Scorched Earth

One thing I can say about cameras - I'm rarely without one.  Another thing I can say about cameras...I'm always pointing them at the strangest things.  This little shot tonight started its digital life as the remains of a cheese soup boil-over burned to a crisp onto the stove-top.

Yup...you heard that right - I took a picture of a common household complaint - the burned on mess of a pot of food that escaped the cooking vessel only to sizzle to its doom on the hot surface below.

Stove cleaned after the photo shoot was done...priorities, dontchaknow...

Photoshop is a wonderful tool - it turned me into a right-handed artist...which is saying something, seeing though I'm rather unapologetically left handed in most everything else.  Put a plain, ordinary pencil in my right hand, and I'm about as gifted as bozo, the wonder bra...but a mouse?  Hello, imagery!

I learned to use a mouse (the computer kind, not the squeaky kind) with my right hand.

Why?

Because that's where the right-handers in my family put the darn thing.  It never occurred to me to move it to the dominant hand.  By the time I got all growed up and started working with computers for a living, instead of out on a shop floor moving product from point 'A' to point 'B', using the mouse with my right hand was well-ingrained, and a bit of a bonus - I could take notes with my left hand while manipulating the mouse with my right.  So...when I started working in 'shop - the right hand FINALLY got to be the artistic one.

I think it's happy that way, and the left hasn't gotten jealous, so I'm good with it.

Flash! Friday's Flash-versary

Headed over to Flash! Friday again -it's a celebration of draconic proportions as they celebrate the turning of their own personal clock.  'Tis an anniversary!


Go...look...and post a story of your own if you're in to flash fiction - there's still time to contribute, and PLENTY to read.  Below is my submission:

Pyromaniac

150 words

Flame.
Orange against black.  Subtle licks of cerulean, scarlet, saffron and emerald flare into being to vanish in an instant later without a trace.  Elongated fingers of incandescence stretch into the void to momentarily paint their essence onto the obsidian night sky.

Inferno.
It is alive with movement - sliding, shifting, waving, weaving - its hypnotic, primal dance both beautiful and terrible as it crafts a timeless, mesmerizing, elemental ballet of destruction.

Blaze.
The voice of combustion, a low, throaty growling howl of clean air transformed to sweltering luminescence, whispering secret desires into the ears of those who worship it.

Immolation.
They listen, comprehending the flare's song in that most primitive portion of the brain.  They stare, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, into the complex twisting leap and swirl of the living flame.  They are powerless to resist the compelling demands of spark, ember, pyre.

Intentional.
Some men live to watch the world burn.

Micro Bookends - Flash Fiction

Another Flash Fiction challenge accepted - and another website to follow!


Micro Bookends



These guys like things short. Really short:  90 - 110 words.  You start and end the piece with the words provided, and incorporate the photo prompt in there.




This week the challenge is:   

Sacred {insert story here} Sound.  

There is a quirky panorama of an airplane hangar for the photo prompt.

I have to admit - I spent some time bouncing ideas around in my head first focusing on the words.  It wasn't until I stopped worrying about the beginning and ending words and started focusing on the type of photo - the panoramic style where the vertical lines 'curve' around the middle of the photo - that I had the thought.

"How do other species 'see' the human world?"
After that - it almost wrote itself...

Enjoy.

Bird Calling

105 words

"Sacred is the flight of the bird, to take wing upon sky and soar amongst cloud.  Observe, oversee, monitor the heavy ones.  Gaia watches through you."

When the sun rises, so does the ancient one, singing the morning call to send us on our tasks.  The aerie fills with the cacophony of wing and song as my brethren take to the sky.

Today, I shall perch near the predator upright's wing enclave, where they house their funny hollow avians, to sing and observe until Gaia has her fill.


"Birdsong," one pipes up, throwing a chunk of bread my way, "I never tire of the sound."

Boomar'ang-ular'

The ceiling work is boomar'ang-ular'

Hey...look at that.  I can make my own words!

When English simply does not have the correct one...

We do love to come up with our own words for new things.  A decade ago, nobody knew what a selfie was - and yet now it's in the dictionary.  This year's 'word of the year'  (you can't make stuff this bizarre up!)  is Vape.

I vape, so I know how important that word has become to me - and the millions of others who have found these neat little gizmos.  But, yea...with all the freaking out being done about it, the word of the year is a distinction I'd rather not have had, as it will undoubtedly throw more fuel on the fire.

But no politics here!!!  I pwomiced!


Yet another blog I've become familiar with is the Daily Post. 

On their menu is a wonderful buffet of ideas fit for the Queen Muse - they have a weekly challenge, a daily prompt, and a weekly photo challenge.  They also allow the community to submit their inspirations and daily prompts of their own.

Most of these challenges allow the bloggers to ping-back to the Daily Post, instead of leaving a comment on their site, which should, through the magic of 'sharing,' bring views to the individual blogs.

Inspiration, AND a space to show off the blog?  Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous!

A little too excited?  Sorry...

Although I'm enjoying my recent obsession with Flash Fiction - I do kind of hunger to sink my teeth into a good visual again...and this week's Photo Challenge at the Daily was a thick, juicy steak with plenty of room for various toppings and/or side dishes.

Angular.
                  Not to put too fine a point on it, though this week, we
                  challenge you to show us what “angular” means to you.


A single words packs such an inspirational punch...and, as it happens, I do have some rather angular shots...including this one - captured at the Eagles Ballroom in Milwaukee just this last weekend.

