Hans off.

...and when grandmother told any stories, he would interrupt her with “but;” or...get behind her chair, put on a pair of spectacles, and imitate her very cleverly, to make people laugh. By-and-by he began to mimic the speech and gait of persons in the street. All that was peculiar or disagreeable in a person he would imitate directly, and people said, “That boy will be very clever; he has a remarkable genius.” But it was the piece of glass in his eye, and the coldness in his heart, that made him act like this...His games, too, were quite different; they were not so childish. One winter’s day, when it snowed, he brought out a burning-glass, then he held out the tail of his blue coat, and let the snow-flakes fall upon it. “Look in this glass, Gerda,” said he; and she saw how every flake of snow was magnified, and looked like a beautiful flower or a glittering star. “Is it not clever?” said Kay, “and much more interesting than looking at real flowers. There is not a single fault in it, and the snow-flakes are quite perfect till they begin to melt.”

The Snow Queen

It's no secret that Andersen hated children and the aristocracy, but apparently his disapproval extended to skeptics, actors, and, seemingly, number theorists.

Pt. 2

...!!!

Godless sea.

And when the seas receded, they left a seed which sprouted and grew tall. And the birds would dart like minnows through its hair while the sweet, sensitive deer schooled in its shadows. And it mocked the desert summers with a submarine grace and chided the winters with whalesong. And when the simple townsfolk ventured out, they would croon and bow and garland it with sage. And they called it Lan-yir, Messenger of the Waves, and tended it with great care.

And generations passed, and in the fifth and twentieth year of King Meshna the Forthright, Lan-Yir was consumed with trembling and its heavy pods burst with effort and poured forth from themselves wondrous clouds of--

--WEBFOOTED SOULSNATCHERS FROM THE DEEPS!

A chemical reaction.

I stared at a screw on the wall for so long yesterday that it leapt in fear from its post. But rather than fall to the ground, it sprouted wings and dipped, top heavy and grunting, out the door. Seriously.

Jesus in the sheets.

Been stuffing in earfuls of the The Knife. Ignoring the natural comparisons to T.A.T.U., it makes for wild listening. And a seriously creepy video.

Pagemaster.

Still slogging through The Snow Queen.

And grappling with the timeless 'blank page' issue. Drawing an open book presents the illustrator with a very real dilemma. To fill or not to fill. Theoretically the attempt at script should always be made--but the problems of precision and content are immediate and daunting. Should the artist take a stab at what is really the author's job and cross the line between illustration and documentation?
On the other hand, an unfilled page is glaring--potentially suggests indifference, lack of inspiration, or (god forbid) craftlessness.

I go back and forth. And am never quite satisfied with either result.

Bathroom walls beware.

Two for flinching.

Head in the waves.

When at a loss, remember that mermaid silhouettes are always in abundance.

Compass.

I want to see this.

Castle onslaught.

There's been a recent trend dealing in the debunking of fairy tales. I'd go so far as to say that the modern writer considers it his duty to participate in the demystification of myth. And while there are a few commendable reasons for doing so (historicism, humor, feminism), the market has been overrun with retellings--some with premises so superreal as to be mundane. Bookstore aisles are swirling with narcoleptic Sleeping Beauties, compulsive Cinderellas, and wicked witch chem majors. I read a version of "Tam Lin" set at a college where the beloved was captured by study, and a modern day "Red Riding Hood" where the wolf was merely a predatory man.

Many are clever, some are brilliant, most are filtered through a sharp, skeptical lens. Precise, but narrow.

"Just" a rose.

I could agonize a few days more over something to say, or I could just post the damn pic.

Every blue-eyed floozie.

Came across this fantastic blog which left me variously appalled/in stitches. And, of course, spurred into imitation. Good fun, despite the art world's unbudging stance on large women--and its subsequent refusal to represent them as anything less than ludicrous, bullish, generally pantless, and, in most cases, besotted with tiny men.

But I'll follow along. And who better to link her with than Hermes? If the Greek pantheon has a trickster god to offer, it's him. Fine fodder for a Lasso of Truth. And perfect cuddle material for any undersexed behemoth.

Where everyone's the same.

Was recently sent this findyourspot quiz. It offers up perfect-match cities and is longish but interesting.

Amongst a smattering of Washington, Texas and Georgia(eh?) locales, my number one came up Olympia, Washington. Predictable enough, considering a lifelong goal of moving back.

Perhaps even less suprising were Alex's top two results.

Thassalotta frequent flier miles.

Bookish.

Beware of a man of one book.: Never attempt to controvert the statement of anyone in his own special subject. A shepherd who cannot read will know more about sheep than the wisest bookworm. This caution is given by St. Thomas Aquinas.

Recently purchased a copy of Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. $5.35 at Milwaukee's best used book store. Now, I'm not posing it as a Dictionary Game replacement, but perhaps as potential alternative...?

Fodder for the animals living on an animal farm.

A piggywig hamming it up.

Lear's representation is more traditional, but I like my swine in suits. There's something unsettling about a pig's bare ass. A phobia that probably owes it dark origins to the cartoon industry and its limited flesh palette.

And so he stands properly accoutred, just in case--

--because, there's the strong intimation that he is waiting for our protagonists to show. Angling his cane. Combing his whiskers. Making halfhearted attempts at the odd truffle to maintain appearances. But he rather prefers crisp linen, and white gloves, and the company of bees to more porkly pursuits. And when word floats down of two travellers in dusty wedding clothes entering the wood, he forgets that he's a pig at all. And so selects the most flattering of his poses and thrusts his snout high and sells the family ring for fame and a shilling.

Worth a watch.

Pretty cool.

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!