Always Darkest...

Cameraphone picture of an oncoming storm at my Mom's house.

Yeah, sorry, I did mention something about posting on Wednesday, didn't I? Well, technically it still is Wednesday, so...

I do apologize for the lack of actual art and updates. If you've been following along, you know this past month has not been a good month for me and my family. One of the unexpected side effects has left me just about completely without energy for anything other than going to work and coming home. I've been here for a month now, and most of my apartment is still packed in boxes. Now, there are some legit reasons for that, but mainly it comes down to the fact that my brain just will not function the way it did before. There's really no creative connections being made in there- for the most part, the few scribbles I've done have not been worth noting.

However, I am taking some slow steps to turn that around, and hopefully correct the problem. The last thing I want to do is give up on this. But, please bear with me- the posts will be much less frequent than before, and will probably tend more towards written posts than any drawn pictures. So, hope you like reading!

Come back next week, we'll see what's cooking.

Music: "Mercy" - Duffy

The Hero

What makes a hero? Is it physical strength, the force to vanquish any foe? Is it force of will, the power to compel others to stand aside? Is it intelligence, the ability to out think the opponent? Are these characteristics of what we've come to call heroes? To look at television, movies, and most of the world today, that seems to be the case.

Or is it something else?

What makes a hero? Is it strength of character, the power to inspire others to stand by your side? Is it bravery, the force to stand against any foe? Is it compassion, the ability to think beyond simply destroying, but to also create, turning enemies to friends? Is there more? Justice- the ability to stop evil and terror, without giving in to vengeance? Mercy- the power of forgiveness? Humility- the gift of understanding and equality? These traits don't often get much mention nowadays, but this feels right, doesn't it?

What makes a hero? The label seems easily applied, but often to the least-deserving, or without real thought given to understanding why we use that word. Growing up, my "heroes" were guys like Stallone and Schwarzenegger,characters like Batman and Wolverine (characters all, really). Overly-muscled, comic-book-style forces of destruction, force-feeding a simplistic world-view (Us-Good; Them-Bad) to the rest of the globe, and I reveled in it. It was fun to beat up the bad guys, right? I never gave any thought whatsoever to why they were called 'heroes'; I just assumed they had the qualities that made one a hero, and left it at that. Nowadays, in the land of world-weary, jaded and otherwise disenchanted Americans, heroes have become thugs and addicts disguised as musicians, athletes who behave no better than gang members, and people who have done nothing to deserve attention other than to be born rich. Hey, at least my heroes fought the bad guys.

Luckily for us, if we have the clarity of vision to see it, heroes are all around us. So much has changed in my life in the past years and decades; so much has changed in your lives, too. Heroes are everywhere. There are people with the strength of character to stand up and disagree with everyone around them, to argue their ideas with grace and understanding, and who stand by their convictions. There are people with the compassion to walk amidst the worst of humanity in the hopes of bringing out in others the best of humanity, people who do these things with no expectations of reward, but who do these things because they cannot imagine doing otherwise. There are the folks who quietly go through their lives making better the lives of those around them, with a gentle touch, a well-chosen word, or just a smile. There are the men and women who stand in the line of danger, whether it be from fire, disaster, or their fellow man, they stand firm for what they know to be right. There are those who go and fight and die and heal and rebuild and save for no better nor worse reason than their country asks it of them. How easy it is to imagine dying for a person you know; how impossible to imagine dying for an entire country of strangers. Imagine, if you can, putting yourself in harm's way for an ideal. Can you? I don't know that I can- but luckily for all of us, there are men and women throughout the country who can and do. Heroes are everywhere.

My heroes have changed somewhat in the past 20-plus years; gone are my friends Sly and Arnold, so long Bats and Wolvie. Nowadays, my heroes are the people who inspire me, the ones who make me want to be a better person. My heroes are the folks who speak their minds, but listen to a different point of view. My heroes are the ones who give of themselves without asking in return. My heroes are the ones who sacrifice so we don't have to. My heroes are the ones who keep it together when everything else is falling apart. I have a long list of heroes, but the top of the list is reserved for two people, of course: my Mom and Dad. They're the ones who gave me something to aspire to, and they're the ones whose examples I hope to live up to. A guy could do worse for heroes, no?

So, this Fourth of July, when you're chowing down on burgers and hot dogs, watching the fireworks go kaboom, and hanging out with your friends, take a look around- like I said, heroes are everywhere.

A hero is one who runs forward when everyone else runs away.

See you next week- let's say Wednesday, okay?

Roadside Assistance

I always like to see what the editorial cartoonists do whenever a famous person has died; they usually seem to a little bit funny, a little bit touching, and are often a more effective tribute than any obituary. So, here's mine for Dad.

He fixed so many things down here; why should Heaven be any different?

See you Friday.

Remembrance

That's my Mom and Dad sharing one of many, many laughs, last year at their Fiftieth wedding anniversary. The smiles, laughter, and love of them both are the remembrances I'll carry with me always. The pain will fade, but the love will remain.

This'll be a much shorter post than last time; just a few poems I found that were particularly meaningful or helpful to me recently.

