shoot for the moon

this doodle actually has quite a tale to go along with it... it's an older scribble i did while i was enjoying a beer after a short driving adventure i had taken.

one of the first sunny warm days in march i got in my car and meandered through a small nearby town hoping a particular eatery had reopened for the season. they hadn't yet, so i continued on my adventure and made a few stops in some thrift stores and small antique shops along the way (browsing only of course).

i headed home but decided getting out of the car for a bit and maybe enjoying a beer and snack might feel good after driving around most of the day.

i stopped at this place in Duanesburg and ordered a blue moon (maybe what inspired the doodle a little?) and grabbed my notebook and started scribbling away, glancing up every once in a while at the quick pick monitor as the gentleman to my right was eagerly watching each number hit hoping for a win. i smiled at him. he introduced himself: he was a man in his 60s named Jim, with a daughter and son and 2 grand kids. he asked me if i had any lucky numbers for him and said he would split his winnings with me if he won, and i obliged with my usual: 1, 5, 8, 3 and 2 (2 is my fave and 1/5/83 is my bday).

he added them to his ticket and said thanks. as he went to play the numbers, another guy came up to the bar and parked to my left. i saw him staring intently down at my page as i scribbled. he smiled and said, 'i'm sorry to be forward or anything, but can i ask what you're doing there?'

''just, uh, scribbling i guess?" i replied and laughed a little.

'that's a pretty good scribble,' he said. 'are you an artist or something?'

"i'm actually a writer," i said. "well, i was a writer. i got laid off from my writing job in August," i added.

'that's awful,' he said. 'you should be an artist though, like a tattoo artist or something, cause that is really cool looking!' he added.

i laughed and said thanks, and he asked me a few more questions about why i was there by myself and so on, and introduced himself. his name was Rob. he was youngish, maybe in his mid twenties; a shorter, heavy set dude with blonde hair and a scruffly face. he told me about a late cousin he had who was an artist and was really creative and said that he was reminded of him when he saw my drawing.  He ordered a beer and started watching whatever sports were on the TV over the bar as he remained next to me silent.

after a few moments, he turned to me with something in his hand and said, 'please just take this, and don't worry about it. just pay it forward or something.'

i was bewildered and a little nervous to be honest as i opened up what he had placed in my hand. i quickly saw it was a hundred dollar bill. i was speechless for a moment as he tried to walk away, but i quickly grabbed his arm and said, "i cannot accept this, thank you so much, i really do appreciate it, but you need to keep it!" he told me he had come into some good luck earlier in the day and really wanted me to have it, but i couldn't accept it. i just couldn't.

as much as it could have been helpful or fun to have an extra hundred dollars, there was just no way i could accept such a large gesture from a total stranger. he was now the bewildered one.

"while i truly am grateful and admire your generosity here," i explained, "just because you came into some money earlier doesn't mean you should be doling it out to perfect strangers. why not share it with your family? do you have any nieces or nephews?'' i said, thinking of what i might do with a fortune of sorts.

'i already gave out a ton to my family. and then a few more people i work and am friends with. you're the first person i've encountered all day that will not accept my gift.'

''or, maybe i'm just the first stranger?'' i said with a smile.

'and see, you've got such a great smile, i want to just take it back because you're asking me to, but i still want you to have it because you seem like such a great person!'

i laughed and thanked him again, and told him he could make a donation with it maybe and think of me or something. he smiled and said okay.

after that i finished up my beer and headed home. i thought the whole ride about that guy. about how nice it was for him to offer such a thing. i felt a little silly, and even rude i guess for turning him down, but i knew there was no way i would ever be able to spend that money without feeling odd about it, or wondering if i could put it to better use somehow.

no matter what though, he restored some of my faith in humanity that day. :)

...funny how a simple doodle can have so much of 'life' behind it, no? ;)

ha... already so way behind!