Inhospitable Wonderland

A while ago, I found a simple post by a wonderful lady on Google+ - she took a shot of the front grill of her pot bellied stove with a warm and inviting fire burning merrily inside...jotted down a brief post about how it was time for more wood on the fire, and coffee to act as balance against the cold snowflakes.

The image was a beautifully done contrast between the dark iron of the stove's door and the bright orange back-light of the fire - and through the slits in the door you could see the fire's dancing forms.  The image evokes thoughts and feelings of warmth, solitude, and simplicity.  I appreciate a lot of photography, but to be honest, very few things draw me as powerfully as these overly-darkened shots with bright highlights, as it's my favorite photographic style.

I've got terabytes of dark shots in my own portfolio.

I caught this shot on one of my last walks downtown of the year - obviously around Halloween.  A week or so later, and we got the cold thing.  Hibernation time!

Although - I do brave the cold thing every once in a while,when the need is there.  I had a project buzzing in my head last winter for a glass etch/ photographic fusion, so I ran out, in the dark, in the cold (and yea..it was COLD that night - sub-zero temps with blustery winds) to catch some Christmas decorations.







Here's a shot of that finished project - the glass in the frame was etched to suggest the snow on the tree - and the lights were heavily saturated to bring them through the frost.





Well, I caught the shot of the cast-iron stove grill out of the corner of my eye (figuratively speaking) and before the coffee had kicked in (that's literal!), and saw something completely different than what she'd shot.   So...of to 'shop I went in a hurry...to bring the idea to life...



The big picture at the top of this post is what I saw in my head.


A good mental image is a terrible thing to waste...


And - to honor the other little bit of creativity that's currently sparking in my head - I'm going to pair this up with a bit of flash fiction:

Habitat for Humanity   

157 words

Bah! 

I lift my left hand in a classic, 
albeit extremely rude, 
very human, salute, 
giving the outside world, steel walls, 
and endless platitudes I'm fed on a daily basis 
the full fury of my middle finger.

Life itself is the most precious gift we are given...

We prided ourselves on being masters of our environment. 

Masters of space.  Masters of time.  Tamers of the universe.

For as long as there is breath in my body...

Yet our arrogance didn't grant us a single second 
of additional grandstanding

when the visitor's weapons melted our sky.

My duty to mankind is to document its downfall...

I'm tired of solitude. Sick of stale air. 

Angered with the never-ending firestorm that rages 
outside this tiny bubble of compatible environment 
I'm enclosed in.

And for this...I am a lucky one...

I was one of the few they retained as museum pieces. 

Specimens. 

Oddities. 

Pets.

 signed
human goldfish in a bowl...

Flash Fiction

I had a 'bout of Origami creativity strike around 2 years ago - one thing I was absolutely obsessed over was making a paper rose.  I started small and simple, with an iris and a crane, and progressed up through boxes, crabs, lotus flowers, neat little spinney toys, tessellations and other mathematical forms until I was ready to tackle the rose.  I never did figure out how to properly 'close' the form's bottom end - but I took one of the better roses and stuck a light inside it.  You can still see some of the printing from the inside bleeding through.

I did all different colors, too...

It's such a flashy little flower, which brings me to the topic of the day - Flash Fiction.


Insert fanfare here...


I'd never heard of this concept up until a few weeks ago, when I was, once again, searching the blog-o-sphere for that next creative spark.  I give out a hearty hat-tip to Brandon and his blog:    Coolerbs Reviews

Granted, reviews usually aren't my thing - but you did suggest a new book for the kindle that I've got lined up in my purchase queue.  You also introduced me to this Flash Fiction thing.  Many, MANY thanks for sharing your short fictions with the world...you've presented me with an ever-expanding assortment of new ideas to put my creativity to the test.


The concept of Flash Fiction is infuriatingly simple.  The host site posts a picture, an idea, a specific starting/ending word, or any other variation that a mind can come up with.  The participants then post a story with this theme in mind. 

That covers the fiction aspect...

The Flash part comes in with a quick timeline for submissions (24-48 hour windows), and a small word count (I've seen 55-500 word counts).  If you feel the need to more traditional flashing...please DON'T post any pictures, and have a friend's phone number memorized for bail money.


I can see my fingers quiver........in antici-                                                                    pation!



This is a style of writing I can really get behind.  I get to crystallize a single moment of time - flash frozen - for the reader's consumption.  And, with weekly contests floating around the 'net, I have several sources of nourishment for my muse, giving her exactly what she needs to power my writing - that all illusive, yet vital as breathing, initial spark.

That, I've found, is the hardest part of the creative process - that initial thought, the tiny push that starts the rock rolling, to become the thunderous 'IDEA' that rolls along the neurons of my mind, stirring up the roadbed and leaving new pathways to explore in its wake.



And in the beginning...there was a...monkey?


Here's a flash fiction site I found on Friday:  Flash Friday.  They posted a picture of a monkey seated on the balcony of a (I assume) hotel room in a tropical location - you can see the expanse of aquamarine blue water and a cityscape behind the creature.  The length of the story was 150 words (+/-10), and you had to squeeze in the name of an author.

Granted, I could go to the site and swipe the picture - but I want to allow click-backs to this wonderful, dragon-citing blog site - so go see it for yourself.  And maybe...leave a story or two...