First, the poem I read at our family's gathering- I found this poem years ago, and was always struck by the power and passion of the words. Later, I would come to associate this with my father, because the words so accurately described his stand against his weakening health. It was, originally written for a father, and the words really embody a son's love and admiration and awe of his father.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-Dylan Thomas

I really love this next one- I love how it takes the sting out of the loss... not through humor, or distraction, or anything like that, but by drawing on a lifetime of experiences and using words to truly console the grieving. I think my dad would have loved this poem- I can practically hear him saying these things to us...

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner

All is well.

-Henry Scott-Holland

I was going to post more, but I think these two are perfect as is.

I'll be back next Wednesday.

Have a good weekend.

Music: "You Are Loved (Don't Give Up)" - Josh Groban

Dedication

Robert Lloyd Darrall died last Wednesday, June 11. He was Husband to Bernice, Father to Mark, Roberta, and Steven, Father-in-Law to Linda, Grandfather to Jonathon, Kevin, and Emily. He was Son to Lloyd and Collette, Brother to Dolores and William. He was the Mechanic to hundreds of truckers, train engineers, boaters, generator operators and more. He was Staff Sergeant Darrall to the Army. He was Bob to the dozens of co-workers he mentored and partnered with at Cummins Diesel. He was Mr. Darrall, then Dad, to the many friends of his children and grandchildren.

He was so much more than that.

He was the strongest man I ever knew. His strength had nothing to do with how much he could lift, though at 78, he was still stronger than most. His strength came from three places: his mind, his will, and his family. As I think about it, though, I really believe that those three sources were actually all connected in him.

My father graduated from a Technical High School- something akin to a Vo-Tech school today. He never went to college, never took any higher level classes. And yet, he was one of the smartest men I've ever known. And yes, that is saying something. He loved learning. It didn't matter what the subject seemed to be, he knew something about it, and he was almost always right. If colleges had degrees for "Jacks of All Trades", my father would have taught the class. If something needed done and he didn't already know how to do it, he would teach himself. He just loved to know things.

Dad was not a fighter. He wasn't interested in guns or violence or anything like that. But when the Korean conflict escalated into war, Dad joined the Army. He served three years and one day (they had to hold him an extra day to process his paperwork, I believe), and in that time, he served his country without question, and without fail. Korea is where he really took to working on giant machines- making things work came naturally to him, and he enjoyed it immensely. He told me how often, after working his time in the motor pool or out in the field repairing the vehicles, he would go back to his tent and read up on the technical manuals. Like I said, he loved to know things. During his time in Korea, he was promoted from private up to Corporal, and ultimately to Staff Sergeant, a difficult feat to accomplish in any era. For the longest time, Dad didn't want to talk much about his time in Korea. I often thought it was because of bad memories of his time there. However, as the years have passed, and I've talked with him more about it, I've come to believe that it wasn't bad experiences that kept him quiet; I believe he just didn't think it was that big of a deal, and there were more important things to think of. That was Dad.

Coming back from Korea, he soon found himself working for Cummins Diesel, traveling all over working as a mechanic, repairing all manner of engines in all weather, sweating, freezing, and loving every minute of it. He worked for Cummins for 50 years, longer than anyone else in the company. Though he started as a mechanic, he eventually was forced to come off the road in 1974 or '75 (my memory's a little fuzzy there) after his first heart attack. He went to work as a manager in the Monroeville shop, and later worked in their Murrysville and Harmarville branches. He became an "Applications Engineer"- by this time, Cummins realized they had a resource at hand who had built, fixed, or improved the vast majority of engines they'd made in the past 70 years, and so formally had Dad step in to help solve problems. Whether it was designing an all new system from the ground up, or repairing one of a handful of working 70-year-old Cummins train engines, they would ask him how to do it. That was Dad.

Somehow, in all that time working, he managed to meet and fall in love with my Mom. They married in 1957, and a little over a year later, had my brother, Mark. Not long after, my sister Bobbi came along. I arrived somewhat unexpectedly fifteen years later. Mom and Dad did the best they could raising us- and they did a pretty amazing job, considering how we all turned out. One of the greatest things they did for us was in fact what they didn't do- they never told us what to do with our lives. Our parents never said "you must go to college" or "you must work at the shop" or whatever. Our parents said "do you want to do this?" or "do you want to try that?" Our parents never gave us ultimatums; they gave us opportunities. When we succeeded, they were there to share our joy. When we failed, they were there to help us back on our feet. It was never "what did you do wrong?" it was always "what can we do to help make it right?". Those are my parents.

If you've been reading the blog for a while, you might recall my post a while back about the pictures I made for my dad back in the hospital. I talked about how strong he was... well, this is all relevant to the topic at hand, so I'll repeat myself here. My dad had the strongest will of anyone I've ever known. He had at least five heart attacks. The first one he had? He drove himself to the doctor's office. My father drank pretty heavily- not as much as his father and brother did, but he drank plenty. One day, he put down the drink, got up from the bar, and walked away. Dad smoked for nearly 40 years. When the doctors finally told him the smoking was really going to kill him, he stopped cold. No patch, no gum, no "just one after meals", he just stopped. Mom kids about it being the "Stubborn German" in him that let him do such things, but I think he used something else to give him that kind of strength of will- his family. He loved us all so much, and he had seen what those things had done to other people, that he would not let the same thing happen to us. No, he would stop it, whatever it took. That was my Dad.

