a turn on Crow Lane

"I believe that maturity is not an outgrowing but a growing up: that an adult is not a dead child, but a child who has survived. I believe that all the best faculties of a mature human being exist in the child, and that if these faculties are encouraged in youth they will act wisely and well in the adult, but if they are repressed and denied in the child they will stunt and cripple the adult personality. And finally, I believe that one of most deeply human, and humane, of these faculties is the power of imagination: so that it is our pleasant duty, as librarians, or teachers, or parents, or writers, or simply as grownups, to encourage that faculty of imagination in our children, to encourage it to grow freely, to flourish like the green bay tree, by giving it the best, absolutely the the best and purest, nourishment that it can absorb. And never, under any circumstances, to squelch it, or sneer at it, or imply that it is childish, or unmanly, or untrue.

"For fantasy is true, of course. It isn't factual, but it's true. Children know that. Adults know it too and that's precisely why many of them are afraid of fantasy. They know that its truth challenges, even threatens, all that is false, all that is phony, unnecessary, and trivial in the life they have let themselves be forced into living. They are afraid of dragons because they are afraid of freedom.

"So I believe that we should trust our children. Normal children do not confuse reality and fantasy -- they confuse them much less often than we adults do (as a certain great fantasist pointed out in a story called 'The Emperor's New Clothes'). Children know perfectly well that unicorns aren't real, but they also know that books about unicorns, if they are good books, are true books. All too often, that's more than Mummy and Daddy know; for, in denying their childhood, the adults have denied half their knowledge, and are left with the sad, sterile little fact: 'Unicorns aren't real.' It is by such statements as, 'Once upon a time there was a dragon,' or 'In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit' -- it is by such beautiful non-facts that we fantastic human beings may arrive, in our peculiar fashion, at truth."

From The Language of the Night
by Ursula K. Le Guin


We too often forget that tale-telling is thousands of years old. Parents who read to their children or who make up stories are giving them the finest gift in the world.. next to letting them outdoors to play and dream their own stories.

 
♥️

coyote makes the seasons

in the beginning, there were no seasons, and the world was the same every day. one day, coyote grew tired of this, and he created summer and winter. as time passed, summer and winter grew to love each other. they wished to be with each other, but had no place to meet. they went to coyote and told him these things. and so coyote built them a lodge where they could be together. he built it in the most beautiful place he knew, far from everything else. then coyote told them what he’d done, and they were happy.

a few days later, coyote saw summer. “coyote, you must help me and winter,” said summer. “we have tried to find the lodge you have built for us, but it is so well hidden that we cannot find our way.” she told coyote “you must make us a path.” coyote said he would. he asked summer how the path should be. “it should be as winter’s way is,” summer answered. “it should be still, and warm, and golden, and full of deep thoughts and memories. such a path will remind me of winter, and i will not lose my way.” “i will do it,” said coyote, and he went and made such a path.

time passed. then one day, coyote saw winter. “coyote,” said winter, “you must help me. i have tried to follow the path you have made to the lodge, but i keep getting lost. you must change the path, and make it as summer’s way is. it must be fresh, and bright, and green, and carefree and full of laughter. a path like this will remind me of summer, and i will not get lost.” “very well, i will make the path this way,” said coyote.

when coyote was by himself, he thought “i cannot make just one path to the lodge that will please these two.” and so coyote made a new path as winter had described. these two paths were fall and spring. “now each has its own way to find the lodge and each other,” said coyote, and summer and winter were pleased.


- by numb
in appreciation of 'Giving Birth to Thunder: Sleeping With His Daughter'
Native American 'coyote' stories collected by Barry Lopez

***

Retyped from its dot-matrix original found in a pocket
of an old handbag of mine. It was so nice I just had to
illustrate its essence. Hope you like it too.

♥️

dream stream

This is another of those pictures of mine that has no story attached - at least none that I'm able (or willing) to tell. While there are earlier pictures it still seems to me there there are some missing, ones that would add more depth to what's turning out to be a strictly visual narrative. I'm liking the dog more and more and make no bones of the fact they are my favorite species (naturally, Crow doesn't count). Over the years I've had two canine friends of my own, but none now and none for a long time. Full-time jobs and apartment living don't combine to make a happy environment for a being that needs both love and regular outdoor exercise.

