photo sharing and upload picture albums photo forums search pictures popular photos photography help login
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp | profile | all galleries >> Galleries >> Jeffrey Alan tree view | thumbnails | slideshow

Jeffrey Alan

About the author: While born in Chicago Illinois, Jeffrey Boop began his public schooling in
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania but moved to West Michigan at eight years of age, where he was
fortunate to have lived a majority of his life. He later moved with his parents to Elkhart,
Indiana and on to Ohio. After studying at both Indiana University and Kent State U (Ohio)
Jeffrey Boop has the accumulated credits of an associate’s degree in Business and Art.
Unfortunately his education was brought to an abrupt halt due to complications of injuries he suffered
as a youth. Now, he allows his mind to wander and his spirits soar on the keyboard before himself.

The author can be reached here >> click here to e-mail Jeffrey <<
Jeff Knapp and Jeff Alan artistic workshop >> https://pbase.com/jibajaba <<
Jeffrey Alan
Jeffrey Alan		 Betty Boop
Betty Boop		 Betty lives here
Betty lives here
50 Merc Betty Boop
50 Merc Betty Boop		 Betty Betty Betty
Betty Betty Betty		 western morning mist
western morning mist
south through the misty morning
south through the misty morning		 southwestern misty reflection
southwestern misty reflection		 through the limbsAlgonquin Lake, MI
through the limbs
Algonquin Lake, MI
southern misty reflections
southern misty reflections		 sunrise channel reflections
sunrise channel reflections		 southern Misty reflections
southern Misty reflections
Reflections of a Channel
Reflections of a Channel		 uncle Tom's cabin
uncle Tom's cabin
 more southern reflections
more southern reflections
field of yellow flowers
field of yellow flowers		 wide open field
wide open field		 wide open wet lands
wide open wet lands

comment | share
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp17-Sep-2017 04:48
8,852 page views since 23-JUL-2007 and 1,608 page views since reset on 10-Jan-2015
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp19-Oct-2007 03:28
story written by Jeffrey Alan Boop

Racing With My Education [posted Oct. 2007]

I’m rushing throughout a huge, multi -faceted structure. Racing and racing, running as fast as I possibly can. “Am I attempting to avoid danger?… Or am I intending to wreak havoc,” I ask myself as my heart beats determinedly. “Am I searching for someone? Or am I searching for something?... Perhaps I’m attempting to avoid someone or something?” In such panic I feel that must be it. But whom or what could I be attempting to run from with such determination? What do I have? Is it knowledge? What could scare me so? Is it understanding?

I dash down one hall, then the next. With a sole manila folder in hand I run like heck. I see Bella’s slick black hair as I near the corridor. Across this room and then another. I find Boris’ gargantuan figure, broad forehead and sickly pale-green skin standing along the far wall. I even notice the scars of his surgical rebirth while racing past. Similarly, I behold other hideous creatures and awful beings from one blind corner toward the next. I’m frantic, this building has no apparent order in its construction... How can I ever locate the safety and security which I seek? The hallways of one floor do not coincide with those above or beneath them. As well as the disorganized structure of its irregular offices and dissimilar conference rooms scattered throughout. “Who could have ever conceived such a structural calamity as this?” I ask myself between panting breaths. There’s no method to its madness. There’s no logic to my eye. They’ve made it impossible to ever hide!

Actually, it seems this building is the combination of various, incomplete ones... No particular sequence finished, merely added to by the following architect. This is evident by the methods of construction and style of design from one segment to the next: Differing widths of the halls and offices, irregular fixtures and furnishings. As well as other inconsistencies. Even the means of decoration vary this much. The building has obviously come from the 1960s, to the 70s, through the 80s, 90s and now, into the twenty-first century. Portion after portion, one section to another, this building has been transformed.

My lungs heave as my arms and shoulders burn while I'm jumping down staircases and climbing frantically over these huge book shelves. Up, over and across one, I drop heavily to the floor. My loafers strike the ground with a sharp “Clap!” before I struggle up the next, mountainous wall of books. My body and mind tremble with fatigue as I slide over, skip across and shimmy beneath divided walkways to avoid the fearsome, long toothed lycanthrope or “Wolfman“. My jaw and shoulders clench tight while my knees shake weakly… I realize I could helplessly fall prey to any of these cruel monsters or sadistic killers at any moment.

