28.4.08
27.4.08
Masked Boys
I got a wicked sunburn yesterday. My arms are an almost silly shade of pink.
Anyways, these are dolls I made of Yvern and Cirocco. They're about 2 1/2 inches tall each. Yvern (right) is very friendly, but you'd better run if you see Cirocco.
Here also is a little doodle I did comparing the two, and showing them in a bit more detail. :D
Sometimes I consider Takuro to be the third masked boy, even though he doesn't have any kind of mask... yet...
Anyways, Takuro is lower right, Deep Blue and Mothership are upper right, Takuro's dad is center, and... who knows what's in the upper left corner? :P
17.4.08
Things.
http://theufoproject.blogspot.com/
This is my new pet project. If all goes as planned, I might do a modern-art-tastic dramatic reading of these awesome thingies. Whether you believe in UFO's or not, the reports are certainly interesting.
Also, I've been hard at work getting some writing together for an application to another summer program, since my Governor's School application went over about as well as a dead narwhal in a suit at a wedding. And his socks don't match. Well, narwhals don't wear socks but he just brought them along to fit in, and maybe make a few jokes about them to lighten the issue with the 400-pound marine mammal in the room. But he died.
So all the wedding guests rolled their eyes and sighed. No one really liked him, or trusted him for that matter, because his scientifically undocumented migration patterns made him hard to reach. He didn't come home for thanksgiving, and of course that always left a bad taste in his relatives' mouths. He really didn't observe thanksgiving, though. He lived in the arctic ocean. So, if only someone would have told him, he would have probably set aside the week to pop in.
The point is, no one really paid attention to him, or made any attempt to contact him. They just assumed he was a shady character, so they were set on disliking him before he could dislike them. Now, though, they had a rotting narwhal carcass in the middle of their wedding, and they were running out of time to get rid of it before it stained the carpet. It was a hassle, but eventually they dragged him outside and blew him up with some controlled explosives. They put some blue tarps over the little white church so his guts wouldn't stain the walls. It was an antique little church, old and small and innocent, like a lovely, lavender-scented, senile lady.
They hauled away the big chunks of him and cast them into the sea. Then, they put a plaque in the little ditch outside the church, marking where they had put the explosives. It was blank for a while. They sent a postcard to his mother because they thought she would know best what to put on it. None of them really knew if he was a good egg or a bad egg or what his religious beliefs were or even if narwhals had religious beliefs.
She sent them back a postcard three years later, (porpoise post is slow and inefficient, since porpoises are absentminded and lazy despite their big brains,) expressing her grief over the very sudden passing of her son. She assured them he was good, intelligent, and honest. (Though slightly self-conscious.) (Tee-hee, up until the end he would ask me if he had anything embarrassing stuck on his horn at least three times before leaving the house.) She requested that this be engraved on the blank plaque:
He was a good narwhal, never meaning to hurt anyone.
and
Anyone who truly knew him only wished they could have known him longer.
So they went out to find the plaque and engrave it now, but someone had already scratched "308-9953" on the top corner, and "Jodie H. is a whore!" in the corner opposite.
They sent another postcard asking the mother for $60 for a replacement, and if she wanted to change the message at all. It wasn't elegant, or horribly relevant to human understanding, after all.
Finally, after five years, damn porpoises, they received a soaking wet and salty package, filled to the brim with fine shells, and a distressed letter explaining that the poor mother of the dead narwhal didn't understand "dollars" and that she hoped this was good enough payment to get a new plaque somehow. She also wished to add a line to the inscription, if it ever happened, and if it wasn't too much trouble.
He was a good narwhal, never meaning to hurt anyone.
and
Anyone who truly knew him only wished they could have known him longer.
and
He died heroically for the sake of an elaborate simile.
Also, I need some help proofing some French translations I did on the Internet. They're for one of my stories, the one in Germany. The Obeeeeese Pikachu one. Because the doctor is dead and Clarimonde is now the main character and a native speaker of French.
