Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
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Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Pastel Fishy Fish
Tablet 001 - pastel fish by ~bumblefly on deviantART
As I wrote in my Facebook link to this:
I just got a Wacom Bamboo tablet, so I'm going to try to do something with it every day and upload it for critique and suggestions and whatever you have to say about it.
The following goes for all such tablet practice submissions of mine: Artsy people, tear it apart. Non artsy people, say something you like or don't like about it. Be constructive with your comments! :)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Seaside Photo Holder
Note: my blog format cuts this off; if you click on the picture, it goes to its DeviantArt page, where you can see the whole thing, and some commentary.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Going through stuff in the Junk Room, I found this story beginning
May 2, 2002
[handwritten in a sketchbook, don't know why. I don't remember writing this, but it's my handwriting!]
Peter was your typical geeky, outcast of sixth grade, inept-in-all-situations even vaguely social, physically clumsy and nearsighted, and yet he was the one most adept at handling what was going to happen.
It began with odd sensations -- the feeling that when you talked to yourself, out loud or in your head, that someone not quite, but alost, jus like you was answering. It grew from that sensation -- unnerving for most people, unnoticed by Peter -- into actual voices. The odd thing about this was that anyone nearby coud hear your voices, too. Peter remained unaware of the fact that everyone else in the world was experiencing what he decided was just another figment of his overactive imagination, coupled with the cheese-and-mashed-potatoes toasted sandwich from earlier that evening. He frequently saw things under his bed, long after most child psychologists said was the normal cutoff age for night fears. Peter shrugged most of it off, and ignored the monsters, who really were just misty productions of his mind. Alone in his navy blue saturated bedroom, Peter tucked his finished homework into his navy blue backpack (his last name carefully printed on th ebottom), set it on the navy blue carpet beside the door (plain wood), and settled himself into his navy blue fleece-covered beanbag chair. His parents were out for the evening, on one of their weekly dinner-dates. "Keeps the romance alive," they would frequently say, to which Peter would usually wrinkle his nose and silently consider whether to have a frozen pizza doctored with plenty of barbeque sauce, or one of his oddball sandwiches that night. Barry and Michelle Spathi had decided four months ago that their son was responsible enough to be left home alone, with the instructions to turn off the tv at 7, and go to bed by 8. For the ost part, Peter followed these "sugestions," but he generally stayed awake until around 10 reading sci-fi and fantasy.
That night Peter Spathi was curled up in his beanbag, three chapters into Susan Cooper's Greenwitch, when the voice beside his right ear became intelligible. It was muttering things like, "need to cut your hair, you know, I keep telling you that," and "yup, I've lways liked that poster." Peter paused his reading and lifted his gaze to stare at his wall blankly while he listened. His eyes unfocused as he regarded his options. He decided on blowing a raspberry, and did so. Peter immediately registered a feeling of suprise that was not his own, and the voice beside his ear quieted ("rather childish for you, Peter"), and then subsided.
Two and a half chapters later, Peter began to feel a slight pressure on his right shoulder. He leaned his head to the left and twisted his chin over to look to his right. There in his field of vision sat what appeared to be a twiggy, navy blue-haired fairy. Peter blinked once and squinted, because the creature was foggy and somewhat transparent, and he could see his wizard poster through it. Peter briefly wondered if that was the poster that the voice had complimented. He then realized that the mysterious voice most likely belonged to the light weight on his shoulder. The fairy winked at Peter. "My name is Serth Tappei," it said in alost-Peter's voice. Serth was starting to solidify and get heavy, and peter could discern somewhat masculine features on the btterfly-winged little being. Peter blinked again. Serth stood up from his corss-legged seat, and lept lightly to Peter's knee. Tis gave Peter a better view of the seven inch oddity, so he took his time staring carefully at it, not even bothering to say anything.
[handwritten in a sketchbook, don't know why. I don't remember writing this, but it's my handwriting!]
Peter was your typical geeky, outcast of sixth grade, inept-in-all-situations even vaguely social, physically clumsy and nearsighted, and yet he was the one most adept at handling what was going to happen.
It began with odd sensations -- the feeling that when you talked to yourself, out loud or in your head, that someone not quite, but alost, jus like you was answering. It grew from that sensation -- unnerving for most people, unnoticed by Peter -- into actual voices. The odd thing about this was that anyone nearby coud hear your voices, too. Peter remained unaware of the fact that everyone else in the world was experiencing what he decided was just another figment of his overactive imagination, coupled with the cheese-and-mashed-potatoes toasted sandwich from earlier that evening. He frequently saw things under his bed, long after most child psychologists said was the normal cutoff age for night fears. Peter shrugged most of it off, and ignored the monsters, who really were just misty productions of his mind. Alone in his navy blue saturated bedroom, Peter tucked his finished homework into his navy blue backpack (his last name carefully printed on th ebottom), set it on the navy blue carpet beside the door (plain wood), and settled himself into his navy blue fleece-covered beanbag chair. His parents were out for the evening, on one of their weekly dinner-dates. "Keeps the romance alive," they would frequently say, to which Peter would usually wrinkle his nose and silently consider whether to have a frozen pizza doctored with plenty of barbeque sauce, or one of his oddball sandwiches that night. Barry and Michelle Spathi had decided four months ago that their son was responsible enough to be left home alone, with the instructions to turn off the tv at 7, and go to bed by 8. For the ost part, Peter followed these "sugestions," but he generally stayed awake until around 10 reading sci-fi and fantasy.
That night Peter Spathi was curled up in his beanbag, three chapters into Susan Cooper's Greenwitch, when the voice beside his right ear became intelligible. It was muttering things like, "need to cut your hair, you know, I keep telling you that," and "yup, I've lways liked that poster." Peter paused his reading and lifted his gaze to stare at his wall blankly while he listened. His eyes unfocused as he regarded his options. He decided on blowing a raspberry, and did so. Peter immediately registered a feeling of suprise that was not his own, and the voice beside his ear quieted ("rather childish for you, Peter"), and then subsided.
Two and a half chapters later, Peter began to feel a slight pressure on his right shoulder. He leaned his head to the left and twisted his chin over to look to his right. There in his field of vision sat what appeared to be a twiggy, navy blue-haired fairy. Peter blinked once and squinted, because the creature was foggy and somewhat transparent, and he could see his wizard poster through it. Peter briefly wondered if that was the poster that the voice had complimented. He then realized that the mysterious voice most likely belonged to the light weight on his shoulder. The fairy winked at Peter. "My name is Serth Tappei," it said in alost-Peter's voice. Serth was starting to solidify and get heavy, and peter could discern somewhat masculine features on the btterfly-winged little being. Peter blinked again. Serth stood up from his corss-legged seat, and lept lightly to Peter's knee. Tis gave Peter a better view of the seven inch oddity, so he took his time staring carefully at it, not even bothering to say anything.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
This message was sent using the Picture and Video Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!
To learn how you can snap pictures and capture videos with your wireless phone visit www.verizonwireless.com/picture.
Note: To play video messages sent to email, QuickTime® 6.5 or higher is required.
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