German shepherd or poodle, it's funny to think that all dogs are closely related to wolves. How they came to appear so diverse makes a fascinating exercise in considering just how long they have been close to us and one could make a somewhat reasonable argument that dogs and people began evolving together some thirty thousand years ago. Just as most dogs don't look like wolves neither do we (again, most of us) resemble Cro-Magnons, the people who first welcomed dogs to their caves and camps.

There are lots of theories, but one among them written by Donald A. Mackenzie, (1873-1936) in a book called 'Ancient Man In Britain' caught my attention:

The introduction of the domesticated dog may have influenced the development of religious beliefs. Cro-Magnon hunters appear to have performed ceremonies in the depths of caverns where they painted and carved wild animals, with purpose to obtain power over them. Their masked dances, in which men and women represented wild animals, chiefly beasts of prey, may have had a similar significance. The fact that, during the Transition Period, a cult art passed out of existence, and the caves were no longer centres of culture and political power, may have been directly or indirectly due to the domestication of the dog and the supremacy achieved by the intruders who possessed it.  There can be no doubt that the dog played its part in the development of civilization. As much is suggested by the lore attaching to this animal. It occupies a prominent place in mythology. The dog which guided and protected the hunter in his wanderings was supposed to guide his soul to the other world.

It was Will Rogers who said, “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they went”.

and Woodrow Wilson suggested that, “If a dog will not come to you after having looked you in the face, you should go home and examine your conscience.”

♡ 
That the NDP can win big in Alberta proves miracles still happen!

having cast off

Sometimes these things take longer than I expect they will but now I can show you the latest illustration from the annals of my unwritten story. If it's any help at all, I'll also mention the pictures are in no particular order. You may remember the boat from 'Turbulence' - this is before that :). For the time being this one will be the last of them as I'm planning to get serious about a different story - one with a girl but no dog and no dragons either. Well, in actuality there is a dragon in the story I'm thinking of, but rather than being a smallish, curious dragon like one of these, he's a much larger and more ferocious member of his species. Don't worry, you'll see the pictures as they develop and likely a picture or two of Crow as well. He starts to feel neglected if I wait too long between portraits.

Now we're in those last days of the year leading to the shortest one - in this hemisphere anyway. I don't know about you, but I always feel much more relaxed once it's all over and we can begin looking forward to longer days and shorter nights even if it is freezing cold outside.

I won't bother mentioning the bad news of the past week or so (call me a coward if you like), but the good news I read a few days ago is that the Masai people of Tanzania won't have to move off their land after all. I was shocked to read a few weeks ago that the that the Tanzanian government had reintroduced plans to forcibly relocate 40,000 pastoralists to make way for a luxury hunting and safari company based in the United Arab Emirates. Unbelievable. We can only hope that the next step will be to give the Masai permanent rights to their land.

We are a strange species, but one that's capable of extraordinarily beautiful achievements too.



Happy December
♡

other thoughts - Alan Watts

Having recently rediscovered Alan Watts I'm wondering why he hasn't always been on my seriously Wise Person radar. The book itself is on my purchase list, but in the meanwhile I downloaded 'On The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are'. Here is a story which he said was for children, but that doesn't really seem to be the case.

"There was never a time when the world began, because it goes round and round like a circle, and there is no place on a circle where it begins. Look at my watch, which tells the time; it goes round, and so the world repeats itself again and again. But just as the hour-hand of the watch goes up to twelve and down to six, so, too, there is day and night, waking and sleeping, living and dying, summer and winter. You can't have any one of these without the other, because you wouldn't be able to know what black is unless you had seen it side-by-side with white, or white unless side-by-side with black.

"In the same way, there are times when the world is, and times when it isn't, for if the world went on and on without rest for ever and ever, it would get horribly tired of itself. It comes and it goes. Now you see it; now you don't. So because it doesn't get tired of itself, it always comes back again after it disappears. It's like your breath: it goes in and out, in and out, and if you try to hold it in all the time you feel terrible. It's also like the game of hide-and-seek, because it's always fun to find new ways of hiding, and to seek for someone who doesn't always hide in the same place.

