Image Source: Pixabay See the salt-rotten posts resting The dock’s not level the east corner sank some time ago; the upheaved boards and nails rusted and crooked See how the posts were chewed away cracked with running splits, worn by fish needing toothpicks stained green by algae See the wading posts beaten by waves, The dock still stands, but when will someone come for repairs?

Today, I bumped into an issue of undesired keyboard behavior. Long ago I discovered the joys of the Compose Key, and within the past month I had to set up keyboards for languages besides English, as well as setting up IBus in order to have access to the full range of International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA) characters (although I’m pretty sure I still don’t have this functionality truly working). Besides these things, I thought I would never have to touch my keyboard layout again.

From lift off and burning thoughts Through the clouds the plane turned down the cabby weaved and rolled from the outskirts to hotels downtown The destination—its streets, its corners, its patrons, its vices, its affairs—seasoned the food and I wrestled to keep my dinner down The neons flashed: bleeping, burning tubes that great swarm danced, circling their doom bypassing street performers and beholder traps strolling up the side walks in strides, buzzing around the electrocutioner, watching the lights on and off and on and off and on and off I tossed and I turned, I looked— double take: one beer down, two beers down the next poured, and again Cherries and golden sevens stream around Twenty five dollars down The horse hooves pound round Cigars burning down Round the turn they come Across the finish line Twenty five dollars down Was it whiskey poured and downed while fruitless politics hammered away as the men lounged, boasting unchallenged complaints?

When I began 3D printing, I watched instructional and introductory videos to tell me more about the process, the art, the product, the machine, and the rest of the lot. The videos often included time lapses of the featured print and I thought it would be a perfect addition to Redemption Studio. When I published A Dice Tower Gift, Part Two, I mentioned I would provide the scripts I wrote in order to produce the videos. All in all, I constructed six scripts which I used to learn FFMPEG, Montage, and several other programs, not to mention Bash’s getopts, data validation, arrays and more. It felt rewarding by the end of the process! Those scripts are provided in the Bash Scripts downloads.

The brown barked woods in columns rose, covered in summer’s sheath the tired path had captured dust and pebble. With striding lips I sang a merry tune under the coming blue twilight— the dawn’s veil whose rivers bent and bowed across the sky’s depths. Slowing to a stand at a peculiar architecture, this chorus man’s tongue stuttered with my boot steps at this sight unseen during journeys before, pond’ring my soles shuffled, for neither sawdust nor stump waited to be remembered.

Image Source: Pixabay "Peter, we know full well of denial." –The Difficulty, “We Are Not” Two voices call to me, I’m caught between two lays of sweeping sand, hills behind call me back, away, and hills ahead urge me forward. “Wake, my Seedling, chosen to be. Gently contoured, lavished with dirt; Hear rain rap trickling caresses.” “Child World, come and dance, come and flee. Come, Child World, witness, play, believe.

Halting Production

The Dice Tower has been completed for some time. After printing this Dice Tower¹ off, I had plans to make several posts regarding the print, but it took me a month to take the still photos of the print and during that time, I chose to upgrade a portion of my Original Prusa i3 Mk2, specifically the RAMBo Mini’s case hung on the back.

3D Printing?

In November 2016, coworkers of mine pulled me aside to see if I wanted to participate in a fundraiser for something I had dismissed a long while ago.

Image Source: Wikimedia Gothnákh, you foul rat! Take your grimy hands away or else I will gore you out, just like this hole you will be cold and stone. You left me on heap of straw for bed while you ran off for war with the pale-skinned and sun-walkers— Coward! Gothnákh, for maggots you spat me out in this cavernous filth! I ought run you through for making me snaga to be slid over by slavering gangs with hunched jaws!

Image Source: Wikimedia I don’t have much to say about best friends, but when thrusting a shovel for treasures, a wooden handle feels like rubbing money. Real Estate prices are rising after all. I want to unbury the truth about my profession: the dirt is soft seeping around my fingers dripping into muddy rivers. In winter, it is thick frozen like rocks. My knuckles shiver. I prefer bare hands.

Image Source: Wikimedia March on men of war Bum… Bum… Bum… March on to the beat of the drums Bum… Bum… Bum… March on with the flag March onward to the battlefields March on to the thunder of the cannons Bum… Bum… Bum… March on o’er hills and through valleys Bum… Bum… Bum… March on! March on, heed to your King March on his hand gestures and command Bum… Bum… Bum… “March on!

Five times I’ve seen the cord cut: pulled taut rough blade steadied, each swipe clean, frayed wire strings untied, each left alone.

The purple roses tinged with red your ailing body covered in sores. Kneeling you smell their scent free beside He Who purifies.

Fifty-two years of marriage had on Elms Road A willow tree and a gravel, dirt driveway A black furred, brown footed dachshund named Blackie Picnics in the backyard Flea market front yard sales Coffee at four in the morn, what a child’s getaway— Crayon dinosaur wallpaper Baked beans from Great Grandma’s newspaper clipping Frozen hotdogs served fresh Anxious gifts given even without money Car rides, iced tea, and Elvis’s songs The Blueberry Festival and more yard sales Fears of meat besides poultry, pork, and beef Her purpose motherhood, her strength family Drummond Island’s rocky shores, sandboxes and sand bees, no electricity, no running water, ice cream at the teepee, nighttime fires, a sinking pontoon Niagara Falls and a hand-holding competition

Image Source: Wikimedia The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. I sold rights, freedom, bought the field, though poor, I’ve inherited field, but not a bed. My stomach wrenched taut; no food when I plead. Law pursued, a sign ahead: abundant. The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. Through cities I searched too low for my head, what rest for burdens leaves you wanting more? I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.