my mind is bleeding thoughts
that slowly flood the bed
and the room
and i float
like marshmallow on coffee
melting
drifting
dying
but wide awake
This is an old one, wrote this while waiting for my next class, that was more than a decade ago:
Love is not red
But jet-black
Like the inside of a moaning cello;
Dark but warm,
Secluded and safe,
Secure but trembling on
Two everlasting notes
Sliding through an endless thrill.
Love is not red but ultramarine,
An ocean of immeasurable strength,
Pacific,
At times blustery,
Deep, mysterious,
And beautiful.
Love is silver-gray
Like the color of the sound
Of a clock's second hand
Chipping its way through eternity
Love is verdant,
A forest,
Lush,
vast, Wild,
Enchanting.
Love is cosmic latte,
the color of all light in the universe,
boundless,
timeless.
Love is not red
But yellow,
Not the coward,
But the bold yellow streak
Of early morning sunlight
That slants through the window
And invades the bed
Where the anatomy of bliss
Sprawls naked.
Did you know that musicians and non-musicians differ in how they listen to music? If you're not a musician, you probably don't realize that there's a distinct difference between how you hear music and how a musician does. Non-musicians often experience a piece of music as a single, unified whole—like looking at a painting and simply seeing the complete image.
Musicians, on the other hand, don’t listen to music that way. They tend to hear each instrument as a separate voice, each with its own movement and character. They recognize how these individual parts interact and weave together, forming intricate patterns that, when viewed from a distance, reveal the bigger picture. It’s like looking at a painting and noticing every brushstroke, every dab of color, and understanding how those details combine to create the full work of art.
I can still remember how I used to listen to music as a non-musician. When I was a child, I listened to music and experienced it as one unified wave of emotion, moving as a whole. But after I learned to play a musical instrument, and gained experience playing in a band, I lost the ability to listen to music the way I used to as a child.
Now, every time I listen to music, I can’t help but hear the bass guitar—or one particular instrument—standing out and “swimming” or “surfing” through the sea of movements created by the other instruments. I can also shift my focus from one instrument to another. Whichever instrument is in focus becomes the one that, in my mind, is surfing or floating on the sea of sound formed by the rest of the band in the background.
Even when there's an instrument playing a solo, I can still choose to push it into the background if I decide to focus on another instrument. This is what I do every time I listen to music.
I wish I could relearn how to listen to music the way I did before I became a musician. I want to experience the kind of emotions that style of listening would bring me now that I’m older.
everyone is lonely,
lonely for attention,
lonely for recognition,
hungry for praise,
wanting to be seen as the better one,
the better off,
wanting to be envied,
everyone's wearing a mask
to hide
the fucked up kid inside
who enjoys dancing to the music
of this meat parade.
(This is another poem I wrote in my head one sleepless night)
suddenly i wake up from a dream,
and realize that i've been talking in my sleep,
the words are scattered on the floor of your heart,
some are splattered on its walls,
but more are still dangling
from the tip of the tongue of my mind,
waiting to be uttered,
like arrows ready and trembling on their drawn bows.
but i know that they'd just fall
heavy on my toes,
like hammers
(I wrote this poem last month, this just came to me late one night)
a smile is plastered on your lips,
but a frown is leaking out of your eyes
like a tired soul
melting
under the heat of this cold night.
are you with me,
or are you somewhere else?
we both know the answer
and it seems that we are tired,
the room is filling up
with empty space,
and we're exchanging empty stares
like two goldfish
looking at each other
from afar
while slowly drowing
in each other's fish bowl
The Cowboy, The Wily Wind of Destiny, And The Princess In Distress
0 comments Posted by Pastilan at Monday, November 10, 2014(I wrote this poem as a filler for a student magazine I moderated a long time ago. This poem was inspired by the what-ifs that I and my wife used to talk about.)
There once was a cowboy
who was tired of riding the blind horse of time,
tired of wearing not a cowboy's crumpled hat
but a failed knight's broken helmet and heavy armor, mangled by dents.
One starry night, he was blown by the wily wind of destiny
into the room of a princess—
a princess distressed by her sleeplessness,
a sleeplessness caused by a pea of desire buried deep under her mattress,
a desire to horse around
like a cowgirl chasing fiery sunsets,
sunsets that wet the corners of her soul’s mind’s eye.
And they talked ‘til the birth of dawn,
and on to dusk,
about sunsets and horses that never were part of them
but were in them—
and of how life should be written in free verse,
not bound by the chains of versification and metrical form.