"God also likes to play hide-and-seek, but because there is nothing outside God, he has no one but himself to play with. But he gets over this difficulty by pretending that he is not himself. This is his way of hiding from himself. He pretends that he is you and I and all the people in the world, all the animals, all the plants, all the rocks, and all the stars. In this way he has strange and wonderful adventures, some of which are terrible and frightening. But these are just like bad dreams, for when he wakes up they will disappear.

"Now when God plays hide and pretends that he is you and I, he does it so well that it takes him a long time to remember where and how he hid himself. But that's the whole fun of it—just what he wanted to do. He doesn't want to find himself too quickly, for that would spoil the game. That is why it is so difficult for you and me to find out that we are God in disguise, pretending not to be himself. But when the game has gone on long enough, all of us will wake up, stop pretending, and remember that we are all one single Self—the God who is all that there is and who lives for ever and ever.

"Of course, you must remember that God isn't shaped like a person. People have skins and there is always something outside our skins. If there weren't, we wouldn't know the difference between what is inside and outside our bodies. But God has no skin and no shape because there isn't any outside to him. The inside and the outside of God are the same. And though I have been talking about God as 'he' and not 'she,' God isn't a man or a woman. I didn't say 'it' because we usually say 'it' for things that aren't alive.

"God is the Self of the world, but you can't see God for the same reason that, without a mirror, you can't see your own eyes, and you certainly can't bite your own teeth or look inside your head. Your self is that cleverly hidden because it is God hiding.

"You may ask why God sometimes hides in the form of horrible people, or pretends to be people who suffer great disease and pain. Remember, first, that he isn't really doing this to anyone but himself.
Remember, too, that in almost all the stories you enjoy there have to be bad people as well as good people, for the thrill of the tale is to find out how the good people will get the better of the bad. It's the same as when we play cards. At the beginning of the game we shuffle them all into a mess, which is like the bad things in the world, but the point of the game is to put the mess into good order, and the one who does it best is the winner. Then we shuffle the cards once more and play again, and so it goes with the world." 

What the story contains is a description of the essence of Advaita.
What do you think?

♡
Now for something different, or maybe it's not all that different - a man and his dog dancing:




I liked that :)

ps: The painting at the top is a quick watercolor sketch from a story (written by the daughter of a friend) that I'm in the process of attempting to illustrate.
 ♡

the tinker's horse

My dad was a great storyteller and this is one of his I remember from long ago. Just to give you some background, at the age when most of us were dreading our first day at high school my dad went to work in one of the coal mines of northern England. He would certainly have preferred to stay in school but, as the eldest boy once his father had died, the mines were the only place to earn money enough to feed his mother, sisters and brother.

Anyway, this story is about a man and his pony who lived in the village just before the turn of the 19th century - so likely a story my father had heard rather than one he witnessed. The man was a tinker who spent his days going round the local villages fixing things that were broken as well as buying and selling whatever came to hand. There's nothing odd in that but what was strange was that so long as the tinker himself was sitting on the cart bench his horse went to whatever village he knew to be next. The tinker never used reins. If he decided to go to a different village he simply told the horse which one and off they'd go.

In those days the miners worked six and a half days a week with just the morning off on Sunday so they could attend church. Not surprisingly, they gathered at the local pub on Saturday nights to relax and enjoy themselves. (I'm guessing not all made it to the services next morning.) Normally his horse was well cared for except for those Saturday nights the tinker spent in the pub while his horse waited patiently outside. What invariably used to happen was that the tinker would get very drunk, so much so that all he could do at the end of the evening was to climb onto his cart where he'd fall asleep. The horse could be relied upon to take him home.

Late one night when the pub had closed some of his co-revellers followed behind the horse and cart that was carrying the drunken tinker. The horse stopped in front of the dark house (the tinker lived alone). The men had decided to play a trick on the tinker. They lifted him off the cart and put him down in a comfortable spot, then they unhitched the horse. After that they took the wheels off the cart, lead the horse into the house, carried the unwheeled cart inside, put the wheels back on, hitched up the horse to the cart and, lastly, carried the unconscious tinker inside and put him back on the bench.

