Sense of our lives.

Rough draft? First draft? Final draft?!? Jeepers, I just don't know.

I've cast back the dining room curtains to burn out the allergens and the current plague of indecision.

First stones.

And the crow led little Gerda to the back door, which stood ajar (whoops).

More from The Snow Queen's--

-Bustling back entrance.

Obligatory bird standing by--aid to my suspicion that crows are the ancestral chroniclers of all things Faery. Seriously. Take a flip through ten children's books. I'm willing to bet that in seven you'll find a crow skirting the verge in some illustration. Blinking at the audience. Documenting quietly into the underbellies of leaves. I'll stand by those numbers.

Crows.

And sometimes bees.

Though this particular crow is serving multiple purposes. In multiple skits. There's a pointy-chinned king in there. A pauper dressed as a prince. A goosegirl. Two arguing nuns. A tailor with a wagonload of invisible thread. And what looks to be a geisha buying (or is it selling?) lamps. A little gratuitous perhaps, but why not use one bird to kill, well...a couple of stories?

Campaign trail.

"This town has enough problems without having to worry about ghosts and goblins."
H.D. 1989

For Gabby's perusal.

Up and at them.

But finally allowed that angels are essentially the superheroes of a prewar generation. All she needed was a suitable moniker.

J: We can call you Sweet Sixteee, Grandma. Or The Silver Nibbler. Maybe The Baker's Bane. No, I've got it! Grandmacaroon!

Up on the top shelf where mama keeps the cookies.

I had a conversation with Crazy Grandma yesterday that went something like this:

G: You promised Grandma a picture, sweetie.

J: Well, what do you want?

G: Angels!

J: Angels, Grandma? Are you sure you don't want a nice dragon? Maybe some talking mice? How's about I draw you as an angel? That could be fun.

G: Hsst! Don't make fun of your poor Grandma!

J: I would never.

To show virtue her own feature.

One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever.

--From Hans Christian Andersen's The Snow Queen

I was lost for ideas and thought to seek stimulus from the personal favorite of a personal favorite. I'd never read The Snow Queen. It's fantastic--despite my fears that approaching it with agendum would wither its effects. Seems I work well through second-hand inspiration.

That being said, I'll hold off my ramblings on The Differences Between Art and Illustration for another day.

Deja Hue.

Not many changes through the years. The sweatshirt varies. And the state of fade on the cargo pants. Otherwise, remaining a faithful fan of swirling a little milky craze into the dayz.

Needing a refresh in materials.

There are only so many times you can cut your india ink before it starts to lose its grip.

IN UR NURSERY RHYME, STEALING UR FOWL.

The Owl and the Pussycat.

If you don't know it, read it.

It's catchy, it's weird, and, aside from a few extremely unfortunate lines, may be the cleverest bit of anthropomorphism this side of Carroll.

Major Ursa.

Yep.

Daywalker.

Flight of the Possum.

Haven't the foggiest. I recently passed a shop on Elmwood that carried some distinctly impractical umbrellas--flimsy, frilled, definitely not rain-ready. Sunbrellas. Parasols, if you prefer your english uncorrupted. They weren't selling, but I figured their appeal since the Diamond Jubilee and the invention of SPF has been reduced to a small clientelle of badgers and owls. Nocturnals on the lam. Second-shift skunks. Or the odd, thrill-seeking vampire.

Chanti-where and Who-let?

"The Bremen Town Musicians".

I'm not sure why this tale in particular takes such precedence over "The Fox and the Cat" or "The Mouse, the Bird, and the Sausage" or any of a dozen obscure, insipid (and rightly ignored) animal stories. I never had any use for them, especially outside of an Aesop-type format. I'll take amphoras over glass slippers any day, but remove the Greekness and you're left with what is essentially Barnyard Entertainment. Booh.

In fact, I don't think our heroes ever even make it to Bremen. And there's nary an instrument, nary a song. Just a bunch of frightened thieves, and the honest desire to turn the page.