He'd been living with emphysema for at least 25 years. Many people tend to give up and become more and more insular as the disease progresses. Not Dad. When he learned he had this fatal disease, he did the only thing he knew how to do. He fought. He fought like hell, and he did not give up. He went to the doctor's all the time- not to complain about his condition, or to whine about how unfair it was, but to plan his attack. He worked with the doctors to figure out the best way to combat this unbeatable disease. He went to physical therapy three times a week for many, many years- to build up his muscles and his lungs to fight against the onslaught. When new drugs would become available to possibly treat the disease, he would be taking them. He did everything in his power to fight as hard as he could against this. He put his mind into action, as I saw for myself. When he was in the hospital back in April, he kept meticulous records of his medications, breathing treatments, and exercise. Then, when the doctors came around, he would pull them out and go over his findings with them, so they could come up with another tactic. When I talked to him, he told me he and his doctors were working on "plans" for how to deal with what the disease was throwing at him. He would not give up. That was my father.

He died.

However, let me be perfectly clear on this, and read my words very carefully. He was not "beaten by this disease". He did not "lose a long battle against a terrible illness". I believe with my entire heart and soul, with every fiber of my being, that he knew exactly what was going to happen, and he chose to die in the exact way he chose to live: on his terms. From talking to my mom, and looking through all of his belongings, I truly do believe he was preparing for this, and decided that last Wednesday was time to finally let go.

First, some time ago, most of the family got together to have "the talk". What would happen when Dad finally died. We went over all the things we could think of, and left with two main items in place: one, Mom and Dad would go to an attorney to update their arrangements; and two, I would be the executor, due to an insignificant amount of legal experience I had from dealing with Pennsylvania Real Estate and estates. At the time of this conversation, I was living in Maryland, and expected to do so for years to come.

And yet, on May 9th, I moved back to Pennsylvania. I went from being almost four hours away from my folks to being forty minutes away.

Second, Dad had been in the hospital recently, for a very scary few days. He had made it out, but was left weaker than ever. He needed to be helped throughout the house, often relying on my mom and niece to get around. Except for those last few days. He was getting around pretty well on his own.

Wednesday morning, when my mom went to help dad get out of bed, she found him already up and on his way to the dinner table. His appetite had been a shell of its former self. That morning, he asked for one of his favorites, a Belgian waffle. He and Mom sat at the table and he ate the whole thing. After that, he walked over to his favorite chair, sat down, and reminded my mom of his cup of tea, one of his morning rituals. She brought it to him, he drank some of it, and set it down. He asked my Mom to go turn down his oxygen (part of his regimen, he regulated his oxygen throughout the day). When she came back, he was gone. Nothing traumatic, he just went. He had one of the best mornings he had in a long time, after feeling as good as he had in months, and he went as peacefully as anyone could imagine.

My sister called me. Half an hour later, I was at the hospital. It was too late, of course. Too late to say goodbye, too late to say all those things I thought I needed to say, too late for so much. But I wasn't too late for everyone else. I cried- I cried so hard- and then my mom was there, or my sister, or my niece. And I was there when they cried. I was there when we said our "see you later"s to him- he wasn't leaving us yet. I was there when we got to the house, there when we had to make the funeral arrangements, there when I had to make calls. I was there when Mom told me she was going to rely on me because Dad knew I could help, because Dad had faith in me. I was there because, five days before my father died, I moved back home.

I tried my best to handle all the details. Between Bobbi, Mark, and me, we all made short work of it. But I noticed, whenever I needed to find one particular bit of information, I would come across a piece of paper- written in Dad's hand- with just what I needed. When Bobbi went online to see if she needed to transfer some funds around to cover expenses, she found that Dad had already done it, a few days before.

His hand was in everything.

Even in death, even beyond death, Dad was making sure everything was okay for his family. There was never anything we had to worry about- no real worries other than what worries we made for ourselves. But he made everything okay.

That was my Dad.

Before the funeral began, some of the kids and grandkids spoke. I read a poem (I'll post it later this week), my sister read a great short work about how we should always be aware of how precious our time here on earth is, my niece and sister-in-law said a few words that cut right to the heart of what kind of man he was. But the words that stick with me the most are those spoken my my elder nephew, Jon, and by his father. Jon spoke beautifully about how to sum up my father in one word: "Dedicated". As Jon put it, "Dedicated to his Country, Dedicated to his Job, Dedicated to his Wife, Dedicated to his Children, and Dedicated to his Grandchildren" - and if that wasn't my Dad, then I never knew him. And my brother spoke about a sign he'd seen that said something akin to "Into all your work, put love". He spoke about how Dad truly put love into everything he did- as a husband, father, grandfather, mechanic- everything he did, he did with love. Mark spoke about taking Dad's example and following it, and re-dedicating himself to all he does. That struck me deeply, because for so long now, I've felt like I've let my parents down. I never lived the life I imagine they wanted for me- I've made so many mistakes, and so many bad choices- and I always thought they were somewhat disappointed in me. But talking with Dad, and especially with Mom, I realize the only things they ever felt about me, and all their children, were love and pride. And so I've tried to take my nephew's words, and my brother's words, and my parents' words and actions, to heart. My mantra, my prayer, my poem, my dedication and supplication to my father, is at the end.