soOoOo, i have been doodling every day... i just haven't been posting! ha. i haven't really been doing a lot of online 'playing' lately, (until today) so, yeah. not that that's an excuse or anything... ;)

anyway, here's one from yesterday. me and my buddy charlie went on a little nature hike near his house. this is my doodle of him and how he summed up our good time in this super nice weather! :)

a pick brought to tears

TKGLGP: Toby Keith Good Luck Guitar Pick

my friend michael's brother plays the lap steel in Toby Keith's under cover road band and on some of his recorded albums. as it turns out, TK and his 'Incognito Bandito' band were playing in a small dive joint down near NYC and Michael, who has to be one of the most interesting and genuinely nicest men i have ever met, was invited as VIP to visit with his bro Jim and sorta hang with the gang down at the show. WOW.

he was, of course, stoked to see his memphis residing bro for sure, but he also was glad he got to snap some pictures of the gig up close and personal cause he was basically with the band. so cool. plus the gig was totally underground, so only a handful of people were going to be there in contrast to his name-sake, tricked-out-by-Ford-trucks mega concerts.

upon leaving work that particular Friday i asked him where he was headed for the weekend and he mentioned the show, and i told him how much i adored Toby Keith and how awesome i thought it was that he got to go see his brother play live with him, and so on.

when i got to my desk on monday morning a plum colored guitar pick lay waiting for me in front of my computer keyboard. the end of it was worn, as were mostly the silver words that inscribed across it's plastic face. i knew right away it was from Michael, but could it have really been....?

i marched right into Michael's office and said with a huge smile, ''is this for me?! from you? from--??" and before i could even ask if it was TK's, Michael said, 'Yep. That was one of the picks Toby played with during the first set," and he laughed.

now, i know it's no big deal really, in music land anyways, that musicians toss out pick after pick to loving (or sometimes completely random) fans. and i know it's probably not worth any more than it was the day it was bought from whatever music supply store Toby Keith frequents, it's actually prob worth less maybe since it's worn?? haha. 

but i also know that i probably won't ever come across another one, that was specifically given to me, from such a neat secret gig by such a HUGE time star. and furthermore it wouldn't be from someone like michael, that i admire so much, or who i could tell genuinely was enjoying his own being at that show with me in mind. nothing could demonstrate that more than him managing to snag me a sweet momento from the night.

and it is for these reasons that i was bummed when i realized today that the TKGLGP was left behind at a friend's house last night. i foolishly offered it up to a friend temporarily who was playing an acoustic guitar. and as it happens, this friend whose house it's at is moving to Colorado TOMORROW... so i kinda would like to sorta make sure the TKGLGP doesn't end up going too! ... i think it will be okay. at least i really hope i get it back. i'll have to follow up and give an update if/when we are reunited.

in the meantime, this little guy is all i can picture when i think about me leaving without it last night. haha. hehe. ....ho hum. :(

time to just do some doodles i suppose

so i've been searching for a full time job for a good few months now, no luck yet, but i am not discouraged! i know my place is waiting for me out there, and when i land in it there will be some sort of cosmic BOOM! or northern-lights-style fire dance in the sky and the world will rotate that much smoother because i am finally where i need to be... haha. or at least it will be a MAJOR releif.

ANYWAY... i thought i could motivate myself to blog more if i used a completely pointless excuse: doodles. (every time i type that word all i can think about is Spongebob's angry doodle version of himself, and laugh)

i doodle a lot. i save some of them, but most of them are pretty entertaining. (notice i said 'entertaining' not, skillfully drawn or artistically sound...haha) so i drew one today which actually has a story to go with it, so what a great way to kick off this new direction for my blog. my very next post will be about today's doodle.  i will occasionally still post writing pieces on their own, but from now on most will accompany a doodle. let's see how long i can keep this up... :) hope you enjoy!

WWMTD

by Bryande Murray

So I sit here each day and I wonder:

What would someone like Mark Twain do now?

With computers, the Internet, cell phones?