Sadly, I found this site on Friday afternoon, and submissions had to be put in by Midnight.  Life, Groceries, and the SQO happened Friday evening - so I couldn't finish up this first Flashy Fiction story until today.  I simply couldNOT leave a quickie piece to languish half-done and unshared - so Enjoy!

MonkeyBusiness - 146 words

"There!"
"Where?"
"The Balcony!"

She glares first out the window, then swings violent eyes to me, certain the declaration of not-to-be-seen things once again proves I'm insane.  She storms from the room, anger trailing in her wake, snarling "Get your hands off me, you damn dirty ape!"  as I stretch a calming hand toward her shoulder. 

The words are laced with all the fury of Pierre Boulle's first pen stroke, and the room shakes with the thunder of her slamming the door.

Forever, it has followed, silent shadow, tormentor and muse.  The fecund stench of hot fruit announces his appearance, a drift of grey fur follows in the wake of his vanishing. 

He mocks me,
inspires me,
denounces and fires me.

Wizened face,
cold eyes, grimace
For me only, not the miss.

For to me
reality,
but alas she cannot see...


The Monkey at my Back.



 

Death by Bouncy Ball

Just to clarify - I took this picture with my eyes closed...

"I swear, I didn't think THAT would happen!!!"

Yea, famous last words, usually intoned with a degree of awe, shock, and slurred due to the heavy drinking done beforehand.

A variation of the first utterance would be "Whoa...whodathunkit???" depending on the amount of alcohol consumed, the length of time it took to consume it, the body-weight of the consumer and the amount of resistance they've built up over years of soaking their brain cells in beer.

If coma-by-beer is imminent, you may hear 'Whooooh!  YEA!" along with a string of four-letter words interspersed by sounds that don't correspond to any known language.



Did I mention that Wisconsin takes its beer as seriously (if not more so) than its baked goods? 



Wisconsin was home to Miller, Old Milwaukee, and Pabst Blue Ribbon beers once upon a time.
We've got micro-breweries in half our cities.

We've a lot of small towns in this state that can only be pronounced when the tongue is slightly anesthetized, lest you risk biting said muscle when trying to twist it into the proper contortion to pronounce  Oconomowoc, Manatowoc, Waukesha, Menomonie Falls, Sheboygan and Mukwonago.

Our pro-baseball team is called the Brewers, and they play at Miller Park (renamed for a HUGE pile of money when they rebuilt the stadium).

Another good (or bad, you decide...) alcohol-induced distinction Wisconsin held for years was the town of Watertown.  For decades, this little town, population 20k-ish, had 'more bars per capita than any other city in the world.'  I lived in Watertown for many years, and can confirm the title's accuracy.  Even today, you can't go more than 2 blocks in any given direction without finding a drinking establishment in front of you.


Safe to say, Wisconsinites are steeped in barley and hops from before we're born to after we've been put in the ground.  You can hear the livers within the state collectively pickling on any given warm summer night after the bars close... but you have to really listen.

shhhhh...hear that?

The University of Wisconsin/Madison (UWM) was known for years as THE party campus in the US before some puritan college administrator got a wild hair up their ass and started demanding muscle to tamp down the shenanigans.  I think it had something to do with proximity to the Capital Square, a bare mile east of, and a straight shot up State Street, away, and some busybody worrying about the 'public face' of higher education in the state.

Or maybe, they got drunk, and took a vow whilst dealing with the 'morning after' hangover.

I hate when that happens...

Yes, I realize that at any college in the States, you will find, on any given Friday or Saturday night, a kegger party or two (dozen) as very-young adults, on their own for the first time in their lives,  make the same bad decisions their parents did at the same age, and learn all about the consequences of those decisions.  Sometimes, dubious herbal substances make appearances at these same gatherings.

"higher" education at it's finest...  

At UWM - they didn't limit themselves to Friday and/or Saturday night.  Keggers on campus were every hour, on the hour, 24/7/365, excluding summers where everyone went home to drink.  You could set your watch by the sound of a new keg being tapped.

Well, a long time ago, on a campus far, far away (spacial/relative proximity irrelevant in story mode) there was a battle against those who frowned on hops, and those who celebrated the cold, gold, carbonated beverage-of-the-gods.  They were called the Dry's, and the Wet's.

After years of vicious fighting, in which much beer was spilled, many tongues (and fingers) wagged furiously, many mind-altering substances tried and celebrated, and far too much moral outrage exhibited, the Wet's and the Dry's came to an uneasy settlement which caused the cessation of hostilities.

The daylight hours were dedicated to study and education.  The nighttime hours were for recreational substances...and never the twain shall meet.

In Wisconsin - beer IS a solution
                                 (this tagline brought to you by the Chemistry Department at UWM)



Every college campus has a street or avenue or park 'dedicated' to the college after-class scene - where the young-adults gather for social purposes.  In Madison, this is State Street - the mile-long stretch of road linking the university campus to the Capital Square.  It's filled with little shops offering food, drinks, snacks, books, religious icons (big or small, we offer 'em all...), decadent desserts, clothing, recreational glassware, and oddball boutique-y/artsy items unique to denizens who congregate nightly. 

There are no 'chain' stores on State Street...the vibe is very intimate.  Very organic.  Very REAL.  The entire stretch is steeped in a Bohemian energy generated when people withOUT wealth have to use their creativity and imaginations to entertain themselves, instead of buying their entertainment pre-packaged and mass-produced to create income streams for the few who can buy into the system.  
I had the opportunity to walk the length and breadth of State the last weekend in September, to feel this intense vibe personally... properly chaperoned by two who have adopted (or is that the other way around?) the location.  I have to say - that vibe alone is intoxicating... no beer necessary.

