What does it say about a person's work when he tries for innovation and ends up mulling around his roots? Not much, I suppose. Experimentation is nothing if not starting from the beginning.
Shockingly, The Poetic Edda and The Gormenghast trio are providing weak creative ballast. Not that I wouldn't recommend them to the staunchest wordsmith in need of a nap, but not for the sketchbook are they. One operates on the most massive of scales while the other travels in an obsessively tight circuit, and I like my 'verses somewhere in the middle, preferably in a tame European countryside--hedgerows optional.
...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.
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!
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.
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.
-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?
But finally allowed that angels are essentially the superheroes of a prewar generation. All she needed was a suitable moniker.
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.
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.
Flight of the Possum.
Twice now, this week past, I've been interrupted mid-sentence with a jeepers-lookit-the-time. I feel compelled to say that both conversations involved a rather strident, rather one-sided rant involving Children of Hurin. Possibly the phrase "forged by a dark elf" was used. Considering the verbal liscense I've given myself regarding the book, and the inevitable fallout, who can tell? But it seems I am that guy.For years. Years. Through the murder and betrayal and strife and that pesky moustache hair.
Last of the 12DP for now. Unless I'm wrong in assuming that everyone knows the story. In which case, I'm bound to keep posting obscurities.
Tried compiling a list of excuses intended to leave me blameless for the objectionable anemia of ^this^ piece. Far-fetched ones involving eyesight and invisible cloaks. Reasonable ones dealing with desert venues and the effects of sunbleaching. In the end, I was left only with the weighty evidence of Artistic Deficiency.
That being said, there are a few lessons to be learned. One being: "Pick up the Magenta every once in a while"--will do you good. Another: "Five more minutes spent on bricks is always well advised". And a third: "Never, ever spurn the services of a roadside crone." They may smell like last week's golumpki, but those witches routinely roll the supersecretdownfalls of all royalty into every dirty shirtsleeve, every crusty sock.
I suppose it's true love. The bastard was well gone when I entered, slumped at his post, carrot-standard slipping in his grip. Lidlessly staring at the glass Korean dragon perched on the dresser opposite.
Thank you for helping Peter S. Beagle
by purchasing the new DVD of THE LAST UNICORN from Conlan Press, instead of from
somewhere else. More than half of what you just spent will go to support Peter
and his projects — but if you had bought it somewhere else, Peter would have
gotten nothing.Here's the situation in a nutshell:
Granada Media International (the English company that
owns the animated film of THE LAST UNICORN) has sold more than a million copies
on DVD and videotape since 1999. By contract, they owe Peter hundreds of
thousands of dollars in royalties, but so far they have refused to pay him a
cent.
Peter has fought
for three years to get his due, so far without success.
He still isn't
getting any royalties from the DVD you just bought, either (not as long as
Granada keeps stonewalling).
However, the people at Lionsgate
Entertainment (the film's American distributor) are great folks. To make it
possible for American fans of THE LAST UNICORN to finally own a GOOD version,
they are putting out this special digitally-remastered 25th Anniversary
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Please spread
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