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in progress, as usual
Gainesville, FL
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About Me

I am a Florida native and lived here most of my life. Growing up here in Gainesville the late '50s and '60s instilled (or installed) a profound love for the natural Florida that I'm regrettably seeing less of...
I love visual art most, then writing, which I'm learning are a lot similar. I dig this site because you can add illustrations to your writing, and format your story more precisely than other sites I've been on. To me some well-chosen visual elements are essential and almost ubiquitously missing these days in reading geared toward anyone over 11, it seems. Aside from book covers, that is.
A fair chunk of my adult life is covered in first story I submitted here. In 1997 life threw me a curveball when I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. By March of 2001 the disability had progressed to the point that I had to resign from my job. With time at home all day I decided to try working with pastels and oil painting, which I hadn't done since I was a kid. From the time I could hold any kind of writing implement my parents would hand me, I scribbled, drew and painted constantly until somewhere in my teens artist's block set in. I've been finding my way out of that (being blocked) since 1999 when I started reading and doing Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way books. For now, my painting days are over, due to diminished physical strength. However:
I'm back on the pc, now fooling with hunting and pecking an article here and there, and with digital graphics again. Sometimes draw with sketchbook in my lap. We'll see what comes out, I guess. I don't always go around with a painted face, just on formal occasions. No, actually I was just messing around one weekend and ended up playing with face paint. A friend came over, took this snapshot, and I rather liked the result. Usually cameras hate my face.


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Posted 13 Years Ago

There Will Come Soft Rains

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white.

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

~Sara Teasdale