The kingfisher sits on the wooden railing of a small platform that extends over a muddy creek. There is no breeze to rustle surrounding leaves. Neither is there much other birdsong…besides, kingfishers make guffawing buffons more than they do pleasant songsters, by most standards. Only silence, perforated by the bubbling of creek-water and nervous stirrings of fish. Ripples spread, spread, dissipate, and disappear. The kingfisher spreads its wings languidly in a tiger’s yawn. Folds them, settles its raised body plumes complacently. Across its eyeball slowly slides a membranous eyelid, glistening in afternoon rays; drying scales of the morning’s fish are plastered on the wooden surface, a thrashing board. Absolutely nothing of importance occurs in this moment, save the birth and death of cells, which make up and regulate small, large and then larger organisms, which are born, experience all they can, and expire. Absolutely nothing of importance, save the falling of billions of droplets of water that once became strong and rose to the sky to travel vast distances. No, you will find nothing of importance here.
Fun, perishable souvenirs from the Duke Campus Farm. The farm’s changed a lot - for the better - since I last went about a year ago. I finally got around to using my camera, though not for this picture. If I have time I’ll do a post about the food and non-food (yup) crop they have in the ground right now. Bittergourd, sweet potatoes and their delicious leaves, color varieties of cotton(!) and a bunch of legumes i.e. edamame and two other kinds of beans. Also, never have I ever been so happy to see chili padi. And even those strange, gorgeous purple peppers. We tested both on the spot; the chili padis were decently spicy but the purple ones were pleasantly sweet.
There were mangoes in fruit on a single tree that grew, audaciously, on its own. None of the mangoes were perfectly formed. Neither were they smooth-skinned and creamy-yellow like supermarket pile mangoes that you buy under a blast of air-conditioning. Some were still a gradient of yellow to green with black markings. Some, though, with tantalizing globules of sap inching - so slowly that they appear to have crystalized - down their sides, were already subject to little squirming maggot’s munching, a soft patch revealing the site of the feast. When the tree is in fruit the ground is constantly littered with mangoes of an entire spectrum of stages of decomposition, much to the delight of the fussy hermit crabs, insects and of course, certain people. I think I’ve ate at least a hundred, two or three hundred mangoes in this short human life under Pandora, and it might not surprise you that I would be honored to share a mango with the larvae of a resourceful fly…
Inflated Beetle (Cysteodemus armatus)
….a species of desert spider beetle (Cysteodemus spp.) that is distributed throughout the Colorado and Mojave Deserts in North America. Adult C. armatus feed mainly on creosote bush (Larrea tridentata) but are known to feed on a wide number of other plants as well. They are typically active from Febuary to June and when threatned they can exude a hemolymph which can cause blistering of the skin. Cysteodemus armatus larvae inhabit the subterranean nests of solitary bees and will pillage the bees’ food stores.
TOUCH ME AND I’LL EXUDE HEMOLYMPH ON YOU
And Bird Beak Tutorial 2 is up, guys. Bird beak 3 tutorial will be on the makes. I really hope you like it and that it could be useful to you and your followers. Again, spreading the word means tons to us and we really thank you all for that.
I’ve been trying pretty damn hard to send thank you notes to every new follower and reblog, but somehow Tumblr doesn’t allow a certain amount of Asks? Are these limited? Oh well, but at least some of you receive the thank you ask on your account :)
Sorry if this has been a little be down in terms of illustrations, and I have been spamming more messy sketches…but basically I’m in the process of creating some really high detailed refined pictures for a Zoo Logical project but all the sketches are practice for those exact pictures.
*sigh* I miss refined traditional art.
D. “Psamophis” Falcão
Approximately 619 journalists have died since 2004. Most were local reporters.
Believe me, there are birds that live in this room, a flock of little frantic glowing, turning things that hop about restlessly, relentlessly. These birds are surely to blame for the husks of sunflower seeds and melon seeds that turn up out of nowhere and get stuck in the cracks between the parquet floor tiles, which embarrass me deeply when nobody comes over, when nobody sees them, their dried up shit on my dresser and drip-stains on the single wall of my cornerless, windowless room, and wonders why they are made to live here, in these dusty recesses. The collection of dried-out grape seeds on the window ledge and the chili seeds in an old plastic tub are also their responsibility - the little monsters are to blame for the appearance and persistence of those. Their impatient, hurried demeanor bothers me but I cannot be rid of them. They are in my head, chirping their contact calls and marking their territories using barriers of of song. I once told friends about these birds in my head and they looked at me like they thought I was mad, and had been stirred to rethink our friendship. It was then that I knew that I was not like other people. Sometimes I take the birds out flying like one may take their dogs out for a run, and it does allow them to stretch their wings; a relief from the cramped confines of this dark, musty room. Then, after I decide they have had enough I gather them jealously into my crossed arms and shepherd them back through the archway. I take them out but sometimes because I am wracked with guilt, because I would rather keep them around me where I can see and religiously take stock all of them, rather than to let them go and have them disappear, their fate uncertain to me their creator, and into the light.