Next morning when he awoke they all just happened to be waiting not far from the tinker's door. He came outside rubbing his eyes and said, 'Ah elwis knew pit wes a clivvor cuddy but ah nivvor knew ha bloody clivvor til neeo.'
(I always knew he was a clever horse but I never knew how bloody clever until now.) 
♡

Thripdipple: Anthony's Story

Once, a while ago, so long ago that my Grampa recalls it vaguely, everything was pretty much the same as it is now. Except for a few things.

Some of these things that were different were the turtles. They weren't so different. They still had noses and ate bugs and moved slowly just like now. The only difference really was that they didn't have shells. So they looked something like this, I guess.

And this turtle here, his name is Anthony. He's the turtle this story is about. All the other turtles have stories about themselves, of course, but it would take me five years to tell you even half of them, and thirteen years more to tell you all the endings. Besides that, you should probably go to sleep soon. So I will tell you just about Anthony tonight.

Anthony lived with his brothers and sisters in a place called Turtletown, which is about 27 miles east of Schenectedy. But you won't find Turtletown on any map. Many maps don't even have Schenectedy on them.

Turtletown was a pleasant and beautiful place with many colorful flowers and cool clear ponds. Just as now the turtles passed their moments quite happily.

Well, not all their moments. Sometimes a hungry fox or two would come by. And sometimes it would rain and become cold. Worst of all, sometimes a hungry fox or two would come by and it would rain and become cold, all at once!

But there seemed to be nothing that could change these things. And not being the type that dwells upon misfortune, Anthony, and all his brothers and sisters, lived in their happy moments - even though they had sore throats and so on sometimes.

Well now, Anthony was out walking one day, searching up some munchies and humming, and what do you think? Well, it almost goes without saying that suddenly a long, pointed rocket swooped out of the sky and landed very near by. Anthony's little red eyes blinked a few times. He was surprised and said, "Holy Smokes!" He forgot all about hunting for munchies, but did keep on humming. And he walked over to the rocket.

When he got there a big purple man with three eyes, three ears, three noses, three mouths, three arms, and three legs came out from the rocket. He bent down and picked Anthony up. Anthony said, "What's happenin', man?"

The purple man laughed heartily. He laughed so much that Anthony laughed too. When they stopped laughing, the purple man said, "Thripdipple!" They started to laugh again. Then Anthony's new friend took Anthony into the rocket.

Anthony's friend went to a chair and sat down. He put Anthony on one of his shoulders. There were many buttons on the walls. Anthony's friend pushed a button. Then he said, "Thripdipple!" Then he pushed another button and said, "Thripdipple!" He pushed seventeen more buttons. Anthony helped his friend. They said "Thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple thripdipple!" Then the rocket shook and roared up through the cosmos.

And in no time at all it seemed (and in actuality was) the rocket became still. Anthony knew they had landed. His friend stood up. Anthony was still on his shoulder. They went to the door.

What a sight! Anthony's friend put his hands out and said, Thripdipple!" Anthony began to hum. They walked to the corner. There were other men and women at the corner, and they were standing in a queue. Anthony guessed that it was a bus stop. And as sure as your Aunt Matilda wears tennis shoes in the bathtub, he was right.

Anthony and his friend got on a bus. His friend said 'Thripdipple!" to the bus driver and they both chuckled. Then Anthony stuck out his tongue and everyone on the bus laughed at that. Anthony and his friend went to a seat.

Now they traveled on the bus for some time. Anthony stopped humming and listened to two women who were sitting in front of him. This is what they were saying:

"Well, anyway, thripdipple, thripdipple thripdipples over thripdipple. They thripdippled last thripdipple."

"Oh, I didn't thripdipple that. I thripdippled thripdipple thripdipple, and she didn't thripdipple me."

"Well, you thripdipple, thripdipple is so busy thripdippling thripdipple, she doesn't have a thripdipple to thripdipple."

"Oh, how thripdippling!"

Soon enough, however, Anthony's friend got up. The bus stopped and they got out. They were in front of a glorious house. They went to the door and Anthony's friend knocked. A voice from inside called, "Thripdipple!" Then Anthony's friend opened the door and they went in.

