30.6.11
29.6.11
24.6.11
23.6.11
1-4 of 12 For Hayley
Okay Hay Bales, my champion runner, you! Here are four paintings. Out of these four I think only two are really qualifiable as options, but for fun I'm just showing you all of what I'm doing. So far my favorites are the colored pencil gal sitting, and then the four pregger gals standing in water at the bottom there. (aka the bottom two.)
The one at the bottom- It is colored pencil and acrylic paint on gray matte board- very sleek, and these colors aren't altered at all. I took several pictures of it at different angles. This one was the most detailed for showing you the figures, but the matte is very large, which allows me to take a "business-card-shaped" picture of them at any angle. When I send you the final choices, I'll send you a couple versions of this. :) Also, I painted more water beneath them, which isn't shown here.
Thanks for getting me doing this, it's really working my creative muscle and forcing me to try some new things!
Also, congrats on your marathon. I'm proud of you and Gopal for running even though you were all alone on the beach. Losers. HAHAHA. So good. I miss you guys.
Okay, that's all.
- i.
22.6.11
Manhattan Beach Yuletide 5K!
As the breaking sun shone over Manhattan beach, Gopal, glistening with perspiration of pride and satisfaction, reflected for a moment, "This could be the most soulful race, I've ever run..."
On Saturday, June 19th, 2011, Gopal and myself, participated in a 5K marathon for simply shits and giggles. And was it just that...
In great preparation for this event, we jogged perhaps once or twice that week and went out the evening prior to throw down a couple cocktails and jig about to the bluesy tunes of the legendary, Orlando Napier, feeling pumped and ready for what was to come in only a matter of hours.
More importantly, when we got home, we quickly gathered our matching outfits for the run. This involved Gopal's nonchalant powers of persuasion - "Dude, let me just have it!" - to convince Omar to strip the white, v-neck t-shirt he was wearing at that moment so that Gopal could try it on to ensure that it would work with my outfit. Of course!
The next morning began with a painful wake up call of 6 am and Gopal's incessant sighs from his bedroom - adjacent to ours - and typical groggy stomps throughout the house. We threw together some peanut butter, apple, and honey rice crackers and hit the road. Ready.
Leaving the house around 6:50 am for the race which started at 7:30 am, we thought we were chilly boxers cool. But we were mistaken. The iPhone's navigation decided to take us North on Sepulveda instead of South, making us 15 minutes late and the last ones to start the race.
While this sad site of a deserted beach and rising wet foot prints in the sand that at one point were sunken in with the hard and adrenaline filled steps of a few hundred, prepared and focused runners, it could not have been better. In fact, I laughed nearly the entire way. We got to look at everyone as they ran by us on their way back to the starting line, and they got to see us in our ridiculous apparel and steady stride in unison.
We made the 3 mile run in good time despite Gopal needing to slow down to accompany me in the last 1/2 mile to walk for a bit.
It was one for the books, and definitely one for the blog. So, here is some funny footage to munch on and a delightful picture of Omar upon our arrival home.
On Saturday, June 19th, 2011, Gopal and myself, participated in a 5K marathon for simply shits and giggles. And was it just that...
In great preparation for this event, we jogged perhaps once or twice that week and went out the evening prior to throw down a couple cocktails and jig about to the bluesy tunes of the legendary, Orlando Napier, feeling pumped and ready for what was to come in only a matter of hours.
More importantly, when we got home, we quickly gathered our matching outfits for the run. This involved Gopal's nonchalant powers of persuasion - "Dude, let me just have it!" - to convince Omar to strip the white, v-neck t-shirt he was wearing at that moment so that Gopal could try it on to ensure that it would work with my outfit. Of course!
The next morning began with a painful wake up call of 6 am and Gopal's incessant sighs from his bedroom - adjacent to ours - and typical groggy stomps throughout the house. We threw together some peanut butter, apple, and honey rice crackers and hit the road. Ready.
Leaving the house around 6:50 am for the race which started at 7:30 am, we thought we were chilly boxers cool. But we were mistaken. The iPhone's navigation decided to take us North on Sepulveda instead of South, making us 15 minutes late and the last ones to start the race.
While this sad site of a deserted beach and rising wet foot prints in the sand that at one point were sunken in with the hard and adrenaline filled steps of a few hundred, prepared and focused runners, it could not have been better. In fact, I laughed nearly the entire way. We got to look at everyone as they ran by us on their way back to the starting line, and they got to see us in our ridiculous apparel and steady stride in unison.
We made the 3 mile run in good time despite Gopal needing to slow down to accompany me in the last 1/2 mile to walk for a bit.
It was one for the books, and definitely one for the blog. So, here is some funny footage to munch on and a delightful picture of Omar upon our arrival home.
16.6.11
15.6.11
Mas Dexter!
Some more tiddy bits from the new place. Can't wait to have all y'alls over for a real, swingin' hootenany!
14.6.11
:) hayyyyyyyy
My friend Emily paints me at my house while I color a sketch of Hay Bales... and Hay, Kara sent me this picture this morning :)
13.6.11
10.6.11
6.6.11
5.6.11
“Father Forgets” is one of those little pieces which—dashed of in a moment of sincere feeling—strikes an echoing chord in so many readers as to become
FATHER FORGETS
W. Livingston Larned
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.
There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive, and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding—this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me 16
goodnight. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy—a little boy!”
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
Instead of condemning people, let’s try to understand them. Let’s try to figure out why they do what they do. That’s a lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism, and it breeds sympathy, tolerance and kindness. “To know all is to forgive all.”
W. Livingston Larned
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.
There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive, and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding—this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me 16
goodnight. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy—a little boy!”
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
Instead of condemning people, let’s try to understand them. Let’s try to figure out why they do what they do. That’s a lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism, and it breeds sympathy, tolerance and kindness. “To know all is to forgive all.”
3.6.11
2.6.11
Tumblred
I created a tumblr account so that I can upload photos from my phone on tour.
If your feeling jizzy check it out http://dustinineman.tumblr.com/ I wont let you down.
If your feeling jizzy check it out http://dustinineman.tumblr.com/ I wont let you down.
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