Also, it's getting warmer. Which makes me both sweaty and energetic and also sometimes jittery. Where did April go? (I said the same thing about March.)
I'll post some things from Sakura Sunday and other stuff I've been working on as soon as my Internet starts working better. *grumble*
This is my new pet project. If all goes as planned, I might do a modern-art-tastic dramatic reading of these awesome thingies. Whether you believe in UFO's or not, the reports are certainly interesting.
Also, I've been hard at work getting some writing together for an application to another summer program, since my Governor's School application went over about as well as a dead narwhal in a suit at a wedding. And his socks don't match. Well, narwhals don't wear socks but he just brought them along to fit in, and maybe make a few jokes about them to lighten the issue with the 400-pound marine mammal in the room. But he died.
So all the wedding guests rolled their eyes and sighed. No one really liked him, or trusted him for that matter, because his scientifically undocumented migration patterns made him hard to reach. He didn't come home for thanksgiving, and of course that always left a bad taste in his relatives' mouths. He really didn't observe thanksgiving, though. He lived in the arctic ocean. So, if only someone would have told him, he would have probably set aside the week to pop in.
The point is, no one really paid attention to him, or made any attempt to contact him. They just assumed he was a shady character, so they were set on disliking him before he could dislike them. Now, though, they had a rotting narwhal carcass in the middle of their wedding, and they were running out of time to get rid of it before it stained the carpet. It was a hassle, but eventually they dragged him outside and blew him up with some controlled explosives. They put some blue tarps over the little white church so his guts wouldn't stain the walls. It was an antique little church, old and small and innocent, like a lovely, lavender-scented, senile lady.
They hauled away the big chunks of him and cast them into the sea. Then, they put a plaque in the little ditch outside the church, marking where they had put the explosives. It was blank for a while. They sent a postcard to his mother because they thought she would know best what to put on it. None of them really knew if he was a good egg or a bad egg or what his religious beliefs were or even if narwhals had religious beliefs.
She sent them back a postcard three years later, (porpoise post is slow and inefficient, since porpoises are absentminded and lazy despite their big brains,) expressing her grief over the very sudden passing of her son. She assured them he was good, intelligent, and honest. (Though slightly self-conscious.) (Tee-hee, up until the end he would ask me if he had anything embarrassing stuck on his horn at least three times before leaving the house.) She requested that this be engraved on the blank plaque:
He was a good narwhal, never meaning to hurt anyone.
and
Anyone who truly knew him only wished they could have known him longer.
So they went out to find the plaque and engrave it now, but someone had already scratched "308-9953" on the top corner, and "Jodie H. is a whore!" in the corner opposite.
They sent another postcard asking the mother for $60 for a replacement, and if she wanted to change the message at all. It wasn't elegant, or horribly relevant to human understanding, after all.
Finally, after five years, damn porpoises, they received a soaking wet and salty package, filled to the brim with fine shells, and a distressed letter explaining that the poor mother of the dead narwhal didn't understand "dollars" and that she hoped this was good enough payment to get a new plaque somehow. She also wished to add a line to the inscription, if it ever happened, and if it wasn't too much trouble.
He was a good narwhal, never meaning to hurt anyone.
and
Anyone who truly knew him only wished they could have known him longer.
and
He died heroically for the sake of an elaborate simile.
Also, I need some help proofing some French translations I did on the Internet. They're for one of my stories, the one in Germany. The Obeeeeese Pikachu one. Because the doctor is dead and Clarimonde is now the main character and a native speaker of French.
Also, it's getting warmer. Which makes me both sweaty and energetic and also sometimes jittery. Where did April go? (I said the same thing about March.)
I'll post some things from Sakura Sunday and other stuff I've been working on as soon as my Internet starts working better. *grumble*
14.4.08
9.4.08
Spare Time
...Also. If I can figure out how to post our flash and animation projects here, I will. It's confusing.
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