With my frantic paces and desperate retreat from this nearly abandoned building though, I've gradually gained assistance… Kindly women posted at official looking counters along every hallway and desks adjoining most stairwells offer guidance, though seemingly oblivious to the dangers which I face. "Jordan, he went this way!” or, “He went that way!" even, "He's coming /going this way or another..." they tell me pleasantly as I run past. One hangs up the phone to inform me: "Jordan, hey just saw him by the Spring Room!" Another advises: "He's coming up the elevator now!" As I turn toward the nearest elevator however though, "No, Jordan!” she exclaims, raising her arm the other direction “That elevator!"

However, one by one, my stalkers eventually catch up with me: The dreaded but slick Count Dracula, the foreboding creation of mad Dr. Frankenstein as well as the loathsome and psychopathic killer-- Dr. Jekyll /Mr. Hyde. Even some fearsome creatures of olden times based more on fact. The Wolfman-- a terrifying legend of the middle ages, for instance. While nearly overwhelmed with mental fatigue and exhaustion, I'm still hunted by another...

My body aches all over! I listen to my dried lungs heave and heave, while I desperately attempt to draw another breath. My legs are wound with such pain. The discomfort begins at my heels, mounts toward my calves and into my thighs. I feel the pull of every muscle… I follow these discomforts climbing around my buttocks then delivering their stresses to my back: My spine steadily grows more rigid, so tight all the way to those muscles held firmly between my shoulders. My chest and abdomen are wound taut like trapeze wire. The pressure has built to nearly unbearable amounts. My jaw clenches. My temples pulse forcefully, it feels as though my head may explode at any moment. My back aches, my chest burns and every muscle sears while I helplessly struggle to remain coherent. I need clear wits to finally locate the safety and understanding which I seek. Although helplessness gradually begins to cloud my thoughts and objectives. I’ve begun to doubt if I will ever make it and begin to question why I even tried. Urgently I race onward. With some but only so little determination left in my soul I continue to run from one loathsome character. Like desperately searching for some elusive destination we can never reach: A pin prick on an investigation map, for instance. Or that one prize we may never win, (a misfiled document)… I propel myself onward.

Finally, as I step out from one of these immense book cases and charge around the corner, a young lady behind a reception desk speaks up fearlessly. Rising from those she was dealing with, an excited look shows in her eye, she intuitively advises "Jordan, I just saw him go through there!" I turned in the direction of her outstretched limb and saw the last fiend: A firm but not broad shouldered, middle aged man wearing a top hat and a long coat is stepping into the hallway from the revolving glass doorway. I shiver when I notice the sparkle of light from the polished blade in his grasp, it glistens with his every step.

My mind is numb while I battle my weakness and frailties, however with this lost psychoanalysis folder in hand I continue on. Frenziedly, I rush down the sloped walkway filled with various other students to avoid the White chapel Murderer. I quickly dash in and out to get past those persons. I crawl over another arm -railed walkway then run past that considerate woman’s counter top. Panting heavily, I round the corner and look back to see Jack the Ripper still in pursuit, his surgical bag in one hand and the scalpel he wields skillfully in the other while I run toward this exit. My entire body and every muscle aches while my thinking is nearly shattered as I turn to slide beneath the modern day, yellow -taped police investigation line at the door. I have no idea of the implication of its placement... Other than protecting me from the monsters of our past(?) I weakly get to my feet, to barely shimmy through the glass doorway of the library as it closes heavily, “Ka-chank!” I turn this corner to look back and raise one fist before I victoriously call out their names: "Hey, Dracula! Wolf-man! Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, even you Jack-- The White chapel Murderer… Not tonight!“ I yell with growing confidence between heaving breaths.

I watch their approaching steps come to a halt and they turn curiously to see me here, safely in the bountiful garden. I’m beside the old library on this worn and weathered side of campus. My hunched figure gradually stands taller as I rise with pride with these newly discovered criminal -psychosis analysis reports. My dry lungs breath steadier while the tensions rise from my frame and these whirling, clouded thoughts gradually slow as I turn to leave. Then… this hand which sets gently on my shoulder carries some authority as it shakes me, “Come on, Jordan. Get goin’ now. We’re lockin’ up,” Anderson, the late weeknight guard advises. “Don’t worry,” he says with a grin, “the library will be open tomorrow and every one of these books will still be here waiting for ya.”

He’s looking over me where I had fallen asleep, face down on an assortment of books and papers. I am surrounded by the works of Bram Stoker 1), Mary Shelley 2), Robert Louis Stevenson 3), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 4) even one mid- evil horror based on folklore-- The feared devil-like creature of the Wolfman. Finally, the most elusive killer of them all… the mysterious White chapel Murderer, also known as Jack the Ripper. I’m formulating my thesis on the similarity of modern murders /murderers to those (both fact and fantasy) seen throughout history. Not only the similarity of style and form of “copy cat” killers but also the actual psychology of the modern killers relative to those of days gone by... Anderson doesn’t notice when I slip one folder into my pack as I turn to leave.

