A Mysterious Librarian Art

In days to come I stood amazed, walking through that forest, at the blazing symphony of color it brought forth, seemingly just for me. I grew to love my friend’s words in a new way, through the astounding beauty of the spectacle he knew was coming when he said them. I was young then, and didn’t know I had many autumns ahead of me.
A melting clock tower
Southeast Asia. Modern day. Afternoon rain forces us into the coolness of the little house, surrounded by rice paddies, where Grandmother assembles strings of Christmas lights; bound for somewhere. Young mother watches three children grow, and wonders: What will their lives be? Can’t dream of what she’s never seen; can’t see what she can’t dream.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. Back out on the open plain, our bus hurtles toward the city. Smokestacks and temples rise up from the earth; two visions competing for the sky. The woman on my right holds a chicken in her lap; rural wealth for a city friend? On my left a Buddhist priest sits in quiet repose and presides over the world.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. This morning the sound of traffic in the street, scooters and tuk-tuks, taxis and trucks, was so loud I couldn’t hear my dream. So I turned it off and went dowstairs. Taking in diesel fumes ‘til it hurt to breathe, I found a hawker-stall and ate. It’s 100 degrees already; soon the rain will come.
Trees are always trying to reach the sky; arms stretched out toward heaven ‘til their leaves turn brown and die. Then will come the winter, when they stand the icy wind. waiting for the sun to shine and spring to come again. The drama’s reinacted every year: Leaves come down like clouds of doubt and fear. While on the ground, the winter passes by, every tree keeps reaching to the sky.
Trees are always trying to reach the sky; arms stretched out toward heaven ‘til their leaves turn brown and die. Then will come the winter, when they stand the icy wind. waiting for the sun to shine and spring to come again. The drama’s reinacted every year: Leaves come down like clouds of doubt and fear. While on the ground, the winter passes by, every tree keeps reaching to the sky.
Life is all around for us to hold. Spring will come again when we forget the winter cold. Soon will be the summer, when the evenings linger long with jokes and quips and camping trips, a kindred summer song. The time won’t last forever, we can see; still, we should learn the lesson of the tree. In winter snow or summer’s long good-bye, trees keep reaching upward to the sky.
Oath of civic virtue before temple
Philosopher in contemplation
Personal POV scene. Me and Jesus in the desert on a cool morning at daybreak walking toward a bright star. Jesus is wearing old clothes and carrying a satchel. I’m wearing old clothes and sandals just like Him. The air is cool and crisp. The sky is bright blue on the horizon with deep purple fading into black at the upper atmosphere. The air is crisp and clear. It’s like the desert in California looking east toward Arizona. There are desert hills on the north and south sides and mountains in the distance.
I lift up my eyes toward the sky; know my heart and home are there, where the ones before me lie. One day, I’ll be gathered up and carried to that place where I shall know as I am known, and see my Maker’s face. It’s appointed unto us just once to be: We linger here, but soon we’ll be set free. No more reaching upward ‘til we die, Our roots stay here. We stretch beyond the sky.
Cyanotype Dreamscape Style Transfer Example
animal standing in natural pose
bicyle resting against a wall
serene landscape with mountains and water
urban street with city activity
a man and a woman are posing for a picture
house with front view
still life with everyday objects
An interior scene. An old Bible with dog-eared pages, a black leather cover, and words of Christ in red sits open on a table. The camera sees the Bible at a 45 degree angle. The table and chair are old and worn, sitting on a worn carpet on a wood plank floor. There are some pens and highlighters, along with a red ribbon bookmark, a half-empty drink and some paper clips. The room is in low-light, and a small window is in the background. Someone has been studying and just stepped away for a moment. Some lines in the Bible are highlighted yellow.
Cyanotype Dreamscape Style Transfer Example
still life arrangement of fruits and flowers
a tree in nature
portrait of a person with expressive eyes
I sat, long ago, on an Asian hill with a Shakya Mundi friend, and watched the autumn leaves fall down from high above, giants in the forest casting off their wakefulness, falling progressively into winter’s long, white sleep. “The important thing to know about trees” he said, “is that they are most beautiful in autumn; just before the winter snow. They live and grow through the entire year just for these brief moments of stunning beauty. We are like that.” He said, “but we have only one autumn, and a very long winter.”
portrait of two people together
wide landscape with natural scenery
This day, though, I hiked another autumn wood. Eastern Europe ancient; overgrown. So thick the view was dark at just a few feet off the path. All red and yellow; orange and brown, a million trees, each one in blazing preparation for long, frozen winter. I cannot but recall my friend’s words, lasting long, though he did not, and the instant truth that follows. Looking upward at the fiery canopy, matched against the bright cerulean sky beyond, I embrace autumn! Winter surely comes one day, but spring beyond. I have a winter to prepare for, but it is not yet.
The monster (Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost above behemoth shoulders. Snake-like clouds adorning her, I crane my neck, Gaze fixed past the big white house toward uplifted boulders. And at the South, like his namesake martyr, Hyacinth (Mt. San Jacinto) has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue backdrop he wears that legacy proud. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: Accentuate Sonora’s west extremes, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
An Asian Slice At the dark end of an alley on a moonless night, A youth squats low to the ground, turned toward the wall with his face in his lap. Someone might think he’s sleeping. He’s smoking heroin. Soon he’ll fall over and soil himself, and stay right there until dawn. Back at the neon-lit mouth of this dark alley, hookers walk back and forth, hurrying to get past the alley, either for fear or because is smells so bad. Eyelids, all painted golden, Asian whores always look like they’re made of candy. Candy it is; but a snarling cat awaits its prey.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. The damaged and the broken ones; all rooted in the past, live life the way it always was, from their first day to their last. Motes of dust in beams of light, in the darkness of this day, we tip the hat and give a nod, for the truth we can’t convey. Everything is real, but nothing matters, anyway. Where life is only what must be, from the cradle to the grave. Everyone does what they can: Nothing less, but sure no more. Tip the hat and give a nod to the ones who’ve gone before. We tip our hats and give the nod to the world we’ve all ignored
still life with everyday objects
a tree in nature
Nocturnal Impressionism Art Style Style Transfer Example
portrait of a person with expressive eyes
portrait of two people together
bicyle resting against a wall
Forest Nature Art Style Transfer Example
animal standing in natural pose
Cetus in the starry night sky.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. Nearer to the city now, the bus thumps and bumps to a slower pace. Grinding gears mark spaces between dirty children, playing obliviously in the road. Neither village nor metropolis, outskirts have no identity: Just a blurry line of encroachment; a temporary half-life on the way to something more. Dust springs up from the tires of trucks headed both ways on the road. A little girl stands crying in a mud puddle; her brothers laughing from the sides. She has to learn rejection to participate in this brutal, belonging dance. A little life, and a little death for a product truly worthy of its name: a good woman is hard to find.