Alexander Hamilton

Ulysses S. Grant

A doodle from work today,

as seen taped to the side of the espresso machine.

Olive Thomas - 1894-1920

I regret those mistakes that are painfully obvious in this sketch, but it is just a sketch. I may attempt this one again.

She lived an amazing, but very short life which ended in accidental ingestion of mercury bichloride. I particularly like the quote about her and her husband, Jack Pickford, that is cited on wikipedia (oh, shoot me, it's a good starting resource). Attributed to Mary, Jack's sister, "[Olive] and Jack were madly in love with one another but I always thought of them as a couple of children playing together..."

I can't help but think that that's the way it should be.

It's been a few days since being up on the hill. But the last time up there I found this picture. I like it.

poor kid blues

if i were me then's what I would do,
splash a hundred different colors and arrange em for you,
so that you can look on it and tell me what to,
and if you'd like to have it then i'd sell it too,
but i ain't mees'long as i work,
making dimes making dollars for some other jerk,
don't matter how hard, tough, or bustin' i try,
i ain't never gonna be the upper guy,
and if i was me then's what i'd do,
is write a hundred thousand words and i'd tell 'em to you,
make you laugh make you sing make you dance or cry,
and if they was good maybe then you'd buy,
so you could say the words to folks you know- -
but i ain't me soes what i'm gonna do,
is work hard to make my dimes soes through an through,
for the jerk above till i turn blue and blew-
out all my joints in my knees and my fingers too,
but that's just a given for the you know who's,
of the world that's we who do the do to doos.

and if we were we you know what we would do,
we'd craft an image so huge of our love for you,
but we ain't we when we work for hims,
make our dimes makin' dollars for the nameless men,
and we craft and toil and sweat and cry,
but no matter how dauntless or how hard we try,
we ain't never gonna get no-anywhere,
making widgets for some wizard up in god knows where,
but we keep on goin for a lack of time,
and we toil and test our sense of life,
but we do it all to get the gets and the by and buy-
's what we need for the living we can hardly call life,

but soon's we realize that life ain't life,
if we ain't we, and he's just some guy,
then maybe we could start-a love a' life,
and put a bit a' soul into what we spend our time,
cuz it ain't for a nickel that i like to breathe,
and a dime's not worth all the stress i see,
so i'm gonna do my best'a stick-to a bit of me,
even though i ain't - but i hope to be,
an' if i got fight, someday i'll free,
m'wrists from the slavewage that's shackling me,
to a life a' predicts and sail the sea,
because if i was me then's what i'd do,
is sail a-hundred million miles cross the ocean to you,
cuz there's nothin but love's gonna pull me through-
this everpresent trap that's the poor kid blues.

base pencil sketch and watercolor paints (topmost),

digital color alterations (below):

All that work and the real gem turned out to be the watercolor testing card:

Oops indeed.

Oh man. Nothing like 16 hours of sleep to kick a cold/cough right out of your system. Sometimes the best cure seems to be going to bed at eight and waking up at noon.

It's Monday. And Week, well, we got some issues to work through.

HIYAA!- KARATE CHOP exit.

Be but a blood cell
in a bus stop's heartbeat -
pumping down streets- prompt,
or late's- the city's mood.
To run or walk- to the stop,
the rhythm's concrete- to either feat,
and riders we - surrender free,
flowing and bounding as driftwood.
//
Foolish those who try to fight-
minds full-on gnashing 'gainst window's light.
Praying 'faster' or for flight
will win neither, nor delight.
//
Best course, if late, is closing eyes
and letting motion melt the ties
that tether you to a wrist watch world
of deadlines, deadbeats, and pretty girls.
. .
Then open up once more and see-
blue-sky-puddles and sidewalk-feet,
which reflect and dance and skip and sing
while missing not one bet or beat
and unaware a' your latency.
//
Then may your smallness there serve you to remind,
Live more to what's in front - than to what's behind.
//

Be but a blood cell
in a bus stop's heartbeat -
pumping down streets- prompt,
or late's- the city's mood.

Here's a story of a photo.

Snow was flurrying around, it was cold, and I tried to read a book while riding the lifts but it's tricky turning pages of a book with mitts and the fingerbones get chatterin' when exposed for too long so the novel landed back in my pocket.

I took about seven pictures today. Some of the great views of the town from the gondola. Others of a mountain valley with skiiers flying by on the run. All of the pictures had more of a backdrop and setting than this one.

Two riders overlooking a drop down onto a steeper blue run, the mountain otherwise empty in eye-shot. Empty lifts passing on the right. I noticed in but a second that it might be kind of neat to have a chair passing in focus while the silhouettes of the riders in the background tell a story. Sort of a "they were just in that chair" thing, or the whole circle of life cliché, or the familiar rhythms of the mountain that all snow sports people keep in their muscle memory.

Well, the chance to get that photo was slim. My hands had to fly out of the mittens, clamor with cold zippers, get the camera out and to the right setting, aim and time with the passing lifts, catch the right focus distance... all in about 15-20 seconds or less - I actually missed the angle I wanted by what felt like a significant amount of time. This was the one and only photo of the moment.

Though it turns out that the other carefully chosen, scenic, more traditional shots of the day, well, they're all terrible. This is the only one worth looking at.