I knew this university would be the death of me! --Jeffrey Alan Boop

1.Bram Stroker- Dracula
2.Mary Shelly- Frankenstein
3.Robert Louis Stevenson-- Dr. Jekyll /Mr. Hyde
4.Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-- The Hound of the Baskervilles
--------------
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp03-Sep-2007 16:19
88 page views since 23-JUL-2007
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp03-Sep-2007 16:00
Please comment on the Authors work.
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp03-Sep-2007 15:59
Story written by Jeffrey Allen Boop 8 /29 /07

Limited Only by My Imagination [posted 2007]

Though I realized a strange city lay beyond the trees which separate those fields, creeks and rivers, I found comfort in the fact that they were similar to the trees which border this realm. My domain is then surrounded by the beginning of the crop fields of the humble farmers. These open fields allowed me a buffer, so to speak a distance by which I could view in many directions at once. Perched in the highest trees, I could detect the onset of lurking predators, my dastardly foes or other charging enemy. After crossing two or more of those fields I turn southward, stepping carefully over the large trail there.

Hiding in the shadows, scurrying from bush to bush I follow the direction of that major route. I remain unseen until I come to a smaller path, a less traveled foot path which is much safer to travel upon. I breath deep and fully here as my arms rise above my head to stretch my worn muscles. This path casually leads me to where my weapons and provisions are stored by night.

Not long before, I was a newcomer to these lands. I was the greenhorn or “young-buck” myself. Now though, after many days and a number of years exploring these rugged lands, I’ve gained my bearings. I know the direction to head.

I would be following the lakes edge much of my trip and safely relied on that knowledge as a true compass to find home again. With a change in gear, a different ruck sack, a weapon and provisions I head off once more. There are no schedules to keep, nor records to maintain, my only denominator of time is that sun gradually receding toward the western horizon. The only notes taken are those on tiny, little mental scraps. Those fleeting thoughts which flow just as easily as the breeze moves with the slightest gust of inspiration through our minds.

Stepping from my shelter I feel the sun’s warmth on my face but that comfort doesn't last long as I turn eastward. A chill racks my figure as the shadow settles over my face while the late September breeze cools my flesh. I lift my collar high as I step bravely into the deep green forest. My cares and concerns of that indecent city beyond the other trees and it’s people are steadily brushed away just as easily as the leafs of the tree limbs I move past. My senses tune out those trivial matters as I focus upon my day’s journey. I keep a close watch searching for my prey as I move stealthily through the well shaded hardwood forest.

With my hand ever ready on my weapon, my eyes dart back and forth covering the forest floor looking for small game. I see the trails left by the numerous deer and elk which traveled these lands. They were common. In fact, I am surprised that I hadn't spied one yet. My ears focus themselves too, listening for any smaller critters scampering about.

Though not entirely for my sustenance I also listen carefully for the snap of any breaking twig that might predict the oncoming of a beast or adversary. Those which just might prey upon me!

After crossing several foot paths very similar to the one that lead me to my sanctuary, I turn from the lake. I must leave its consoling guidance to head deeper into other forests. After stealthily passing that major route once more, I step into forests of widely spread evergreens. Though there are no marked paths here I move easily as the under brush thins out beneath the heavy shade of the massive trees. It also affords a different tone or shade, nearly doubling my line of site and increases my perspective catch of the day considerably.

Game birds, quail and pheasant are occasionally seen. As are possum, fox, then still smaller game. Without the troubling bushes my pace doubles as the large trees actually form rows for me to follow. Further north into these forests I eventually come upon the fence lines between this domain and that of the farmlands of the earlier settlers and their kin.

The sun at my back insures that I am indeed still headed along my intended eastward route. Only once these comforting evergreens become thinner do I turn southward toward the lake again.

I carefully look one way then the next as I step from between the trees and through the surrounding bushes into this field. I must guard myself. Across these expanses I’ve spotted large, ravenous, canine like creatures before. Wolfs and coyotes, too I wonder. After crossing that major path or artery of travel for the third time today I eagerly step back into the thick forests of hardwood with the numerous bushes and smaller trees scattered below. They may slow my progress but they are more familiar to me and I appreciate the cover and comfort they provide.

The heavy underbrush scratches my legs and the thorns dig into my tender shins or calves beneath my denims. I briefly contemplate why I hadn't chosen to wear my heavier foot wear and curse myself for not having done so. Those with the leather wrapped high about my ankles, just for such protection. No matter, I think with a grimace on my face while the shade of large trees becomes thinner and thinner. I knew I'd be there soon.

