Rainbow Bubbles

I have trolled around deviantART before but today I got sucked in for what felt like the longest acid trip of my life. I've never been on an acid trip but this search sure made it feel real.

Beautiful colors, silhouettes, amazing artistry. Basically a big orgy of jealousness on my part. I have turned my bookmark page into a whorehouse of pending wallpapers for the laptop.

Here is the one I've had going for past 15 hours. I'm trying really hard not to change it already. So many to choose from.

Link to the artist

Update: I wrote this post on half a brain while The Beast was hovering. A few things I forgot to say: The search was for wallpapers done with Vector. I only have a slight idea what it is, but it kicks out some awesome stuff. Damn it, I have already forgotten the rest of what I wanted to say. Kids, don't do drugs, drugs 'ah baaadd. Only my brother Wade will get that.

Muse and The Beast

So yeah, that painting I talked about a while back? Finally got around to starting some this weekend. The Beast's birthday is this week and thought I would cheer up her slightly drab room with a painting as half of her gift (the other half of course a wheel barrel full of crap a 2 year old would actually appreciate).

Hmm, the fact that I suck should have clued me in to why I haven't painted in a while. It's sitting there on the easel taunting me "The Beast could have done a better job on this herself!" I have already wasted a canvas on a 'starter'.

So, until I get up the nerve to show a picture of the end result, here is a picture of the poor girl who will have to live with it:

Lyrics In Real Life

I go through phases with music. More like OCD cycles, you might say. I put a cd in, and listen to it repeatedly, sometimes weeks at a time. New artists make appearances, old ones come back for extended visits. I know the lyrics by heart within days. In fact, that is one of my favorite parts of listening to my favorite songs. Letting them become part of me, part of what I believe and ultimately, part of the structure of my being. I know, it sounds corny, but it's true.

Now that's out of the way, the following song has placed itself in a little corner of my heart and refuses to move. Every single word resonates in a way that you almost feel the person who wrote those words snuck up behind you. Now, I know this is a song that has been played out, it may be past its prime. But that does not detract from the weight of it as a whole. I believe every person should listen to this song, whether you have children now or sometime in the future.

"Daughters" by John Mayer

I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
But she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually change
And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe it's got nothing to do with me

Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too

Oh, you see that skin?
It's the same she's been standing in
Since the day she saw him walking away
Now she's left
Cleaning up the mess he made

So fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too

Boys, you can break
You'll find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without the warmth from
A womans good, good heart

On behalf of every man
Looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her world

So fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too

I so get this...

My body is like a lost spoon. Somewhere
at the back of the cutlery drawer
it has managed to lose itself in the clutter.
Is causing trouble again.
I can hear it cavorting with knives,
clattering against their blades.
Sweet-hearting them. One of their bone
or mother-of-pearl handles
bunts a comforting note in its bowl.
Now it's twanging the whisk,
weaving in and out of the egg-slice,
elbowing corncob holders. Such a flirt.
It's chattering up their knobbles.
Oh no, not the tin opener!
It's riding the wheels round and round
like being on that playground thing
next to the slide and the swings
I can see through my end ward window,
pushing along on one elegant silver limb.
And why not? We both know it's all bluff.
Let it have fun, practise being something
that can't be packed in a box.
Engraved with my copperplate name
it was there when I was christened
and has circled beside me since.
Soon enough it'll be asked
to stick out its tongue and say Ah
then filled with a measured dose
of something surprisingly weighty.
One day I'll bid it be still and it will -
perhaps something surprisingly sweet.
-pat borthwick