He grew up when a tractor and plow…

Were the cutting edge type innovations,

in a world that had just picked up steam.

And the whole earth’s outlook on “creation”

was as new as a sapling is green.

Would he’ve turned out as brilliant a writer?

If he had all these things in his face?

Would he sit down still, and pen a masterpiece?

Or just zone out in endless web space?

I’m in no way implying that somehow,

A much better writer I’d be,

If there wasn’t so much mindless dribble,

Always floating right in front of me.

‘Cause your mind isn’t processing info,

Or absorbing it, as you should wish.

It goes simply in one eye and out of one ear,

When the link you click acts like a switch.

And within all of these trails of nonsense,

There is something I’ve found I must say.

I bet Mark Twain’d’ve smashed his computer by now,

(If it made it past its first whole day).

He just doesn’t seem much like the type who,

Would sit there just scouring the web.

He’d be out in a rag top convertible,

the wind shaping white hair on his head.

He’d be sitting by creek side at noontime,

probably reading a Hemingway book,

taking in all the summers sweet offers,

stealing sunshine like he was a crook.

See it’s simple things like this I fear most,

that we often forget how to do.

In a world full of fast paced ambitions,

for your 1 someone else just got 2.

And I think we could all find contentment,

if instead of our blind race to prow,

in this world that we can’t quite keep up with,

we asked, “What would Mark Twain do right now?"

All's Well...

A pen and an inkwell: now far from each other, though once had been neighbors for sure. They’d been put right together, they thought, for forever, but conversing by now was a chore.

Said the pen to the inkwell, “By golly where are you? I’m useless here standing alone!?” “Why I’m way over here,” said the inkwell indignantly, “Appear I to sit on a throne?!”

See this was such a pun, since the inkwell indeed had been thrown cross the study’s wood floor. “I’ve been emptied you pin head!” the inkwell continued, by now the pen knew he was sore.

“Well your tone is quite rough,” said the pen with a huff, as she’d never quite heard him so mad. “I should think,” said the inkwell, “You might understand… with my ink gone I’m 'sposed to be glad?!”

“Glad? Why of course not,” the pen shouted back, as she tried her best now to contrive. “But just think,” she continued, “I’m happy to hear you, to know that you’re truly alive.”

“So now what should I do?” the inkwell asked timidly, wondering what more could be said. “I’m not sure,” said the pen, as she spun back around, simply scratching the point on her head.

“Are you totally empty? 100%?” said the pen in a tentative tone. “Honestly, I’d say there’s 20%,” said the inkwell, “It isn’t all gone.”

“Just enough to get upright,” the pen shouted out, “Simply muster up all of your strength!” And in no time at all, now the inkwell stood tall, well as tall as an inkwell has length.

“That’s much better,” he said, though his face had turned red, for he really had tested his brawn. “Now just climb right back up here,” the pen followed up, “for you’ve been away far for too long!”

“Just climb right back up here?” the inkwell said hastily, “That’s all you think I must do? I’ve been throttled about, my ink nearly poured out! Tell me what inconvenience have you?”

“I’ve been sitting here patiently,” replied the pen, “Been supportive and worried it’s true. See you’re my other half. I can’t fill my potential unless I am counting on you.”

“So you need me?” the inkwell said, leveraging his case, as he knew this fact quite all along. “Then I hope you remember this, next time you blame me for words that may write out all wrong!”

“Why how dare you!” the pen said with nearly a burst, of embarrassment biting her tongue. “Why it isn’t my fault! I just need a good cleaning, and I’ll write again as if I’m young.”

“Well it’s you and the floor then,” the inkwell replied, with a reference to his shiny puddle. “But I can’t come back up there, without a real hand. Why don’t you and the desk supplies huddle.”

So the pen gathered up all the other inhabitants willing and able to think: the stapler, the paperclips, envelope knife and a stamp pad of burgundy ink.