With my rifle over my shoulder I walk closer and closer to the lake south of me. I'm now three sections away on this waterway from where I’d started!

Here, high upon this steep hillside I know I must step carefully. For I could easily my footing and tumble nearly fifty feet to my demise on the shoreline below.

After choosing the proper placement I could settle myself, rest and catch my breath. On these slopes before I've not only seen those beautiful deer and game birds but also the wild cats that stalk and sometimes feed upon them. I shall be cautious myself!

The gentle breeze from the lake cools my face as it carries the scents of the area to me. I smell the foul odor of rotting fish along shore in one direction. The sickly sweet scent of fermenting weeds from another direction and next the scent of leafs burning far in the distance. Some expanse beyond even the location of my shelter, I suspect.

My eyes scour back and forth the beautiful colors of the orange, red and mauve of the sun reflecting from the lake as it sets nearer and nearer to the distant horizon. From the corner of my eye I spot their movement before my mind flows with their motion: My face turns to follow a gaggle of geese migrating south for the winter. Nearer, to my other side, I turn quickly and my mind jitters as I notice the frantic motion of a squirrel racing up a tree with surprising speed and agility. A smile crosses my lips and I nod my head in agreement to the pure beauty which surrounds me in this domain.

Sitting there, high above the lake, I lift my pant legs to pull thorns from my flesh before scratching lightly at the abrasions. “Ar -r -r…” you can hear my frustrated breath as I rake my finger nails over my wounded flesh. I’ll have to wear my higher leathers next time, I tell myself.

With the setting sun still affording me some light, I scour across the crystal like waters, there is hardly any movement other than an occasional passing bird or the leafs in the branches about me when I turn to reach into my heavy ruck sack. Digging about for a moment I retrieve my sustenance.

“Ah -h -h…” the birds can hear me sigh as I bite into the Hershey’s chocolate bar that I brought with me on today’s journey. “Mm -mm -mm…” a grin spreads my lips as I savor the rich, sweet chocolate treat realizing that if I follow this path along the lakes edge! It will take little more than an hour, tops, to get home from this steep, leaf-covered hillside above Carter Lake.

A grin warms my cheeks and a twinkle shows in my eye realizing that the “wolfs and coyotes” are only stray or loose Retrievers, Dobermans and Huskies. The deer often spotted were very quick white tailed doe, their faun and those occasional elk are surprisingly enough the proud bucks of the area. Pheasant, quail or other small game consisted of blackbirds and foolish robins, then the other small game I tracked were merely foolish chipmunks, squirrels, etc… And the most fearsome of adversaries I normally faced in these forests surrounding this lake was my father or an older sibling!

With a BB gun slung over my shoulder I should head home soon, mom's probably got dinner nearly ready and I do have both Algebra and Chemistry homework for school tomorrow. I smile as I get to my feet. Looking about myself I know all of this will still be here tomorrow. I realize that this realm could only be limited by my imagination... Which never seems to be lacking!

With warm wishes to all,

Jeffrey Alan Boop
-------------
Jeffrey Lewis Knapp29-Jul-2007 22:07
Story written by Jeffrey Alan Boop

KATRINA "The Calm Before The Storm" [ published 2006 and 2007 ]

"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." I walk along. "Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." the waves roll onward. "Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." I feel the cool water wash over my feet and between my toes as I stroll this beach.

The air is clear, the breeze cool and refreshing. The early afternoon sun is bright and warm. Its temperature fills me with energy. With the splash of each wave over my feet I feel the fine grains of sand that wash by my flesh. They seem to tickle.

"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." the waves steadily roll onward. Their mellow and steady tone seems mesmerizing. Sort of like a baby's music box, carrying my thoughts and mind to another place and time.

"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." my feet feel good in the water. The sand beneath massage my soles with every step as I follow this path-- just within but nearly out of the crystal -like water. As I said, every deep breath of the cool air I find so refreshing. The sun is warm, the air is clear, the sand is soothing and I find the steady roll of the waves to be so tranquilizing.

Every now and then that gentle drone of the waves is disturbed by a passing speed boat or low flying aircraft, sometimes even a shout from the public area of the beach not all that far north of here. Occasionally the breeze even catches my hair or the pages of this note book in my hand.

Although those annoying sounds eventually fade or similarly-- Turning westward solves the other inconvenience easily enough; blowing those free strands from my forehead, replacing the pages of my flimsy notebook… while offering me a fine view of the horizon over the Atlantic Ocean, to boot!

Some persons come to visit, others come to stay. For most-- simply a pleasant tropical get -away. These islands have long been associated with great wealth, a playground, of sorts, for many, many years, catering to the ultra rich and spoiled. Tourists are next in line, followed by 'gold -diggers'.