And they wanted to talk some more,
but he had to be on the road before the mad swirl
of the meeting of the then and the now
swept the two of them away
to a time and a place that never was and never will be—
for the cowboy was a cowboy, and the princess was a princess,
and a cowboy has to be on the road,
forever riding the blind horse of time.
And the road was not where a princess should be—
but it could be,
if the princess would just let it be.
But the princess was a princess, and the cowboy was a cowboy,
and the cowboy had to go,
for it was late in the afternoon, and the wind was singing a dirge to the dying sun.
So while the late seagulls foraged the shore, he bid her goodbye.
And on the road, the cowboy rode again that blind horse,
slowly out of her sight,
as the last of the sun bled on her sky—
just moments away before the hand of time
started hanging stars on their firmament,
in memory of the beautiful should-have-beens
that the two of them did not allow to live.
who was tired of riding the blind horse of time,
tired of wearing not a cowboy's crumpled hat
but a failed knight's broken helmet and heavy armor, mangled by dents.
One starry night, he was blown by the wily wind of destiny
into the room of a princess—
a princess distressed by her sleeplessness,
a sleeplessness caused by a pea of desire buried deep under her mattress,
a desire to horse around
like a cowgirl chasing fiery sunsets,
sunsets that wet the corners of her soul’s mind’s eye.
And they talked ‘til the birth of dawn,
and on to dusk,
about sunsets and horses that never were part of them
but were in them—
and of how life should be written in free verse,
not bound by the chains of versification and metrical form.
And they wanted to talk some more,
but he had to be on the road before the mad swirl
of the meeting of the then and the now
swept the two of them away
to a time and a place that never was and never will be—
for the cowboy was a cowboy, and the princess was a princess,
and a cowboy has to be on the road,
forever riding the blind horse of time.
And the road was not where a princess should be—
but it could be,
if the princess would just let it be.
But the princess was a princess, and the cowboy was a cowboy,
and the cowboy had to go,
for it was late in the afternoon, and the wind was singing a dirge to the dying sun.
So while the late seagulls foraged the shore, he bid her goodbye.
And on the road, the cowboy rode again that blind horse,
slowly out of her sight,
as the last of the sun bled on her sky—
just moments away before the hand of time
started hanging stars on their firmament,
in memory of the beautiful should-have-beens
that the two of them did not allow to live.
When I was in high school I turned thick books into flip books. When I got bored with the subject (it was Trigonometry) I drew, I doodled, so I was able to create enjoyable animations: a football player kicking the ball; a canon firing a projectile; a running man; a running horse. Those were the things that I animated on the pages of thick books. I did not know that it was called flip book, all I knew was that it made me happy.
My flip book animations were quite good but they pale in comparison to what I came upon a while ago. I found the video above while searching for something else on Youtube. What is shown in the video is flip book creation to the highest level. How I wish I have the time to spare so I could try making something like this.
The Buried Life Poem by Matthew Arnold is partly the inspiration of the TV series The Buried Life. Friends Jonnie and Duncan Penn, Ben Nemtin and Dave Lingwood to come up with The Buried Life concept after being inspired by the poem. Here is the poem:
The Buried Life Poem
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.
Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!
But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb?
Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be--
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity--
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.
But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves--
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well--but 't#is not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only--but this is rare--
When a belov{'e}d hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.
Another promising artist has joined Club 27. Dash Snow, who gained prominence after being featured in an article titled “Warhol’s Children” that appeared in New York magazine in 2007, has died in New York from heroine overdose. Snow was quite a mythical hero of an artistic underworld in lower Manhattan. A close friend of Snow, the photographer Ryan McGinley, has this to say about the late artist:
It's funny to me that Dash has become like a rock star, but he's so paranoid," Ryan McGinley, the photographer and a close friend, told New York. "That comes from graffiti culture – like, you want everybody to know who you are and you're going to write your name all over the city, but you can't let anyone know who you really are. It's, like, this idea of being notorious.
Snow was known for his photographs, videos, sculptures and collages. Below is a video compilation of some of his works.
One of the many artists I admire is Charlie White. Watch the video above and see why i like his works. This video explores the teen female side of nascent sexuality. This video was made by White for Adidas.
