to think of something else to say. “I… you’re a good guy, Caleb. We all fall down, we just don’t all try and cement ourselves into our bathtubs. Call me tomorrow, K?”

Caleb said thanks, and that he would call. All the lights were still on in his place, and he turned them off one by one. He turned off his computer, and put his phone on silent while it charged. Then he crawled into bed and closed his…

Caleb was flying. Beside him was Mark, just standing in the air like it was normal to do. “We need the catalytic converter if we have any hope of stopping them.”
That made perfect sense to Caleb, and they both dove towards the ground. “There.” Caleb pointed to the warehouse in a craggy red-rocked ravine.
“You know it’s a fucking trap.” Said Mark, foul mouthed as ever, even in dreams.
“That’s why we have to do it.”
When they landed giant cheese people streamed from the doors, and Caleb and Mark grabbed nearby pretzel sticks and started swinging, beating them off in an epic cheesy battle.
When the dust settled, there were three figures standing in the room, which used to be a desert valley. “So you’re the one.” Mark said dramatically.
“Did you ever doubt it?” Dana was sitting in a plush roller chair behind a desk with a stuffed platypus on it. “What you didn’t know is that I was on your side the entire time.”
She opened her hand to show them the converter, which looked more like a bottle of cologne.
When Caleb woke up this time, he couldn’t remember much of the dream, only that it had a sweet storyline and could probably make a good movie if he could remember it. He decided it meant nothing whatsoever, and he promptly rolled over to fall asleep again.

Your Heart

2009-12-06T20:04:00.000-08:00

Your heart cannot love.
Not that it wouldn't, if it could.
Or that it couldn't, if it would.

You're run by a bloody piston
A four-banger with rusting valves.
Can you feel its ruddy shake?

Aye, well oiled are you machine,
Idling gently 'neath sternum hood.
But an engine cannot love.

Something

2009-11-25T00:41:00.000-08:00

well like i said, it's something... i just needed to do a painting. so i did. sadly, my brain made a direct jump to phil hale, who, while awesome, is not me. regardless, this is the image i am working on, so far two hours in the making. it's gonna be link. and hopefully it will be more me and less hale soon. meh.

Something

2009-11-22T13:13:00.000-08:00

It is a blessing and a curse to have lots of ideas. It feels wrong to say something cliche when you are trying to express originality... meh. This is, however, true.

I feel pulled in three directions at once, always thinking of something new and exciting while in the middle of another project. This causes me to get bored halfway through all of my work. Unless I finish that work really, really fast. Which I don't, these days.

Poems, stories, drawings, paintings, some days I feel so full of it all that I don't do anything at all. Those days I really feel like I'm full of "it." So after weeks of doing nothing (except work on the whole car fiasco that will define my 22nd year), I declare the beginning of...! Something. Maybe narrated illustration animations, storyboard style. Maybe illustrated poems (don't even say the name Shel Silverstien). It really doesn't matter. What does matter is that I do something.

And so I am telling you. All of you who may have actually stopped reading, what with my lack of postings. I am telling you because if I tell no one then I will let myself down. Tomorrow, I will present to you the beginning of Something. And it will be grand. Or at the very least, much more grand than the more recent of my posts. Which have been understandably ungrand.

Post angrily if I don't. Because if you let me by this time, I'll just act out more. You know how children are.

Trial and tribulation

2009-11-14T21:27:00.000-08:00

I don't have problems. Me saying I have problems is like saying I'm going hungry when my belly growls. Plenty more people have it plenty worse than I. But to say that I've enrolled in the school of hard knocks, and my recent grades were shiny "D's" for dumbass, that might just be accurate.

I hit a guardrail going 45 mpg. This is not some fuzzy metaphor, I just did it. I didn't do it on purpose, mind you. That is, butterfly effect style, why I feel so whittled now. Like a sad little block of wood that was going to be a pipe or something cool if the carver had stopped earlier. That was a metaphor; I am not a block of wood, whittled or otherwise.

So now every once in a while I look around and am tempted to think, damn, this is rough. But I have an apartment and food, sometimes a car, and all the minimum luxuries afforded the entertainment-run American regular. I even have a job, for what it's worth. I work at Jo-annes.

Yes I wear an apron at work, and yes I work with a majority older generation. But I am in the framing department, dammit. Plus, I'm super popular with the more experienced denizens (see that euphemism? not hard to see why, is it?), I got called a tall glass of water by an eighty-year old woman the other day.

I don't have much money, I have even less idea of where my future lies, and I can't imagine the steps I need to take to get to my dreams. Other than sleep. Which I do. Which is one up on some. Did you hear my stomach that time? If you'll excuse me, I've got to go take my lumps.