Somewhere beneath them all are the unfortunate natives of these lands. A people who, it seems by now, have had their culture torn down then redesigned and reconstructed so many times by those outside of their own society that they no longer even know who they are.

There are various country clubs, social halls, dance spots and quaint pavilions of all sorts which cater to and pamper those of wealth and power from any culture. Much of the coast is filled with the tourist getaways though. Intermingled with them, or often staying at smaller vacation spots are the "diggers"... Men and women, both young and old, whom are hoping to meet their perfect match, preferably a very wealthy one, and live happily ever after...

He hopes that she'll be swept away with his dashing good looks and fine social etiquette or she believes he'll give in to the charms of a wholesome, possibly sleazy charms of a lovely young woman. If not-- A nice fling with a millionaire isn't all that bad either! Others like myself, whether good or bad, judge for yourself, are fortunate enough to have friends or family who own property here.

It's actually been years since I've visited. So I do remember the islands... sort of. My second cousin's cottage is further south on this coast. This beach front path I'm following leads along various homes of magnificent style, design and some of enormous size.

Some properties are held by royal families, very wealthy business persons or others who own great amounts of land. Oh, quite a few oil barons too. There are many mid easterners about. Guns too! You don't want to mess with the security guards of those mid eastern oil barons or the royal families. They're armed!

"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh -h -h -h -h..." I turn over my shoulder to watch as my foot prints are wiped clean by the waves. All evidence of my presence removed as quickly as it took for me to leave it there. "Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh -h -h -h -h..." the metronome like music box washes me away.

------
story by Jeffrey Alan Boop 26-Jul-2007 22:59
Where I'd Rather Be [ published 2005 and 2007 ]

As I step onto this porch I pause to look across the yard. My lawn as well as those to either side and behind me are covered in thick, lush sod. Many of us have beautifully groomed evergreens lining the yard or other healthy trees scattered about and nearly every home is lined with gardens of brilliant pink, yellow and red flowers. However my mind takes me back to a different place and a different time. This time and place is where the flowers aren’t always in bloom, where the trees are often misshapen and rugged. Even the grass beneath our boots is coarse, rough and laden with stones. Those details, in fact, are what makes that the place I’d much rather be.

With my eyes closed I see the lake as I last knew it: It’s not so big, only a couple of miles long and about a quarter mile, or so, across. The homes at the lake’s edge were well protected by thick hardwood forests and their long driveways hid them from the road. I still recall the Y camp where, when little, I spent a week of fun and adventure with all my friends in the woods and on that lake covered by the warm summer sun. We learned various skills and practiced many of them ‘til they became second nature: The abilities of fishing, then preparing and cooking the day’s catch. First aid and basic medical skills. As well as treating and bandaging wounds, etc. Because you never know when such abilities may come in handy. Setting your own tent, the proper fire site(s) and other safety considerations with the open flames. Even swimming different strokes and great distances. Amongst so many other lessons...

As I feel this breeze on my face I think of those adventures my friends and I shared while camping along the lake shore or deeper in the forest. When young we always set our camp site and placed our tents just beyond the glow of the lights of our homes to insure our privacy and increase the appearance of the rugged wilderness. However, as we grew older our camping experiences took us further and further from home. We sat beside the fire ‘til late in the night, as we stared at the stars above and shared memories of our previous camping adventures or, always popular-- We’d recollect those camp fire tales we learned at Y camp as boys!

We’d tell and retell the stories, spinning the yarns of the fabled creatures of the forest, then the folklore and myths of the wilderness which we were surrounded by. ‘Till finally, as the fire burnt down and the glow of our lanterns softened, we always concluded each night with those popular legends of the mystical monsters of our lake and the adjoining one. Each of us would “Ooh!” and “Ahh!” as the details of the wondrous tales were rehashed and clarified until tingling shivers ran up and down our spines. Then teenagers but gradually becoming adults we aren’t frightened by those stories of folklore from our youths but there always seems to be something within us that still wants them to be true.

Oh, if I could only go back there. To that place where I learned so much of myself and Mother Nature. Even learning something new about my trusted friends... Hopefully I can get there soon. But now: My thoughts are shaken and my eyes open in surprise. “Jeff! Come on,” Brad calls to me. “Could ya grab that tent?” Next, “Bring your bedroll and let’s go,” Jon yells from the SUV parked in my driveway. “We gotta get going, if ya wanna beat traffic,” he advises me, while hopping into the truck loaded with all the gear for our yearly camping excursion.

--------------
click on thumbnails for full image