Oooooo - what you said!!!


I can't wait to go back, armed with more than my little iPod for a camera, to attempt to capture the flavor of this little pocket of free-spirit energy.  As a whole, we humans really need to cherish these pockets, and figure out how to make them grow withOUT exploiting them for their 'income potential.'

But for now - I'll share the few photos I did manage to take with the iPod that are acceptable to the photographer within me.

I found this dragon-ship in a rock shop. 
Does anyone else see the humor in the term 'Rock Shop?' or is it just me?

This particular rock is a boat, carved from a single piece of jade.  Only the $400 price tag kept me from immediately adopting this ship to sail home with me.



Sadly, carving things out of rock are not part of my creativity package - I just have to be happy with looking, drooling, and photographing.

 
Another jade carving in the rock shop - a TEA set.  How could I NOT snap a photo of this one??

I may be back to the rock shop to capture more images of this one, and incorporate them into the blog.  Stay tuned!

 
Here would be the resident water feature on the square.  I've found 'wealth' delights in adding artistic water pieces any time they want to impress the masses.  Any time I find such an object, I make it a habit to introduce myself to the water spirits of the place.  So, I played with the water for a bit - shook hands with the resident spirit, as it were - and snapped a couple of quickies after thanking the water for contributing to the vibration of the area.

I WANTED to capture the Capital dome backlit by the sunset, but the scene wouldn't cooperate with me - the angles were wrong no matter where I stopped to frame the shot.  This was the best shot I could get of the dome and one of the statues lining the square.

Someone parked a few circus wagons at the junction of State Street and the Square - this one was one of my favorites with the heavy gilding making the carved figures pop against the rich blue wood.

My kids took me to this little, hole-in-the-wall pizza place for a respite against all the walking we were doing.  This place sold pizza by the slice.  Not impressive-sounding?  The slices were HUGE.  They hung off the edges of a regular dinner plate.  I couldn't finish my single slice of Ham and Pineapple.
And the toppings?  More varieties than I could count. 


I captured myself in this shot - I'm in the left (appropriate, no?) corner of the mirror.

 

I love to decorate with light - so did some of the shops on State Street.  These 2 pictures show one window-decoration where the shop-owners showed off some of their very-impressive light fixtures. 










I really, really, REALLY want this one!!!!

I love the mix of old-world and high-tech blended together around the Capital square.  You can see this mix all up and down State Street.

 

Part of what makes this particular photo 'work' is the mix: it's both over- and under-exposed in the same shot.  I actually stood in the middle of a side street to capture this one - with the kids watching for cars coming up behind me.  I had JUST enough time to frame, shoot, and move out of the way of the car racing to catch the green light.

"But wait!" you cry, angered at your computer screen. 

WHERE DOES THE BOUNCY BALL COME IN???

Oh....that...

I bought one recently, when visiting a little hot-dog shack with my youngest son.  He originally snorted and rolled his eyes in true teen fashion, disbelief radiating from every pore that his MOTHER would go to such lengths to embarrass him by purchasing a toy crafted for children - not the young-adult he's aspiring to be.

Once we got through the posturing, the teen image maintained and the illusion strengthened, we bounced the thing back and forth in the parking lot - enjoying ourselves with this simple sphere of rubber.  The amusement was had for the bargain-price of three quarters fed to a glass and aluminum machine and a simple twist of a handle.


The ant, unfortunately, suffered a painful and rather surprising end as the ball crushed him to a tiny moist spot on the pavement.

GOTCHA

This has been another 'slightly to the Left of Reality' brain wandering...

WHAT is Mightier than the Pen???

It's amazing what you can find when you start typing in strange requests of Google.  Today, I found a gem in a pen refill.


I work in an office.  While working, I use a pen...frequently.  Useful things, pens...as they are handy for jotting down notes, doodling, scratching hard-to-reach-places, pointing at things, and a host of other spur-of-the-moment things you need that slender object in your hand to do. 


 
                I have a favorite pen.



Within everyone's lives, they acquire 'favorite' things - stuff that they use or gaze upon on a daily basis.  It's hardwired into our brains to recognize things we come into contact with repeatedly, and to attach a feeling of familiarity to them. 

With that said - I'm attached to this favorite pen of mine. 

This particular pen was received as a freebie from a marketing company years ago, pre-branded with the company's name on its shiny red barrel.  It was addressed to the owner of my company, who preferred the cheap plastic ones he could chew on - so I acquired it in his stead.  Funny enough...about a week after the pen (and the included marketing come-on) arrived at the office, I received a call from the marketing company wanting to know how "He was enjoying his free pen."

Dontcha just love salesmen?

Well...I enjoy my lovely little pen M-F, 9 to 5, excluding Holidays and Vacation time  - it has a nice feel and weight to it that you don't get from your cheaper disposables, and continue to buy the replacement ink cartridges for it.  Alas...the name of the marketing company and salesman who called those many years ago has been lost in the darkest corners of my memory.   

But I still have the pen.

Would you believe  -  -  I've chased co-workers across the office for my pen?   Quite unconsciously, a borrower will occasionally attempt to become a thief - especially at the beginning of the work day before the coffee has kicked in. 