My father lived on this world 78 years. He will live on in us always. We, his family, have so much to be grateful for. To have known a man as loving, as smart, as supportive. To have seen such strength and will in action, and to know that that is within each of us. To have been able to call such a man "Dad" or "Father" or "Grandpap" or "Pap Pap". And to know we have a mother just like our father.

Help me, Father, to be more than I thought I could be
Be my hands to help me hold fast
Be my feet to help me stand firm
Be my eyes to help me see clearly
Be my lips to help me speak truly
Be my heart to help me love fully
Help me, Father, to be the man you always knew me to be

The End of All Things

This life therefore
is not righteousness but growth in righteousness;
not health but healing,
not being but becoming,
not rest but exercise.
We are not what we shall be but we are growing toward it;
the process is not yet finished but it is going on;
this is not the end but it is the road.
All does not yet gleam in glory but all is being purified.
--Martin Luther

The above is probably one of my favorite quotes ever, and one that has come to mean a lot to me over the past few years. It's been a kind of touchstone for me, through all the ups and downs of my life. When I feel like I've had enough and I just want to stop, it reminds me that life is always in motion, and the unbearable burden of today will be like a gentle breeze tomorrow, or the next day, or years later. But the burden will pass. I will heal, and I will grow.

Life is always in motion.

Most of you (faithful readers and occasional passersby alike) know by now the past couple weeks have been a lightning storm of change for me. An opportunity to nearly literally restart my life has come up, and for once, finally, I am taking that chance.

I've spent the past eight years in Maryland, living through the best and worst times of my life, surrounded by some of the finest people I have ever met. I could easily have spent the next twenty-thirty-fifty years here, working at this or at that, spending more time with those wonderful people- my family of friends- watching lives play out, watching the world go by, watching myself stand still.

Or I could take a chance.

Life is always in motion.

So I'm leaving behind Maryland (but not my friends- you are always with me), leaving behind this place of so many memories, and moving to Pittsburgh. My hometown.

I'm going back to my hometown, a stranger in a familiar land. This man I've become will walk amongst twenty-five years of history of the boy I was. It will be so easy to drift back into that past- life was so much easier then, so little to think about, so much more comfortable to bury myself into those old habits. So simple to let the world wash over me and carry me away.

Or I could chart my own course.

Life is always in motion.

"...not being but becoming..."

---

So, what does this have to do with Karloff's Ghost? Well, it means an ending, of sorts. The next few weeks are going to be insane with prepping to move (not to mention finding a place to live, a rental truck, time to pack, etc.) and as a result, this will be the final post for about a month. I hope to resume posting the week of June 16 (fate willing). Expect things to look a bit different around here, as well; I've got some ideas.

See you soon.

- Steve

Music: "Live This Life" - Big & Rich and "Solisbury Hill" - Peter Gabriel

The Apocalypse Suite

Can you hear it?

Sitting there, in your comfortably expensive seats?

Shuffling about outside, resplendent in your finery?

The Apocalypse Suite is about to start.

Can you feel it?

At the edge of your awareness, the nervous shift in your seat.

At the base of your spine, the shuffling, scuffling of your feet.

Can't you hear it?

The Cellist twists the pegs slowly

The Flutist holds gleaming metal to lips

Can't you feel it?

The Violinist brushes the bow 'cross the strings;

The apocalypse suite has begun.

with apologies to Gerard Way and Gabriel Ba'

Not a whole lot to say about this really; The title comes from the first story arc of a comic book series titled The Umbrella Academy- it's quite daft, and very enjoyable. Anyway, the title of the story really stuck with me, and involves music causing the end of the world (it reads better than my description). Anyway, one day the above...paragraph-whatever popped into my head, along with the image. So there you go.

I'm not going to post again until next Wednesday. The past month or so has really taken a toll on me, mentally and emotionally, and I really just haven't been feeling very artistic or very creative. I know the spark is still there, but there's no fuel to burn. But I'll keep looking for it. I think it's going to take a few things getting down around here (like give myself the space to create) but I should be up and running again soon. In the meantime, I'll try to keep up with a tiny backlog of things already in the system, and hopefully get back to drawing.

'til Wednesday (if only I posted on Tuesdays...)

Music: "20th Century Fox Fanfare (extended version)" - Alfred Newman and John Williams

My Hometown

When I first glanced up and saw this, I thought it was a car on a trailer. But no, it was something much better...

I love Pittsburgh!

Come back Wednesday for something completely different.

Music: "The Times They Are A-Changin'" - Bob Dylan

A boy and girl and their love story...

This is one of my favorite commissions. I was asked to make a "fill-in" picture for one of those big "autograph" mattes for a wedding- you know, the one where the guests sign the matte rather than a guest book? A lot more fun and much easier to look at than digging out the ol' guest book. It wasn't easy to do- as I've said, I suck with likenesses, and the added pressure of doing my best work made for some serious brainstorming. However, it came together pretty sweetly in the end. The original is just a black-and-white inked line drawing; lacking the ability to leave things alone, I decided to color this one.

Five years ago Saturday, Jason and April were married. They're two of my dearest friends, and I was incredibly honored to be asked to make this picture for their wedding (not to mention being a groomsman).