“We’ve come up with a plan,” yelled the pen to the inkwell, relaying the steps, as they’d come: “First we’ll link all these paper clips one to another, and attach to the staplers drum…

Next we’ll drop down the inkpad, for you to climb onto, and the envelope knife will hold fast. And before you can know it you’ll be hoisted upwards, beside me, the pen, at long last!”

And their plan would have worked if a one certain jerk-cat who’d started the sorted ordeal, hadn’t leapt up AGAIN where he didn’t belong, scattering desk supplies paw front to heel.

“Git now and scat!” said the man to the cat, as he shooed the foul miscreant away. “How’d you get in my study, you small wicked beast?” he asked angrily without delay.

With a hiss and a pounce, the cat he was gone, and the man started sopping up ink. “Guess today isn’t after all, quite that inspiring,” the writer said giving a wink.

by Bryande Murray

I'm telling

What happens when a storyteller runs out of stories? Really? I mean, much like clown fish and comedians, who are expected to be funny simply because of what they are, storytellers are expected to tell good stories. And not just once or twice every so often, but as a method of delivery for almost every interaction.

But is it even possible, to run out of stories, if indeed you are a storyteller? I don’t quite know if it is. Once again, making the comparison to comedians, they are what they are because of their ability to observe humor. Comedians don’t always use shtick or exaggeration to get a laugh. Often times, the reason they are funny is because they have an innate sense of what occurs around them that is funny, when no one else may pick up on it. What they are good at, is simply pointing out what made them chuckle, and bringing it to the surface for everyone else to enjoy.

It isn’t that they are always in funny situations, or full of funny material, its more so the fact that whatever they do, wherever they go, they can see the humor in it somehow. That is what makes them a comedian. I don’t think any comedian woke up one day and thought, “Hmmm. I think I will be a comedian from now on. I better start finding things that are funny.” Much like a storyteller doesn’t wake up and say, “I’d like to tell some stories. Maybe I should go find some.” It is the storyteller’s ability to see the stories in everyday happenings which makes them a storyteller. And it is a vocalist’s ability to sing that makes her a vocalist, and so on and so forth.

Yes. It's true that some people will work their whole lives trying to be something they are not. Taking voice lessons when they really don’t have a voice, or going to med school when they don’t have a steady hand. It was some time ago that if you were strong and burly you were a laborer. You lifted hay bails, or pounded steel. If you were organized perhaps you were a clerk, or if you were naturally caring you might be a nurse. The point being that you were defined by what you were capable of.

Although no one should cut themselves short with the challenges they may face pursuing their hopes and dreams, there should be some attention paid in respect to what they are good at when it comes to deciding their own fate. Ha. Deciding ones fate… what a silly term. Wouldn’t fate imply it was predetermined? But we use this phrase all the time. And it is a phrase that rings true when you come back to the issue of a storyteller telling stories.

To answer my very first question: a true storyteller never runs out of stories. If truly from the heart and soul one is a storyteller, then everything they see and do has a story to be told. Is it necessity to tell them all? No. Are they all exciting? No. But at the end of the day, what makes the story is the way in which, if ever, it is told.

A dear friend of mine often reminds me it is not our thoughts which define us, but our actions. When witness to a miraculous event, if you think, “Gee. That would make a great story,” but never tell it or simply can’t find the words, then at that moment, you are not a storyteller. But if you can find a story in each day, from how the mud got on your shoes to one crisp Saturday morning in the fall when you spotted a heron flying low over head... and you can tell it; whether short and sweet or long and romanticized, then that is when you are what you intend to be. (Assuming you want to be a storyteller) Being one doesn’t mean having an endless supply of stories to tell at all. It’s deciding your fate, and telling the stories that you see happening right before you day in and day out. And making sure that when you do, whoever’s an ear for them to fall upon will remember and enjoy what you had to say. And when you’ve finally found the perfect words and method of delivery: paper, canvas, voice or motions, and get it all out, and are finished, you have to say, “The end.”

by Bryande Murray