After 7 or 8 years of superb service, my pen has become quite unique amongst pens (the 'I've been front line on several wars' finish is very unique) so it's easy to single out from the plethora of cheap disposable Bic ballpoints inhabiting my co-worker's desks, even when I don't catch the thief in the act.


Well - the refill ran out of ink today.  Yea, it happens.  It just shouldn't have happened so soon based on my normal usage.  


 
Soooo - frustrated with my brand of ink refill                        - into Google I go.



THE first thing to show up?  This gem

I haven't had this good a giggle in a while.  The level of snark - NINJA.
I'll be giggling all the way to Office Depot to find a new refill.





sorry instructables...it won't be a Mont Blanc.

Oh....What a Tangled Web we Weave...

October.  Harvest season.  The time when the plants have completed their life-cycle, and are preparing to die or go dormant for the long winter sleep.  The squirrels, chipmunks, and other rodents tear madly about from tree to ground, location to location, in a last frantic burst of gathering nuts and seeds to sustain themselves in the long, cold months just ahead. The trees shift from summer green to the reds, oranges, yellows and browns of the Autumn palette - and are filled with birds preparing to migrate to warmer climates.  (smart freaking birds, if you ask me...)  

Empathically, this is my worst season, even as I peak with creativity (how can I not, with all the activity and color around me?)  I keenly feel the shift in the Earth from growth to sleep.  I want to join with this cycle.  I want to sleep all winter, too...

Damn this whole 'human' thing!

The calendar culminates the Harvest Season with All Hallow's Eve - Halloween.  As with every other holiday in the States, we've turned this one into a commercial orgy of "buy, buy, buy!!!!!" - but this season is also paired with "scare, scare, scare!!!"

People spend a ton of money on Halloween - on candy, costumes & decorations.  Parties are planned and thrown, new recipes are researched and experimented with, pranks are schemed up and instigated.  Movies are rated for their fright-factor, and the blood (simulated, or course) flows both on the screen and on the watchers.  Sometimes other, more genuine bodily fluids make public appearances, as well.

Ewwww. 

At one time, the neighbors who lived on the first level of the home I was sharing were REAL Halloween nuts.  It was their favorite holiday, and they decorated like fiends.  They had tombstones in the front yard, hanging heads in the backyard, cobwebs in the hallways, coffins and zombies and witches and skeletons and anything else you can think of scattered about the house and grounds.

 

They even had the flat witch on her broom stuck to a tree, which never fails to elicit a chuckle from me...




The also threw one hell of a party...costumes mandatory.

I was coming home from a night out with the SQO the night of their party.  By the time I was coming up the street, their party was in full swing - the alcohol was flowing, the music was rocking, the party-goers all over the house and grounds.  As I turned into the driveway, my headlights illuminated a pair of men dressed in dark blue spandex body suits with bright yellow boots, matching letters on their chests, masks covering their eyes, elbow-length gloves, and coordinating 'undies' in the crotch region - superheros who had left their capes at home.

Unfortunately, in the uncertain light from the street and my sudden illumination from the headlights - all that got bright was the yellow portions of their costumes.  My first and immediate thought - 'Are they wearing diapers?????'

Thanks to the Halloween deities that my windows were closed, because I couldn't help but blurt that one out. 

Halloween - It's one hell of a holiday - especially with shenanigans like these.



The teapot and I are celebrating Halloween this year with a web Zentangle design.  This is one of the most complex things I have done with 'shop to date.  It involved a layer mask and a distortion file, and a couple of alternate filters to give it the look it ended up with.  I'm quite pleased, even if it really doesn't invoke 'scary,' suggest the harvest season, or pretend to be a diaper.  It's a web, and webs are significant to the Halloween spirit.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The pebble I picked up recently (see Zen and the art of Photography) turned out to be a VERY fertile seed.  I've started creating Zentangles on my computer.  Not traditional, as I use electronic means instead of doing it the old fashioned way, putting ink to paper, so I've obviously forged back into my field of weeds to blaze my own trail in this artform.



 
This is the web design all flat - before I distorted it to fit around the teapot.

 These next 2 are actually the same grid and the same patterning within the grid lines.  On the left is the straight grid, and I gave it a fuzzed texture - it almost looks like carpet.  


The one below has a twirl and some additional filters added to it for a decidedly darker look.
 




But wait!  I was talking about Halloween!

For me, Halloween stopped being an "Oh my GAWD!  I can't WAIT!' holiday when I decided, in my 13 year old, teenaged brain, that it was too much work to design a costume, figure out how to/actually go through the work to/ craft said same, and then to walk around the neighborhood at night to beg for sugar.  



See, I didn't get to just run down to the store with the parental units and pick out something ready-made. 

If I wanted a costume, the entire blueprint had to come out of my head.  I had to come up with the concept - what I wanted it to look like, how it was going to be constructed, what materials I'd need, was I going to be able to breathe and see and walk in it, etc.  

The whole shebang had to be crafted.

It wasn't that we were poor, or my parents were uncaring or unavailable.  They were always ready, willing and able to lend assistance (one year, my mom sewed me a green jumpsuit because I wanted to be a martian) and they bought the supplies I'd need (the robot was a fun year - I got to save boxes and old coffee cans, and use tools, wire, and spray paint!).  

They were teaching me to think, and design, and explore the ordinary things around me with a creative perspective.  This pile of ordinary STUFF could be transformed into something unique and special with a bit of ingenuity and work.