Such a splendid room! A wise looking old man with three fluffy pink beards was sitting on a pillow in a corner. Anthony's friend bowed to the man and said, "Thripdippleness!"

Anthony said, "Hey, hey, hey!" They all laughed.

"I am Thripdippleness', said the old man, 'and this place you have come to is called Thripdipple. It is a planet far in the skies in the cluster of stars named Alpha Schenectedy. We folk are called thripdipples, and we all speak the language called thripdipple. But I can also speak turtle."

'When's lunch?" said Anthony.

"We thripdipples have a favorite thing we like to do", said Thripdippleness. "More than anything, we like to thripdipple. I can't explain to you what it means because only thripdipples can understand. Anyway, I decided today to thripdipple you turtle folk. Now listen to my story:

"Many years ago when I was your age, thripdipples didn't have the kind of rockets we have now. We used to have round ones. And children, you know, like to have toys and smaller things to play with. So we thripdipples gave our children small, round rockets, like this one." Thripdippleness reached in one of his ears and pulled something out.

It was green, It was round on the top, and flat on the bottom. It had one window in the front and one window in the back. And two on one side and two on the other. How many is that?

"But you see," said Thripdippleness, "after about five thousand billion years, the thripdipples decided to have long pointed rockets for a change. Then the children wanted small, long pointed rockets. So now we have a big pile of small round rockets that the thripdipple children don't play with anymore. So I would like to thripdipple you turtles with them."

"Righteous! said Anthony.

Anthony's friend took Anthony in his hand. He gave him to Thripdippleness. The Thripdippleness put Anthony inside the small round rocket. "All dressed up and nowhere to go," said Anthony.

Well, the rest of the story is plain to see. Thripdippleness and Anthony's friend filled up 46 big bags with all the small round rockets the thripdipple children didn't play with any more. They put the bags in the long pointed rocket then Anthony and his friend went in. Anthony's friend sat in his chair. This time he only pushed one-half of one button. They both said, "Thrip!" Then the rocket shook and roared through the cosmos.

When they arrived back in Turtletown, Anthony called all his brothers and sisters. Then Anthony's friend put each and every one inside a small round rocket.

And now, even if a hungry fox or two comes by, and even if it rains and becomes cold all at once, the turtle folk don't mind. They are safe and sound inside their thripdipples.

the end


*******

This story was written by he who is locally known as numb about thirty-five years ago for two dear children who (rightfully so) loved nothing more than any excuse to laugh. Here is a picture of them:

♡

my first hurricane

In October of 1954, a hurricane called Hazel hit Southern Ontario pretty hard. By that time my mother and father both had jobs in Toronto, 25 miles away from our tiny lakeside cottage and, as a determinedly solitary child (one who hadn't taken well to being babysat), I was a latchkey kid. Every morning at 6:30 they'd get in the car for the long drive to the city and would return at 6:30 in the evening. That was the routine.

As I recall it was late afternoon on a Friday that the storm began. Truth to tell I didn't pay much attention when the rain first started pelting the windows, nor did I notice the winds doing anything unusual. I'd done my few chores - dish washing, making my bed and peeling potatoes for dinner -  before looking at the clock to see it was almost 6:30. It was already too late in the year for seeing much outside the windows by that time of the evening but I squinted into the darkness anyway hoping to see the lights of the little Ford Prefect coming up the road. Nothing. Well, not quite nothing since wet leaves had already glued themselves to the glass at the front of the house.

An hour or more went by with me alternately looking at the clock and going back to the windows, more and more nervous with each passing minute. So I did what any normal almost eight year old would do and turned on the television to watch Topper - a family favorite show. If you remember that program it was about an elderly gentleman (Leo G. Carroll) who was visited by the amusing and sophisticated ghosts of the couple who had originally owned his house. Since they'd died in an avalanche, an alcoholic St. Bernard who'd expired trying to rescue the Kirby's also provided some fun by lapping up any martinis he found. As it was only Topper who could see these characters he was always left to explain the strange happenings. Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, five minutes into the show the lights went out in the house. Not only had the storm not blown over as they usually did, but it had got worse. While I was still waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark I heard very loud banging at the kitchen door followed by the entrance of Patricia, a twelve year old neighbor who said I had to come to her house. I really didn't want to leave but she said she'd drag me if I refused. The back door that slammed into the outside wall when we went outside took both of us to close. Then it turned out I couldn't stand up in the wind so had to crawl the hundred feet or so to her house while branches and everything else that wasn't nailed down blasted past us. After Pat tripped over a rolling log she stayed down and crawled the rest of the way with me.

