The way it should have been.

I like this version better

weekend

Saturday

Her name was "jen" and cool dripped from her every motion.

"I came a long way to get here."

***
Sunday

P.S. No, you may not ask.

Something old something new

These red marks run the course of us,
plotting where we intersected.
With searing heat I burned my name beneath your skin,
and watched the embers glow.
Recede.
Ran hands along your kissing scars,
found solace amongst the imperfections.
A hall of records left behind by fellow promise-makers.
Filed myself somewhere in-between the I would nevers,
and the I will always.

***

we don't even know what we are,
fumbling around in the dark to grab onto something,
I'd hoped it would be you that fell within my reach.
you,
just like all dreams,
dissipate when we're close enough to touch
my fists clench, frustrated with attempts to grasp a vapor
an incorrectly shaped container to hold the formless
if i could only breathe you in,
stand close, close my eyes
and inhale
till you'd fill my lungs to capacity
i'd happily be drowned in you,
satisfied
to never exhale
again.

***

we
blindly laid bald-faced promises on the table.
grinned falsely through perfect white teeth.
breathed in the ignorance,
deeply,
passionately, in our smoke-filled room.
blacken our lungs.
construct thirteen stories atop a set of burning matchsticks.
and cry in amazement when it all comes
down.

***

The wings of an apology are no good for time travel.
Breathless symbolism can't resuscitate you,
These intangible platitudes don't float,
and are therefore
useless.

***

The Music Man don't want much, a nod, a smile. He'll never ask for a buck, but if you've got one, only if it's no big deal. And he'll give thanks profusely, that you cared to reach in-pocket and say something. George, wrinkles on his face, cries for the Music Man. George cries to be among friends; Abe hasn't seen Alex, and you'd be lucky to find Andrew. A small gathering of presidents, dances for the Music Man.

He plays until pores drip, spilling every bit of love, fear, passion, and remorse he can muster. Nimble fingers along the stretch of a guitar's neck to keep the power on at home. His tireless voice, the same to worriedly greet his children over distant phone lines, croons a believable I love you. A tapping-foot-metronome, soles worn through to socks, reassures the tempo to keep you comfortable. He works hard to see you exert as little effort as possible to enter his world.

His life belongs to you for three minutes, and he'll never ask for anything.

The Norfolk Drawing Group

we few, we happy few.

Abbey(sp?) apr6-2010

workie in proggie

Based on a concept by one of my friends, this model is functioning as my zbrush crash course. I'll probably post my progress, as well as other 3d brain farts...or maybe I won't.

***

Update Edit:



He's got appendages!

***

Update Edit:


attempting to zbrush some hair on the fella, not quite happy with it, maybe i should consult a stylist magazine.

Tv on the Radio

Very excellent band that I'd heard a while back, but just now had a chance to listen to. great stuff.

yes, we can.

so since I've had trouble finding a nice sized Obama logo for personal use I've decided to go ahead and make one, hopefully i don't get sued for this, which would be pretty messed up because I am gonna vote for the guy.
it's in png format ready for the sweet, sweet web.
I must admit it was pretty easy to replicate, but stands as a powerful, and elegant symbol. Remember to get out there and VOTE, people!