They turned me into the creative machine I am today.

They did good.

Zen and the art of Photography

I found this adorable frog sitting in a yoga pose in my SQO's sister's back yard this spring.  He was just contemplating life in a classic yoga pose, arms resting on legs in lotus position, fingers touching to create a circle, surveying the backyard and springtime in Wisconsin.  Then I came along with my camera and 'shop skills, and introduced him to the finer points of tea consumption.  I hear he is now up to 8 cuppa day of Earl Grey, sun-warmed and liberally laced with honey to attract flies. 

I've received a bill for the added grocery expense...sometimes photography can be expensive in weird ways.

But, I'll do just about anything for a Zen fix.

My workplace has been on a wellness kick since they reviewed the insurance costs last year.  We got the typical posters on the lunch-room board for 'how to eat healthy,' 'how to sleep healthy,' 'how to quit smoking,' etc., which are pretty typical fare in Corporate America:  easy to find, pre-chewed, and ready to regurgitate on command.

This is where a lot of Corporate America stops, rubber-stamping their wellness campaigns and patting themselves on the back for a job well done. All surface, and no real substance. 

A more honest sign would have 'This PSA brought to you by the Health Nazi's who believe they know more about your body then you do.'

**warning** political content detected!  Subject change NAOW!


My company's HR department likes to think outside the box, and aren't afraid to put in the work to do so.

In January, we were all invited to 'walk to warmth.'  Pedometers were offered free of charge, and the participants counted their steps.  Once a week, we reported our steps, which were then totaled together, our combined efforts mapped out in miles, and our progress to a destination charted.  Each week, we'd get a rundown of how far the group had walked, where we now were in geographical terms, and a little bit of history about the location we had made it to.

We made it from Wisconsin to Pasadena, FL, in a little more than 2 weeks (we have some people who walk a LOT).  Since then, we've wandered around the US, occasionally crossing our path, and are finally heading home.  Boy, are my imaginary feet sore.

I can't say that the Walk to Warmth campaign got me to walk MORE, but it did give me a baseline on just how much activity I'm (sadly) not getting.

I love to travel - metaphysically, at least.  


A new wellness initiative they have been working on, and just introduced, was the discounted membership rates at one of our local gyms.

YES!

I raced to the place and plunked my monies down.  Not, as you should realize by now, to go sweat on their wall-o-torture equipment (the dreaded elliptical, treadmill, free-weights, etc...) but because this particular gym has a pool.

I absolutely LOVE swimming laps.  I don't go fast, I'm not in it for the energetic splashing or beating the clock or any of the other 'macho' crap that people attempt to get out of their workouts. 

I drift.

           I glide.

                       I create as few ripples as possible. 

I silently flow from one edge of the pool to the other, back and forth, pacing the pool, as it were, much as a person paces the waiting room of the hospital when their significant other is in the operating theatre.

Except I don't have the stress and anxiety of the hospital-pacer.  My pacing is freedom.

Why?

When I synchronize my muscles and my breath in a repetitive cycle, my mind is free to wander.  I have times when I think of financial, household, personal, or other concerns that are eating my mind.  I have times when I compose a new story line, or trip down the fantastical rabbit-hole to somewhere I haven't been before.  Sometimes, I brew up a hot cup of tea for a new blog post...

I also have times when the mind simply goes dormant, quiet, an impartial participant/observer of each clear moment of NOW as it happens, there but separate from the automatic body-motions as I glide, stroke, glide, stroke, glide my way through the water. 

This is my Zen.  Achieving thought through no-thought.

I'm sure there are other, more knowledgeable blogs and articles out there on how to 'properly' achieve Zen, who would scathingly lambaste my attempts as a milquetoast attempt with NO foundation in their granite-set rulebook, but I really don't care.  When I swim slow laps, the body goes on autopilot, the mind crystallizes into the now, and Zen becomes my reality.  

See...I don't wish to travel on an already established road, either metaphysically or in, for lack of a better term, reality.  I choose not to follow rote instructions, diagrams or beliefs.  I have studied, and incorporated, bits and pieces from the 'establishments' into my life journey, finding that each has a piece of the ultimate answer (hint...it's not 42) but have lost the way by dictating the minute, day-to-day actions as one-size-fits-all.

Step off the path, put down the holy book, and stop with the rote formulae handed to you by others as a 'go directly to enlightenment' card.  These are human trappings, and if you focus on them, you limit yourself.

And, if you see a figure in your metaphysical journey, making their slow way across an ungroomed field of weeds, stop for a contemplative moment and let me join you for a spell.  I can't guarantee we'll walk the rest of the road together, but, for a time, we can experience things in concert.

Thank you for reading the 'slightly to the left of normal' ramblings...



Let's get back to all things Zen.  My cursory, slightly mad exploration of the 'net turned up an interesting blog. Art Photographer | Life Blogger |

A special nod to the author of this blog - Karen Lynn Sandoval - for documenting your journey for all to see.  I came across your path, and found it absorbing.
 
Karen does many things...including an art form called Zentangle.

I do remember reading up on Zentangles quite a while ago, and my initial, brief scanning of the quickly available data available on the web gave me a completely WRONG idea on what the art  encompasses.  I thought one simply put pen to paper and drew abstract shapes until a piece of art emerged, following the unconscious design of the creator.