Anyway, this is my way of saying 'Congratulations!'

(and my way of getting out of posting anything new...)

(but mostly 'Congratulations!')

Jason and April are fans of black-and-white and sepia-style photos, so this one's for them-

See you all Monday- I'm headed back home to hang out with the family, including my brother and younger nephew. Good times!

Music: "Storybook Love" - Willy DeVille

Come my love I'll tell you a tale,
Of a boy and girl
And their love story.
And how he loved her oh so much,
and all the charms she did posses

Now this did happen once upon a time,
When things were not so complex.
And how he worshiped the ground she walked,
And when he looked in her eyes
He became obsessed.

My love is like a storybook story,
But its as real as the feelings I feel.
My love is like a storybook story,
But its as real as the feelings I feel.
It's as real as the feelings i feel...

His love was stronger than the power so dark,
A prince could have within his keeping.
His spells to weave and steal her heart
Within her breast but only sleeping.

My love is like a storybook story,
But its as real as the feelings I feel.
My love is like a storybook story,
But its as real as the feelings I feel.
It's as real as the feelings i feel...

He said:
"Don't you know I love you oh so much,
and lay my heart at the foot of your dress."
She said:
"Don't you know that storybook loves
Always have a happy ending."

Then he swooped her up just like in the books
And on his stallion they rode away.

My love is like a storybook story,
But its as real as the feelings I feel.
My love is like a storybook story,
But its as real as the feelings I feel.
It's as real as the feelings i feel...

A Different Brand of Justice

This is my second Deadwood picture (the first being Al Swearengen). This here is Seth Bullock, businessman and sheriff of Deadwood. When we first meet Bullock in the show, he's seen fighting off a group of drunks who are trying to break into the jailhouse to hang a guilty man. Seth stops them... by hanging the man himself. The law must be upheld, or else chaos rules. Tough man, right? As you first start watching the show, you can easily see how Bullock and Swearengen are obviously meant to be mortal enemies. They're Superman and Luthor, archenemies to the death.

Except they aren't. The characters come to realize that they both want the same thing: Deadwood to succeed. They might not agree on the methods (there's a pretty brutal fight between them), but they do have the same goal. So, next thing you know, they make for a strange alliance, but one somehow built on... if not trust, at least respect.

Plus, Bullock has a mean temper.

The picture was sketched in, colored, then tinted.

That's all for now.

Music: "I Will Possess Your Heart" - Death Cab for Cutie

Blogs from the Edge, Final

Carnegie Museum of Art/Natural History, entrance.

Well, I'm back.

Music: "Tom Sawyer" - Rush

Blogs from the Edge, 3

Brief update today.

Let's see- yesterday was the zoo zoo zoo, the Pittsburgh zoo zoo zoo. Also, went to the Strip District (woo hoo! wait, wrong strip) had lunch at Primanti Brothers, bought some tasty bread, and got some Wholey's fish for Mom and Dad. Then, a trip back to my first comic shop, Phantom of the Attic- it's been a long time since I've been there on a Wednesday!

Today was a trip to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, and whatever the art one is called. That was a mixed bag, as I had about five different people tell me I couldn't take pictures of the art. Not much fun. But, it was all not for naught. The revitalized dinosaur exhibits were opened (for the most part) and they were wonderful to see.

That's it for now. When next you read this blog, I'll be back in MD, and I'll probably have some pictures to post. Like about 400 or so. Hmmm, maybe highlights then?

Music: "Prime Mover" - Rush

Blogs from the Edge, 2

Still on vacation, still posting. It helps to get posts done when I've been talking art and photoshop with the Brothers Weaver every day. Not that that helps with the writing, but it's all a creative process. Or something.

Anyway, today was the first day of actual touristy-type stuff done in the 'Burgh proper. Well, actually, in the North Side, but still 'Burgh-like. The past few days have just been me savoring the fact that I didn't have to turn around and drive back down to Baltimore like most weekends. Regardless, today was spent walking around the relatively freshly-developed and -revitalized North Side- specifically, the area right around world famous Heinz Field and PNC Park. Having the super-powered camera courtesy of Dave, I was able to take a great many pictures. It was a beautiful day, slightly warm, and made for great wandering weather. One of the great things about Pittsburgh- there are huge swathes of land that are essentially just for pedestrians. Makes sense, of course, since so many folks would be on foot around game time, but still nice to see. Lots of great scenery of course- just look over the river, and there's the skyline. I found a very nice little Korean War Memorial near Del Monte Place (or something like that- one of the buildings between the two parks) and a number of small waterfalls/water sculptures. I found out that they offer tours of both parks, but unfortunately I felt that I was pressing my luck in leaving my car parked back at the McDonald's a mile away. No need to fear, of course, other than having my heart explode from the walking. Lastly, stopped at a new brewpub for a tasty sammitch and beer. A good day, by any stretch of the imagination.

Oh- the picture. Well, this is the finish pic from Monday's post, obviously. Time spent learning photoshop tricks from Joey and Sean, and the internet, led to the completion of the Iron Man pic. Possibly suitable for a wallpaper, should it suit you. Heh- "suit" you... Iron Man, Suit of Armor, get it? sigh...

That's all for now- more Friday!