At least there were candles lit at the neighbor's house but I couldn't eat what was offered. A pair of clean pyjamas exchanged for my wet clothes made me more comfortable, but I refused a shared spot in bed with the girls and instead, went to sit by the kitchen window to watch for car lights. By then I was badly frightened that I'd never see my parents again and wondered what would become of me. England and the aunts, uncles and grandparents who lived there were very far away and not well remembered. A few miles away was the Loyal True Blue and Orange Home, an orphanage for children whose parents had been killed in the war, or so I'd been told. I didn't think I'd like it there.

So passed a long and lonely night. Although I didn't cry because I didn't want anyone to hug me, I did feel sick and bereft. I must have fallen asleep on the chair because when I looked outside again it was a clear, calm morning. Before anyone else awoke I was out the door running home. Even now remembering the joy and relief I felt seeing that little black car parked next to my house brings a lump to my throat.

It had been a terrible storm that saw bridges washed out, trees falling to block roads and rivers overflowing their banks, but my father drove the high riding Ford Prefect through farmer's fields and along graveled back roads to make it home by dawn. We had breakfast together, Mam, Dad and me, and then I went out to play with my friends in the lake that had crested at the bottom of our road. I think my parents went to sleep.

♡

one page picture book

For anyone who's wondered recently if I'm still drawing and painting, the answer is yes. Essentially, I'm still working on the story I mentioned a few months ago but doing multiple sequential pictures isn't a simple process for me. I don't want to be making excuses but it's also not that easy to focus with a loud work crew often only a few feet away.

Anyway, just for the fun of it this afternoon I decided to paint a drawing you may remember having seen a while back. It's a story that pretty much tells itself but in case you'd like hearing my take:

A little boy who's been out in the woods has met a new friend. Both of them are wondering if they'll they'll be able to slip home safely without being noticed by any suspicious adults.

the end

♡

the limping puppy

One fine May morning a hillside farmer had just finished putting up a sign that read 'Puppies For Sale', when who should he see pulling a wagon along the path but a small boy.  I'm sure you know signs like that do have a way of attracting children.

'How much are you going to sell the puppies for?', he asked.

The farmer replied, 'They're working dogs so I'll be asking $50.'

The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37," he said. "Can I please look at them?"

The farmer smiled and said, 'Right this way', pointing to the old barn next to the house.

Sure enough there were puppies, very lively, curious puppies who came bounding toward the little boy from every direction. He hardly knew which one to pat next but after a few moments spent tickling bellies, being poked by little wet noses, and having his clothes nipped by excited puppy teeth, he noticed one pup who had lagged behind all the others. Immediately the little boy singled out the limping puppy and asked,

"What's wrong with that little dog?'

The farmer explained that the veterinarian had examined the puppy and had found it didn't have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame. This news didn't deter the little boy at all.

'That is the puppy I want to buy.'

The farmer said, 'No, you don't want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I'll give him to you.'

The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the farmer's eyes and said, 'I don't want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every bit as much as all the other dogs and I'll pay full price. In fact, I'll give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for.'

The farmer protested, 'You really don't want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies.'

To this, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked over at the farmer and softly replied:

'Well, I don't run so well myself, and this puppy will need someone who understands.'


*** *** *** ***

I've spent a fair amount of time this year doing background work for a story I wrote last spring. A narrative is one thing but the most difficult part has been trying to determine how many illustrations to do and just how to relate them to one another. When I happened across a version of this little story at a Buddhist website I thought it might be fun to illustrate since it was short and the message very sweet. There was no mention of who had written it though, so I went in search of the story by name and found two other adaptations - one on a Christian site and the other on a Hindu chat page. It appeared it has a somewhat universal appeal and by that point I figured it was available for me to play with in my own way. The only change I made to the original was setting it in the countryside rather than a pet store. Happily the last two paintings appeared much faster than the first and I learned a few things along the way.