Yea - I was completely wrong.  About the only thing I got right was the pen to paper bit.

Zentangle follows a very precise set of rules.  The area in which you work has to be 3.5x3.5 inches.  The paper has to be white, unadorned, handmade or commercially available is the artist's choice, but the less occlusions or texture on the paper the better.  The true tangle is devoid of color - only black and white...and no pencils allowed.  Mistakes are incorporated into your design. 

Create a border first, freehand, so you don't go outside the lines (remember "the lines are our friends?).  Then start with a 'string' (a few lines drawn within the border) where you will attach your tangles.  You then begin applying your patterns.

And the patterns of Zentangle? - they are many, varied, and precise.  People study these patterns.  People teach these patterns.  There are books and videos and schools for these patterns.

You create your tangle with single-minded focus on the pattern you are choosing, blotting out all other considerations and concerns while you put pen to paper.  This encompasses the wonder of Zen - concentration and mindfulness on the moment, crystallizing your attention on the now, instead of the everywhen.

Have I said lately that Zen is a beautiful thing?


I may just have to take the essence of tangling, and put my own spin on it.  I stepped onto Karen's well-traveled path, picked up a stone, and now contemplate what to do with the pebble in my pocket.  I can hear it nattering in my metaphysical ear even now.

With my love of all things 'shop - I can't wait to see what I come up with. 

What was that again?

Did you ever have a really great idea?  I'm talking an earth-moving, soul-shaking, supreme-being-like epiphany - something that rocked your entire worldview and was certain to establish the next evoloution in human nature?

Ever put such an idea off as 'I've GOT to record this!...but (insert real life situation here) comes first' resulting in going on about your life until the hot idea gets buried in the back of the deep freeze of your mind, to wallow in a slow-death of freezer burn, never to emerge into the warmth of the kitchen again?

Yea...me too.                         All.    The.     Time.            


I'm sure there are millions of unrealized ideas that once struck me, but I've misplaced in the everyday drudgery of earning enough currency to keep me and mine's carbon-based meat containers fed, clothed, sheltered, medicated, educated and entertained.

I do have a story to share with you today, however.  It's an old story, and it comes with another story to explain the story.  So get all comfy, kids, and settle down into your blankets and pillows and jammies...because it's story hour.

Although if it takes you an hour to read this post - I may need to reevaluate my excessive use of esoteric verbiage and relegate myself to straightforward vernacular henceforth.

I had a dream.  

Yea, it's been done before...but in this case...it's accurate.

It wasn't a 'change the world,' M.L.K. type of dream - it was one of those with disturbing, heart-pounding imagery liberally laced with dream-logic.  I tend to have a lot of those.  Sometimes I write them down, sometimes I'm happier just forgetting them, letting the dream logic fade out like fog on a sunny morning.

This particular dream was determined to stick around without my writing it out, and in defiance of the then-brutal schedule I had running my life.

See -  at the time I was working a very demanding 12 hour shift at a manufacturing plant - 6pm to 6am.  It was a mythological-beast of a job (think...Kraken, Minotaur, Dragon, etc...big, demanding, and ready to eat you in one bite for crossing that imaginary line) - half the day spent on a dirty, dusty, noisy factory floor, standing the entire time - cutting big sheets of labels into finished packets of labels, and sorting for flaws as one went through the stacks. 

If this sounds mind-numbingly boring, then I'm describing it right.

But once you learned the job well, you could set yourself on auto-pilot, which allowed for conversations with co-workers (if you could hear them over the shriek of the machinery) or time to let your mind wander aimlessly on whatever subject had caught your fancy.

I fleshed out a couple of good book ideas on that shop floor, hundreds of short stories, had countless conversations with myself, and somehow managed to save the world a dozen times over between picking bad labels out of the good ones.

So, back to this dream that I had...

That sucker was branded into my brain.  It demanded more than simple acknowledgement, it arrogantly commanded delivery out of my head to paper (or its electronic substitute).  It absolutely refused to be silent, to be patient, to wait for the opportune time to become more than an idea.  It was a spoiled brat, throwing a defiant temper-tantrum in the face of the Draconian Job which was interfering with its creative birthing process.

I listened to the incessant whining of this spoiled-brat idea all throughout my work shift, trying to quell the ever-more shrill demands for attention as the night wore on.  At about the midpoint of my workday, I started spinning the story in my head as I moved product from point A to point B.   I wrote brief notes on my breaks, so I could put the everything together once I had time to sit at the word processor.  I knew this one would be a short story - a single, crystallized slice of time - but I was getting excited to put it to paper.

There was only one large problem with typing the story out.  

It was the middle of the work week - which meant another 12 hour shift after only 12 hours off .  12 hours to:
Eat.  Sleep. Bathe.  Dress.  Prep for work.  Family interaction.  Travel to/from work.

Unwinding from the work day by putting an idea to paper was not in the schedule - it wasn't going to BE in the schedule until the work-week was done.  Time between shifts was Premium, Ocean-Front, Deluxe 8 bedroom Mansion Temporal-Real-Estate.  Unwinding between shifts was sleep...there wasn't spare time for anything else.

So I sat the little spoiled-brat idea down in a virtual chair, and explained the situation.  I pointed out the real-life, paper notes I had written out.  It received some attention, and tomorrow, after work, was 'us' time until it was properly constructed.  I think I even gave it an imaginary hug and wiped away some pretend tears.