Music: "Shut Up and Drive" - Rihanna (the song I got to carry in my head for the 1.5 hours I was walking around, thanks to it being the last song I heard from a radio...)

Blogs from the Edge, 1

Well, I appear to be doing better than expected with posting, though admittedly, this is the first one for the vacation.

It's been a great trip so far, all two days and some change. The drive in was fine, as I wasn't hellbent on getting here ASAP to maximize my usual weekend-long trip. Saturday was quite the eventful day. My friend Dan came out 'burgh-way to make the trip to the North Side with me to the Carnegie Science Center so we could see Bodies, the exhibit with the plasticized people and parts. Educational, and alliterative. It was great to see so many people interested in the exhibit, though for educational or morbidly curious purposes I can't say. I found it very interesting, and it was certainly fun to try and dredge up vague memories of all those classes from college (Dan and I both being Biology majors). The one downside to the exhibit was that no cameras were permitted, and there were too many people around to permit the time and line of sight to try to sketch anything. Still, very fun. And after that- Iron Man! Fantastic movie, both as a 'comic book' movie and a straight-up action movie. The acting was superb all around, and Robert Downey, Jr. just owned the part. Good day.

Today was a bit less active, but equally fun. I had a drawing session/photoshop class with Joey and Sean- showing how much I have yet to learn in Photoshop, and how two people can approach a task from completely different directions and achieve nearly the same result. Then, out to celebrate Dan's birthday with his folks. Finally, back here to set up my computer and go to work on the sketch and this post. Sadly, I wasn't paying as close attention as I thought; Photoshop wasn't working as well as I'd hoped. This is only the most preliminary start on the picture. The rest of the week will hopefully be progress on this, or something else entirely... Ah well, tomorrow is another day. What that day may bring? No idea. But it should be fun.

Later!

Music: "Supernatural Superserious" - R.E.M.

We Interrupt This Broadcast...

Whoops. I was so busy loading my MP3 player and packing up my computer for my vacation (why didn't I buy a laptop again?), I forgot to finish my post last night (themed with Swearengen). So, you get nothing! And be grateful for it!

Or something...

Anyway, yes, I'll be on vacation next week, visiting the old homestead, and hopefully taking in the sights of America's one-time Most Livable City (and currently America's sootiest). I'll have the computer with me, so perhaps there will be some posts, most likely of the photographic variety, as I did NOT pack the scanner along with everything else. We'll see.

Anyway, hope everyone has a good week, and feel free to check in intermittently to see if anything's been posted. Regular updates will resume May 12. Probably.

Cheers!

Maestro, some traveling music:

"Dreamline" - Rush (my usual traveling tune)

"I am beholden to no human..."

I loved "Deadwood". It was such a foul, dirty, violent show... but it was brilliant. Written in a language that usually took repeated viewings to decipher (for me, at least), it was filled with all kinds of crazy characters, each of whom seemed to walk the razor's edge between civilization and complete chaos. It was funny, smart, and never led you in the direction you thought you were going. Happy endings were few and far between in Deadwood. And no one was who you thought they were.

Take Al Swearengen. When you first meet Al, you're pretty convinced he's the "bad guy" of the show. He's filthy, abusive, violent, and runs a gambling and whorehouse. When he meets the "good guy" you know there's going to be trouble; no way would anyone want this guy around. Except, he's not really the bad guy. He loves his town, and just wants what's best for it. It's just that his ideas of what's best don't always agree with the straight-laced sheriff. Plus, you see more and more sides to Al. I wouldn't call them "softer" sides, but he's very recognizable as a human being. And then once again, everything gets turned upside down.

This was really just a quick sketch based on one of the DVD covers, then gussied up in PS a bit, and finally given the sepia treatment.

Hopefully more Friday.

Music: "I Walk the Line" - Johnny Cash

Down With the Sketchness

Welcome back- another new week, another set of... something.

I was going to dig out something I'd previously scanned in, but with the late time I was going to start (after 10pm), I didn't want to rush (more than usual) to post something that I could do something with, so I opted to just sketch out something digitally and post that.

I've been reading this manga series called 'Death Note', and so I can guess that it inspired my sketchings this time around. Hence, the big eyes. It's a very good series, and one that has an appeal to folks beyond the usual manga fan- hence, its appeal to me. It's very clever, a mental chess game between a boy who wants to save the world by killing anyone he thinks deserves it, and the boy who wants to stop him. Of course, it's a bit more complicated than that, but I don't think I have the skills to do it justice. Go "here" to read more about it (beware spoilers!).

Anywho, the central sketch started out with no particular idea behind it (like usual), but once I put the eyes down, it started to look a bit like one of the characters. Then, once I did the hair, I realized it looks kind of like Frodo after he's been taken over by the One Ring. So, it's either manga, or Elijah Wood is in fact a living anime. You decide. The other two are really just random sketchiness- that's what I saw once I started sketching. When I sketch like this, I tend to move the pen in fairly random strokes until I can get the idea of an image out of it, then I tend to bring the picture towards that ideal in my head. Usually with varying degrees of success, as you might imagine.

That's it for now.

Music: "Here's Where the Story Ends" - The Sundays

In Action How Like an Angel...

I'm such a slacker.

Even when I was taking a class for the sheer pleasure of taking it, with no pressure upon me to do anything more than show up (if I felt like it!), I still waited until the last minute to do my work. I do so strive for consistency.

