The Little Thief, a short story

I've decided to post my recently finished short story The Little Thief. I've added it as a page. Feel free to read it, and if you'd like to leave any comments, please leave them on this post.

Some of my art work from the past year.

I’ve been fairly productive as a painter this past year. I took a couple of painting courses at the U. of North Florida. I’ve also done quite a few paintings for my own edification. I’m still very much an amateur, so don’t expect too much. The quality of my paintings are pretty uneven. Almost every painting is something new for me, attempts at doing something I haven’t done before. I have to try different things in order to improve both specifically and generally. So, here are a few of my paintings.


Rosenlaui, Bernice Oberland, Switzerland
Acrylic on canvas paper, 10 1/2” x 14 1/2”



Bridge in Venice
Acrylic on canvas paper, 7 1/2” x 10 1/2”



Chillon Castle, Lake Geneva, Switzerland
Acrylic on canvas paper, 10 1/2” x 14 1/2”



Untitled
Acrylic on canvas paper, 11” x 14”


Untitled
Acrylic on canvas paper, 11” x 14”


Still Life
Oil on canvas, 18” x 24”

This gives an idea of what I’ve been doing. Hope you enjoyed the tour.

Guayaberas: I love mine

Writing at last!

I hope I'm not over-reacting to my recent work, but I seem to be finding my way into writing again. During the past two or three weeks I've revised the three short stories I wrote I can't even remember when. Was it last year, or the year before? Anyway, I've revised them and will now re-post them on Critique Circle for hopefully several critiques. If that goes well, I'll probably self-publish them as a group on Amazon and sell them for ninety-nine cents.

I'm surprised that I'm writing again. Only a couple of weeks ago, I was wondering if I will ever write again. I even wrote a couple of blog posts discussing the issue, but I did not publish them right away, because I wanted to write all three posts I had in mind before publishing the first one. Before I wrote the third one, I was writing again. So I haven't posted them. Maybe I'll put them in a page on my blog just to show what I was going through at the time.

I'm now taking a look at one of my novels and seeing what I can do to make it as good as I can. This is where I'm hoping I'm not over-reacting, because I'm only beginning this project. But I feel comfortable with where I am.  I even purchased Scrivener, because I’ve read so many good things about it. I even hope to download my self-published novel Only the Lonely to Scrivener and, because Scrivener formats automatically to Mobi, I’ll upload it back to Amazon, formatted correctly. But truth be told, so far I’m finding Scrivener mind-boggling. Hardly anything works the way I think it’s going to work. Well, I won’t go into it. I’ll just say it’s going to take awhile for me to figure out how it works.

Wish me luck.

The Need to Learn

 

According to Ashley Montagu, one of the neotenous drives of of a child is 'the need to learn.' It's one of the traits that should be lifelong, but which affords me an opportunity to experience again what it is like as a child to learn new things. I remember from my childhood lying in the grass and playing with grasshoppers or crickets, or playing in the deep ditch behind my house and catching crayfish, tadpoles, and minnows. That interest in learning continued in high school and especially college (I almost majored in Biology prior to switching to English) when my interest moved more toward the world of ideas and culture. After college, my interests in learning took many paths: religion, philosophy, psychology, and, of course, literature. It was all self-directed study. I was an autodidact, and as far as I'm concerned it served me well.

Now that I'm older and retired, I've re-entered more structured learning at the University of North Florida. So far, it has been the study of art--drawing and painting. I feel that I've re-entered the childlike experience of the 'need to learn'.

A whole array of study possibilities have opened up to me. I'm looking at all that I can learn and trying to decide which subjects I want to study. Among them are Chinese, various writing courses, computer courses, art history, and of course more fine art courses.

I feel like a child again. It's an exciting time in my life. It's a rare opportunity--to be a child with the experience of an adult. It suits me just fine. You might want to give a try. You might feel young again.

A Eulogy For My Father Ernest E. Hughes

I've had the sad experience for the past few weeks of my father's dying and death. He finally died on March 20, 2014. (see obituary here) I had the honor of leading his memorial service, which included testimonials by several other people and the playing of taps and the presentation of the United States flag to my mother by the United States Marine Corps. I'd like to share with you and the world my address at his service.

My father was a rugged individualist who did things his way and, for the most part, did them himself.

Born in rural, depression-era Jamestown, North Carolina, he had a rocky relationship with his father, running away from home more than once.

When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, my father wanted to fight, and enlisted at age seventeen, with his parents' consent, even though he had two brothers already enlisted and fighting.

After the war, with an 8th grade, and no doubt, being from the deep south, deficient education, he set about supporting a family, raising two children, and putting them both through college.

After educating his children, he earned his GED and was a member of the first graduating class at the University of North Florida.

His achievements are considerable, especially based on from where he came. He was a warrior for his country, a hard worker for his family, who managed to retire early and obtain his college degree and to use his know-how to buy, sell, and lease real estate.

My father was the bravest man I've ever known. He was absolutely fearless. No one pushed him around. Yet, at the same time, he was a most considerate person. He would help anyone in any way he could. Few know it, but he was a blood donor all his life, giving a pint of blood every opportunity that he could. He once told me, "Most people don't donate blood, but they expect it to be there when they need it." He wasn't that kind of a person. He was a giver, not a taker.

In his final years, he did not, as Dylan Thomas wrote, "Go gentle into that good night" but he "Raged, raged against the dying of the light."

A victim over the years of several types of cancer and heart problems, he never gave up on life, recovering over and over again, until his body finally gave out. And when it did, he died at 3:40 in the morning with my mother, his wife of 68 years, holding one hand, and the nurse, a complete stranger, holding his other hand. And that's as it should be. At his moment of death, he was comforted by his wife, who knew him best, and by a stranger, who didn't know him at all, but who may have benefited from his generosity at some point in her life.

Having a meaningful life means different things to different people. But, if living up to your own beliefs has anything to do with it, his life was meaningful in the most meaningful way.

Everyone who benefited from his life, friends, family, and strangers alike, will miss him, more than he'll ever know.

What I like most about painting: immediacy.

Writing and painting involve different parts of the brain. They certainly require different sets of skills. Both involve visualization, but they are different processes.

With writing, I see scenes within my brain and use words to describe them, to put them on paper in the form of word-pictures.

With painting, I interact with the medium itself--the picture; it speaks to me, tells me what it wants to be.

With writing, I discover from the inside out. With painting, I discover from the outside in.

Each, in its own way, gives satisfaction. The big difference is the immediacy of painting and, how shall I say it, the longevity of it. By longevity I mean the repeated enjoyment of the finished product. Yes, I can re-read a story as many times as I wish, but it requires x amount of time. Writing a story is a process that takes time, and even when I think it's finished, it often isn't necessarily so. I know when a painting is finished. I can see the results at a glance. And I can repeatedly enjoy the finished product at a glance.

Of course, the final products are two completely different things.

A story is a group of words that must be translated into a vision through reading. It takes time.

A painting is a vision. It takes very little time, in some cases, practically none at all, to see. The recognition, the communion, is immediate, or it can last as long as the viewer likes. That's one of the things I like about painting: the experience is immediate.