Grudgingly, spoiled-brat idea acquiesced to real-life situation.

So...I had a little breakfast.  Spent some time with the fam.  Hopped in the shower.  Proceeded to the bedroom to catch some Zzzzz's.

Spoiled-brat idea whimpered in my mind as I composed myself for sleep.

It whistled a bawdy show-tune off-key, while bouncing a fake ball off the supposed walls of my mind.

I rolled around in bed - shushing spoiled-brat idea, reinforcing the need for sleep. 

It lit a bonfire, fanned the flames in my head.

I rolled around some more.

And some more.  I think that's when the keg was tapped, and the rock music started thumping out of the speaker stacks.

The idea would not settle down enough for me to sleep.

"ENOUGH!" I mentally berated my over-active imagination.

I got up, took a couple of sleeping tablets and went back to bed to let them hit.  It was the Pharmacological equivalent of a quick spanking and "Go to your room!" banishment to spoiled-brat partying idea.

It responded by turning UP the music, breaking out the hard liquor and 'shrooms, and inviting the metalheads over to the crib for a 'Wicked Disaster of a Random Fiesta!'

Attention:  NOW.    No time for sleep, no time for dreams, no time for restoring the body - "you can sleep when you're dead, dammit!"

There are times when I really dislike the creative voices.

I finally got out of bed at 2.  I was supposed to be up by 4, so I figured even if I COULD get to sleep, a bare 2 hours of rest to go work a 12 hour shift wasn't the best idea in the world - especially when you work in a factory using really big and wickedly sharp knives, dies and spinning cutty things powered with 2 TONS of hydraulic pressure.

I wasn't about to flirt with amputation...So I called in an absence to work, and allowed the birthing-labors of spoiled-brat idea to proceed.

Society of this time will say that sleep deprivation is not a good reason to miss a day of work - but that's an issue I'm not going to address in this posting.  Maybe later, we'll discuss the finer points of this country's obsession/problem with trading labor for survival and all subsequent judgements - but not today.

The story itself took around a half-hour to write. 

A half hour.  30 minutes.  1800 seconds.  A good power-nap is quoted at 20 minutes.  You can cook a frozen pizza in 15, let tea steep in the cup for 6-8 minutes, and remember to brush your teeth for 3 full minutes 2 times a day.

30 freaking minutes - when I wasted 5 whole hours rolling around in my damn bed.  Why, WHy, WHY?!?!?! didn't I just write the blasted thing before I went to bed???

Hindsight - it's always 20/20 vision...and I still regularly mentally kick myself in the can for it.


But the story was worth it - let me know if you agree...

PRISON OF THE MIND

I pound against the rainbow hued glass walls of my prison beyond the point of pain, slamming my fists against the unyielding surface until even my arms grow numb. I scream and beg and plead for mercy until I am too hoarse to send even a whisper up the funnel shaped ceiling. A torrent of tears flood from my eyes as I curl up on the bowl shaped floor. I cry myself to sleep, exhausted both physically and mentally.

I awake oddly refreshed, and suppress the wave of insanity that demands I continue the cycle, pounding, screaming and crying until I am no longer me, but some shapeless mass of cringing emotions and nerves ready to be shaped by the malevolent presence that would free me.

No. Not free me. Freedom is now beyond my grasp, forever lost to me. Unless. . . .

I MUST ESCAPE!!!

I throw myself bodily against my prison wall, beginning the cycle anew. My mind splinters into fragments of feelings. Rage, pain, terror, panic all compete with my rational being for the ultimate control. Control. What a tremendous joke. I have no control left. That, too, was stolen from me by my captor.

I feel my hands. The pain gains control of the shattered fragments of my mind. I focus on nothing but the red hue of my pain. It is a living thing, sucking my soul, this pain. A dry croak rips from my throat, demanding attention. Water. I must have water.

I stop pounding for a second, feeling this sensation of having a dry throat. This feeling, too, seems to be a living thing, capturing my attention. Without pause, there is a glass in my hand. I can feel the moisture of condensation on the outside of the glass; it feels cool and soothing on my sore skin. The water feels good against my dry lips, my raw throat. The glass is empty, and I hurl it against the wall. The glass shatters against the prison wall, the shards spreading against the unyielding collage of colors like water across tile. Before they hit the floor, they are gone.

It felt good, that bit of control. The act of violence snaps the fragments of my mind to a whole. Yes. For a while, I am free of the madness that stretches its fingers towards me. I can think, I can remember. I remember why I am here.

An innocent day. An ancient bottle, stuck on the top shelf of an equally ancient shop, in a tumbledown shack of a curio shop in India. The beautiful swirl of colors glinting in the dusty sunlight. My longing to have the antique in my hands. The wide, blackened teeth smile of the wizened shopkeeper as he takes it from the shelf. The old glass stopper, made of the same myriad color glass, flaring out from the neck of the bottle then tapering to a delicate point. Tight, the stopper, hard to remove. Inside the bottle the scrap of ancient parchment. Giddy with curiosity, translating the words. Blackness and light. Here.

A fire ignites behind my eyes as the rage builds. Remember the words! Those words trapped me here, those words changed my world, and those words changed my being. Those words so violated me, those hateful words. I need to remember them, to scream them out!

I feel the need to splatter myself against the walls of glass to end this existence, but I cannot. I traded my freedom for the dream, the unreal. With those spoken words I imprisoned myself.

I am the genie in the bottle.