It was Winter back when I was taking my watercolor class, and as we wound our way toward the end of our sessions, each class would have fewer and fewer attendees. Until finally, at the next to last class, there were only four of us, not counting our teacher. For the final class, the teacher decided that we could have a mini art show, and we would all bring in all of our various projects we work on in our free time, in addition to the two projects we had done in class.

Wait, all our projects? You mean, stuff we did on our own?

Crap.

Yeah, I know- what the hell's the point in taking a class if you're never going to use it(College excepted- that is the point)? But it was tough to get going on any watercolor projects on my own. Back then, my artistic mojo was pretty badly damaged, and just painting the couple projects we had was a huge drain on my mental resources. So I'd really never gotten around to coming up with my own paintings.

Crap.

Well, thanks to the internet, I found some fairly awesome photos I thought would make for good paintings, and on Sunday I started drawing them.

Class was Tuesday. Plenty of time.

I actually finished two of the three pictures, and had partially completed this one, by the time class had rolled around. All was well. When I got there, only two other people made it in, plus the teacher. We had fun looking at each other's paintings, noting the progress we'd made, and chatted while we worked on those pictures we hadn't finished. This was the one I worked on that night. The others thought I was crazy for trying to paint it- it was a landscape class, and this was no landscape, not to mention my paper was covered in pencil marks.

But it is not I who am crazy. It is I who am mad.

I finished it, as you can see. The actual photo was of a statue of an angel somewhere in Italy (see how good my note-taking skills are). It was probably way beyond my skill level at the time, but I'm still pretty pleased with the results. The large portion of thanks for that goes to the magnificent photographer. The angle of the image, I think, is critical to the impact of it. I changed a number of things in it, mostly to suit the colors and the texture of the image.

A note about this scan- the colors you see are actually much sharper and darker here than on the actual paper itself. Watercolors do not lend themselves to scanning.

Finally, a note on my Dad: my sense of timing is as acute as ever. He came home late Tuesday night, I believe muttering something about "never tell me the odds" and is doing now doing well at home. Thanks to all who've kept him in their thoughts and/or prayers. Believe me, it's all appreciated. And thanks to all of you for taking this detour into very non-artistic places. Don't worry, I'll be resuming the goofy art, bad puns, and rambling postings before you kno-

Oh, right. Too late!

Cheers everyone! Have a good weekend.

Music. hmmm... so many angel-themed tunes to choose... "Angel" by Aerosmith? "Send Me an Angel" by the Scorpions? Nah. I'll go with the one I always think of when I think of angels and music (which, I admit, is not frequently):

Music: "Animate" - Rush

Unspoken, Undone; Spoken, Done

There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.
Hodding Carter

This is a pretty long post, but it means a lot to me, and it might be worth a few minutes of your time.

Twenty years ago, I asked my father what he'd like to see me draw. I was, no doubt, full of my talent and certain of my ability to draw anything he asked of me. Perhaps it would be Batman, crouching and ready to leap on some poor bad guy. Or maybe Captain America, taking out some ratzi. Whatever he'd ask, I'd be ready.

"Draw me a bird."

Sorry, what? A bird? what kind of comic artist draws a bird? That's pretty boring, I thought, and a waste of my massive talent as an artist. But, I humored him- there was an image of a dove on one of the hymnals at church. I drew the outline, added where I thought the eyes should go, and some feet, and handed to him. There's his bird. Maybe now he'll ask for something cool.

"You didn't take any time with that."

Well, he was right- it was so boring! But he laughed a little as he said it, and took it from me, and that was that. Sure, I did a lousy job with it, and I knew it, but whatever- it wasn't that important.

As the years went by, that moment would pop into my head- at the most random times, without warning or explanation. And I'd think about what I'd done (or not done), and think on what I could do if I really tried to do something for him. God knows, I'd gotten a bit better at drawing since that first picture. I'd get close enough to look at a book for some pictures, but invariably it would drift back out of my mind. Off and on, now and again, for nearly twenty years. Last year, in the midst of my watercolor class, I thought to myself, 'finally, I'll get around to painting Dad that picture of that bird- he'd like that, I bet. Not that he'd even remember, all these years later." I found some pictures of birds I liked on the internet, printed them out, and set them aside. 'I'll do it later,' I told myself again, 'when there's more time.'

But there's never enough time, is there? No matter how many or how few goals we set ourselves, no matter the difficulty or the simplicity of the challenges we give ourselves, there is just never enough time. Time will always have its way with you, and always leave you broken and bloodied on the ground, wounded by regret and shame and fear. You will look back and think to yourself, 'My God, why did I waste those chances? Why did I set those goals, and do nothing to achieve them? Why didn't I do this one, simple task? Why didn't I even try?"

How often are we given the chance to know that time is about to come calling, to knock on the door and remind you that not all the time in the world is yours? To set aright those things that can be, to not leave unsaid words that need spoken, to not leave undone those actions that need done? Too often, those needed words fall on deaf ears, too often, those needed actions are unseen.

What a terrible gift it is, to hear that knocking, and to know that it's not for you, but for one you love. What a beautiful burden, to hear that knocking, and know that, when the door is finally opened, and you have to say goodbye, that he was able to hear your words, and see your actions. How wonderful, to have these last few minutes, days, hours, years, seconds, and to know you didn't waste them with silence.