I'm not sure if parents read to their children anymore or if it's all about rerunning favorite sections of Pixar movies and playing video games. Ah well, I draw and paint to keep myself entertained and, hopefully, to provide my friends with a little respite from the all you can handle and more you can't news programming.

I hope you enjoyed the story. If you wrote it please let me know.

♡

storyboarding myself

Along with running with them another thing we're not supposed to do with scissors  is cut our own hair. I'd been meaning to find somebody new to cut mine for a while but so far just hadn't got around to it. I hate going to the hairdresser almost (but not quite) as much as going to the dentist. Sitting still in the chair staring at myself in a large mirror for half an hour or more while someone fidgets around with scissors, combs, clips, sprays, and blow dryers is already not my favorite thing. Then there's having to listen to the usually inane conversations going on about hair, make-up, fashion.. or worse. Once finished they charge the approximate value of an arm and a leg and tell you to come back in six weeks.

Nearly two years had gone by since my last appointment. A few days ago I got fed up looking at the split ends of my now very long hair so I picked up a pair of large sewing scissors and a hair tie and ran to the bathroom. First, I lined the counter and sink with paper towels then brushed all my hair forward and made a ponytail at the top of my forehead (I didn't draw it that way). Then I measured the hair to the bottom of my chin and cut. Next, using a smaller pair of scissors, I trimmed at an angle into the flat end to soften the look. Ten minutes of snipping later I ended up with a look not too much different from the girl I've been sketching:

It might not be for everybody but I quite like it :-)

Have you ever cut your own hair?

still sketching

One of the things I definitely have some problems depicting is realistic looking architecture. I started out here with the intention of drawing a modern grim looking city with my young friend and her companion gazing out in dismay. Before I knew it I was adding cupolas, balconies, huge curved cutout windows, and an old Chinese tea house on top of what I'd originally thought would be a parking garage. Next will come the trees and flowers, for goodness sake! This may give you an idea of the kind of difficulty I have when I think about the dark story leading to redemption I have in mind compared to the images that appear on the page. Ah well, yesterday I bought some new pencils, two pencil sharpeners (two in the packet), and more paper. It looks like I'll be continuing the process for at least a little while longer if only to discover what the back of my mind is thinking while I'm busy making other plans.

I don't mind cities as places of convenience and for diversion but most modern architecture in North America is beyond boring. When I get right down to it I wish everybody could live in a Hundertwasser neighborhood.

Every so often a video will come along that's longer than 3 minutes and I'm wise enough to know that even that amount of time is too much to ask for a blog visit. Nevertheless, Numb found this recently and I'm going to post it now just so I know where to find it next time I'd like to see something that's very inspiring. It's good to know there are still some kids who understand the value of a cardboard box. You may enjoy it too even if you just bookmark it for later.


Caine's Arcade from Nirvan Mullick on Vimeo.


All the best til next time.

storyboarding part II

I've sat through the credits of a number of video games in order to watch a final section not available until the game was finished. (No, I don't play them but I live with a fairly skillful gamer.) One thing I've noticed is that at the end of video games or even very short animations there are a whole host of people named who contributed to the end result. The short animations usually have a limited list of contributors as would be expected with a film that lasts five minutes or less, but it's remarkable that these things are rarely done by just one person. However, studio productions of full length movie cartoons, Studio Ghibli, for instance, will list more artists than actors in an average live action major film. It always amazes me.

Now I'm involved in my own small scale production of drawing and writing a story I'd like to read and can see for myself just how complicated the process can be. Should I draw and paint a few highly detailed pictures and write the rest or should I plan on letting more and simpler pictures tell the story? So far I'm still compiling sketches that aren't in much of a linear order but you'll see a few ideas are developing. I spent an afternoon this week writing out a plot summary that may have a climax that's too overblown for the intended length of the tale, meaning I'd have to add much more to the middle. I'm not sure I want to write an illustrated novel either, so for the moment my character is standing at a gate wondering about that next step.

Back to the drawing board.

Meanwhile, here's another little movie I found:



It's not what we have so much as what we make of what we have.
♡