I did a little Photoshoping a while ago for my son's fourth birthday :)
This blog now has a new domain, http://mygraphics.gumerliston.info/
I hope this will get it back to life. It will be Christmas break so I will have time to do some graphics again and post them here. I hope so :)
It's been a while since the last time I fooled around with a Flash authoring software. Early this evening I found my self launching one of my favorite software, KoolMoves. This software, and Adobe Flash, are my main choice when it comes to creating anything that is Flash. I like this software because even if it is quiet small it is powerful enough, you can make little applications and games with it if you are really good with actionscript.
The screen shot above shows an imaginary Flash website. I did not really plan it, I just sort of go directly to the lay-outing and then I look at some available images and then just slapped them all together in the layout. The image of a laughing child in the header is of my son, taken just this afternoon. It took about a couple of hours to finish the small website. It is all flash but it loads quiet fast because I made it light. Some of the buttons do not function yet, but the important one function. Click on the screen shot above to go to the actual Flash website or click here.
The screen shot above shows an imaginary Flash website. I did not really plan it, I just sort of go directly to the lay-outing and then I look at some available images and then just slapped them all together in the layout. The image of a laughing child in the header is of my son, taken just this afternoon. It took about a couple of hours to finish the small website. It is all flash but it loads quiet fast because I made it light. Some of the buttons do not function yet, but the important one function. Click on the screen shot above to go to the actual Flash website or click here.
The electric guitar is a simple musical instrument but when placed in the hands of an accomplished musician it could reach out to you as if it has a magical hand that could go deep into the center of the labyrinth of your heart and touch your soul. At least that's the way I see it. Some people don't see it that way. I remember one very late night many years ago, I laid in bed listening to the strains of the sound of a distant neighbor's radio. I could barely hear the voice of the singer and the sound of other instruments but I could distinctly hear the sound of the guitar, a clean tone floating in the air, wafted into my open window and into my ears by a gentle breeze. The song was Dire Strait's Sultans of Swing. The guitar playing of Mark Knopfler was as powerful as the lyrics. It was only then that I understood fully the meaning of that song.
The above image is the result of a couple of hours of fiddling with Adobe Photoshop. Yes, it took me long two hours to finish it. This image comes from two photos I got from the net shown below.
The above image is the result of a couple of hours of fiddling with Adobe Photoshop. Yes, it took me long two hours to finish it. This image comes from two photos I got from the net shown below.
I was quiet a sucker for surrealism when I was younger (that was ten or so years ago). In 1997 I painted a surrealist desert sunset complete with a violin-playing cactus under a violently swirling clouds. It took me a month to finish that painting.
Now, it only took me about 30 minutes to finish the image above with Adobe Photoshop. It is just random. I just downloaded some free stock images and just let my mood flow. After 30 or so minutes I came up with this one. The original images I used are shown below :
No special effects were used there, just the ever reliable Lasso tool, Move tool, and a simple Render effect to get the right lighting for the windows.
Now, it only took me about 30 minutes to finish the image above with Adobe Photoshop. It is just random. I just downloaded some free stock images and just let my mood flow. After 30 or so minutes I came up with this one. The original images I used are shown below :
No special effects were used there, just the ever reliable Lasso tool, Move tool, and a simple Render effect to get the right lighting for the windows.
I discovered Anim8or in 2003. This little free 3D authoring software is small but it can do big things. Only 900 KB but it can do modeling, animating, and rendering. I created the image below the day I stumbled upon Anim8or, that was five years ago. If you are an experienced 3D artist you will see that it only takes a very basic knowledge of 3D modeling to create an image like this. All I used to model the lamp were lathing and this is the easiest method of creating objects. I also rendered this image with Anim8or. I am very thankful to Anim8or because it opened the door to 3D modeling to me. Had it been another 3D authoring software that I discovered I would have been intimidated with the difficulty of creating 3D models and would have dismissed 3D modeling.
I like fooling around with graphics software. Among my favorites are Adobe Photoshop, KoolMoves, Anim8or, 3D Studio Max, Cinema 4D, Adobe Illustrator and Adobe InDesign. I need a space where I could put my little digital creations so I started this blog. I am also encouraging my wife to fiddle away with graphics so you will also see some of her works here every now and then.
I am also into digital music creation so sometimes I may feel like putting some of my music here. I chose the name Violet Moon because it sounds good to me and suggests a journey to another time or another world. For me digital art creation is a journey to a different time and world, a world that can only live in the mind of the artist. I want to share this world with others.
I am also into digital music creation so sometimes I may feel like putting some of my music here. I chose the name Violet Moon because it sounds good to me and suggests a journey to another time or another world. For me digital art creation is a journey to a different time and world, a world that can only live in the mind of the artist. I want to share this world with others.
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