All of this spins through my head, driving me nearly insane with sadness and regret. So often, I hold back on words, on actions. Considering how much my silence has cost me in the past, you would think I'd have learned my lesson. But silence, silence of those things I'm afraid to speak of, those questions I'm afraid to ask, has been a longtime companion of mine. Silence is so easy to maintain; words are so hard to come by- once uttered, they cannot be taken back, and their reactions can't be controlled.

But no more. I've learned that there will not always be 'more time'. I have learned that silence can be as impossible to take back as the spoken word.

But I still have time. Thank God, I still have time.

I knew it was time to sit down and look at my list of words unspoken and things undone. I knew that the time wasn't now, but this wake up call we all received was enough to tell me that now was the time; to speak, to not remain silent. To act, to not stay still.

The words- I have so many words- so much to say, how can I possibly say them all in less than a lifetime? In a thousand lifetimes? I thought about all those words, and eventually, I found the ones to say the most, to speak my mind and my heart.

The action- that was easy.

I walked into the room, surprising them both. Mom was sitting in the corner of the room, reading the Sunday paper. He was sitting up, practically lounging in his bed, looking for all the world like he was at home here and just reading another section of the paper. He looked so old there- was this the man who used to carry around hundreds of pounds of equipment like it was a bookbag? But God, he looked so strong there, too- this was the same man who stopped drinking one day because he decided it was time to stop, even though both his father and brother had their lives damaged and cut short by years of alcohol abuse. This is the same man who put up with five heart attacks and a triple bypass and God only knows what else and came back stronger and better than any doctor ever imagined. This is a man who has no idea of what it means to give up. They both gave out little "hey"s of surprised greeting, and I made some dumb comment about him being lazy or something. I gave him a hug, as long a hug and as strong a hug as I could manage, and somehow kept from breaking down and crying on his shoulder. Another big hug and a kiss for Mom, and then we're talking a little bit. The expected stuff: "how are you feeling? Doing alright? What are the doctors saying?", things like that. After a few minutes, Mom asked me what I'd brought; I had the bag with the pictures (stuck inside a couple frames, hopefully to spruce them up a bit) behind my back.

Words were about to fail me; I knew what I wanted to say, what I had to say, but they were leaving me. I felt like such a fool, like an idiot for holding on to this stupid little idea that somehow these stupid pictures would mean anything to him, that he'd even remember, that I'd even be able to say anything about what I wanted to say, that he'd understand what I was really saying to him.

"I don't know if you remember," I began, as I pulled the pictures from the bag. I held them to my chest, now strangely ashamed and proud of them. "But about twenty years ago, I asked you if you wanted me to draw you anything; you probably don't even remember, but you said a bird, and I drew you one and it was crap, and you knew it, and I knew it, and here it is twenty years later, but..."

"Oh, I remember!" he said, with a big smile on his face.

Of course he did. He's my father. And thank God, I am his son.

---

He seems to really enjoy the pictures; he never actually told me what kind of bird to draw him, so I settled for finding a dramatic picture of a falcon, about to land amongst some bushes or something. Almost as soon as I started drawing it, I realized I had to do something else with it, not just give him a pencil drawing. Since I've become so taken with Photoshop, I thought he would appreciate seeing what I've taught myself to do, artistically, with the computer the same way I could show him what I've taught myself to do with pencils. I know neither he nor Mom really ever "got" what I did with my drawing- they're not big fans of superheroes and comic books. But that never mattered- I never had a shortage of pencils and papers growing up. He took them, and kept them with him for a while, before finally sending them back home with Mom. Less likely to get lost in the shuffle that way. We sat and talked some, more unimportant things. The next day when we went to visit, we sat and talked some, still more unimportant things. Except, in the ways that really matter, they were all important. I got to talk with my Mom and Dad.

He's doing fine, by the way. Once again, he continues to ignore expectations, and makes great progress. He still has a long road ahead of him, but he keeps on the same way he always has- one step at a time, one breath at a time, no giving up. I don't know if I'll ever get to say every word I want to say to him, to do all the things I'd like to do with him- really, do any of us ever have that chance? But I do know that I was finally able to finish this one task for him- and that it says just about everything I needed him to hear.

I'll be going up to visit again this weekend. Just to sit and talk with him some more, and hear what he has to say, and tell him more of those things I want to say. It'll probably be awkward at first, because neither of us are especially good at talking about these 'important' things (I didn't even know if I could write this, but writing to a friend today helped me find my voice). But I'm not going to give up on it, I'm not going to leave more unsaid. Because like I said, he's my father. And I am my father's son.

I can see for miles and miles...

Here's a camphone shot from my friends' yard, taken Saturday evening. That's the kind of view you can't just ask for...

No art to post today; I'm up here in PA on some family business, but I didn't want you regular viewers to go thinking I'd slipped and forgotten about it. Hopefully I'll have some more arty stuff to go up here Wednesday. If it's what I think it is, there will probably be a bunch of words to go along with it. If not, expect more of the same!

Hope everyone is doing well, and continues to do so.

Music: "My Father's Eyes" - Eric Clapton