Don't put all of your eggs in one basket.
Use a damned egg-carton like everyone else and stop being such a poser.
Banner Art by [Grimmloch]
My Writing Samples
Diety by Proxy
There is a sudden rustling in the old tree,
the grandfather with the Spanish moss shakes.
And like the quiet after a fight, or making love
the silence is broken, by the language of hunger
and the wingspan of the horned owl spreads
she fans away the heat of the august evening
The screeching nest, The calls for the gift
the mother gives the bloody offering from her claw.
I can see, the three mice, as still alive in the grass
scurrying along the afternoon path through the moss
before the shadow of a god was casts upon them,
and her beauty scared the life from them.
Onward to October
There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season of the year, wherein the world reaches its perfection, when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the earth, make a harmony, as if nature would indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak upper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we bask in the shining hours of the tropics; when everything that has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October weather, which we distinguish by the name of the Indian Summer. The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours, seems longevity enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates of great and small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first step he makes into these precincts. Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which discredits our heroes. Here we find nature to be the circumstance which dwarfs every other circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her. We have crept out of our close and crowded houses into the night and morning, and we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in their bosom. How willingly we would escape the barriers which render them comparatively impotent, escape the sophistication and second thought, and suffer nature to intrance us. The tempered light of the woods is like a perpetual morning, and is stimulating and heroic. The anciently reported spells of these places creep on us. The stems of pines, sycamores, and oaks, almost gleam like iron on the excited eye. The incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or church, or state, is interpolated on the divine sky and the immortal year. How easily we might walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by new pictures, and by thoughts fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the recollection of home was crowded out of the mind, all memory obliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we were led in triumph by nature.
Here are some of my "Photo-chops"
Yes, I made all of these.
Extreme Butterfly Collecting:
War on terror: Arts budget proposal: