Well my friends,
Rocky our loving Shepherd has moved on to that big white kitchen where all are welcome. We are heartbroken, but damn if he didn’t enjoy life. So today my family and Rocky’s sidekick, Mojo the Dachshund are celebrating how he lived. And my friends he lived brightly–that dog lived oh, so very brightly…
Peace, love and light, my sweet canine companion
“Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Hanalei
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Hanalei”
rest now, my furry friend
“What is it you believe in, Sir?” She asked the old man in her most dignified voice.
From beneath his top hat, he gazed at the brim. “Maybe the answer will come to me tomorrow.”
The next day she would search again for the familiar swaying black top hat. It would not be difficult to find. Its owner swung back and forth like a metronome arm–every step his old feet landed marked eighth notes on a lumpy bar measure. But the next day, the young girl could not find the melodic top hat. The moon had risen and the only thing swaying were the stalks of wheat Mrs. Norty hadn’t sold. Though the very last loaf of her hearty bread was gotten for fifty cents.
The young girl’s head was intoxicated with possibilities. She could barely contain the exploding dreams. The sandman had eaten Mrs. Norty’s dense bread and was bouncing off the old town’s tiled roofs. Sleep would not come. What did the old magician believe in? What would a person of magic wish for when he could conjure up the world and eat it with a golden fork?
The next day the anxious child balled the bottom of her ruffled nightshirt into a pair of loose burlap slacks. She tied a thin red sash through the belt loops so they wouldn’t fall down. She ran onto the cobbled street barefoot in anticipation of a glorious answer. Her little nose angled upward as she sought out the shiny swaying black topper. This day she was not disappointed. Up she bounced, tapping his old stooped shoulder.
The elderly gentleman magician turned around. He looked squarely into her bright brown eyes. “The answer has come to me, child,” he said in an elegant, spectacular voice as befitting a noble magician. He removed the near-perfect top hat from his head and placed the satin stovepipe upon the youth’s corn silk hair.
She became petrified with excitement, beneath the magical top hat. “Please Sir, today is yesterday’s tomorrow,” she timidly put forth, “Kind Magician, what is it that you believe in?”
He placed his crooked hands on her diminutive shoulders and for a moment thought of delicate hollow bird bones. “My child,” he gently answered, “I believe in the magic of unanswerable questions.” He pat the top of his old top hat and said, “For luck.”
“But most generous Sir, you should not be separated from this treasure-”
“I’ve no need of it where I am going.”
Her brimming eyes begged one thousand questions but, “Where?” was all her trembling bowed lips could manage.
He pat the top of his old top hat once more.
“I do not know that answer,” he said with a smile, then he turned and walked away.
this is my only top hat drawing and I do so love this quirky little fella though the gentleman magician described in the above little tale would appear much more elegant
there are explosions outside my window this night
is this what Francis Scott Key heard
could be thunder claps
I’d love to see sprites and elves on this darkened day
did you know sprites and elves hover above the clouds
they mess around with the angels and the saints
red sprites and blue elves
lightening firing electricity
enough to piss off the winged folk
not nearly enough to rattle Zeus
he knows it’s fairy playin’
Zeus is a cool cat
angels not so much, they don’t like when their curls go flat
maybe that’s the problem with the world
too many uptight angels up there
and down here
angel cone created before Christmas and previously published…a guilt story behind my cone angel…sorry grandma
A Reptilian Tale
Looking back, I remember the day well. I was skipping rocks near the water’s edge, when I spied two bulbous sockets breaking the liquid plain. Parting the waters like a submersible vessel, her massive crocodile body rose up. Her head cocked slightly as she surveyed my posture. I held the nonthreatening pose of a seaside pelican. She promised not to eat me for lunch if I promised to be a good listener. We both agreed.
I sat on a limestone shelf – one toasted by the morning sun. I leaned in close to her large triangular head. Her rows of teeth brought to mind the alien pillars of Bryce Canyon. I recalled how I’d been more enamored by Utah’s stalagmite forms than all the grandness of the Grand Canyon. I was surprised when her putrid breath hit my face. I didn’t wince, for those cold melancholy eyes kindled my reptilian compassion.
She sighed or snorted through her surface nostrils then whispered why she was brooding. Her words confounded me. She wanted – or that is – desperately needed to share her miraculous beauty secret. I didn’t know crocodiles held vanity in high regard. Expecting to pen an extensive list, I licked the tip of my blue ballpoint and flicked over the spent pages of my pocket-sized notepad. I sat pumped at the edge of my toasty rock. This astounding, fifteen-foot, two-hundred-year-old reptile appeared primed to live two-hundred more years, I suspected she must possess a powerful cosmetological recipe. I was certain, minerals and plant wraps would be involved.
Then that ancient reptile with rows of murderous teeth and callous gold eyes confessed to me that she’d been cheating death. I leaned in closer, my Bic hand sweating. She said humans had it all wrong and that crocodiles did most definitely shed tears, in fact, they shed many. It was tears that escaped her yellow eyes when her children were taken. It was fear that had frozen her ancient heart, when her bold sons and brazen daughters became pricey stilettoes and elite attaché cases.
Before sinking back into the dark water she whispered her beauty secret to me. “Beauty is submerging your body in quiet bubbles. Beauty is water changing from aqua to deep blue as the orange sun burnishes the wavy surface. Beauty is living two-hundred years and hoping to live two-hundred more.”
I watched the silent trail of delicate foam disappear along with her brown, wrinkled form. I never saw her again. I did not pen her beauty secret in my frayed notepad.
May you dream beautiful dreams when you’re two-hundred years old.
Croc rendered last week with Tombow markers, a little white acrylic paint, a touch of Prisma pencil and lots of coffee. 🙂
I wish I had miles of long hair to toss out a tower window.
I wish I knew my children when I was a kid.
I wish I kept the little black motorcycle I never stayed upright on.
I wish I had a spotted cow in my backyard.
I wish I could wear a silver ball gown and waltz.
I wish stars were close enough to taste.
I wish I felt this young when I was.
I wish beds were made of clouds.
I wish I could share all my thoughts.
I wish I could wear night as a pair of mismatched socks.
I wish the sun set on my shoulder.
I wish words were made of water.
I wish dreams fit inside my secret decoder ring.
I wish I had a secret decoder ring.
And yes, my post title was inspired by the movie, Big Eyes which sadly I haven’t ‘scene’ yet, but hope to soon! In homage to Margaret Keane and her lovely Big Eyed Waifs, I’ve done a quick sketch of a modern Big Eyes. There is only one Margaret Keane. I am an imitator here, though I really did own a pair of earrings like the one(s) shown. Back in the 1990’s, a coworker quipped, “…waiting for the dog that’s gonna jump through those things!”
Thank you. May you dream wishes into your coffee…
Face Feature Mix done for studio class way back in, hum, I think 1983. Big Eyes Homage done quickly while wishing…
It’s quite entertaining to have one’s head filled with mindless mist. While ‘trolloping’ about the Musing Moss of the Foggy Forest today, I bumped into a new friend. Tinhood as she calls herself, has agreed to assist me. Tinhood who knows the Foggy Forest like the back of her bolts, suggests dropping strategic breadcrumbs to help me navigate out. Hopefully, she doesn’t spill the oil from her basket-can or the antifreeze from her little red bandana in the process, ’cause that would be bad.
Oh, by the way – my blogtox injection didn’t take. I like the clean redesign of this blog, but I’m faltering behind the dashboard wheel. My airplane is not flying true. Lest I crash into a mountainside, I’m going for another blogtox procedure.
I don’t have the aptitude, nor the pilot’s license to be self-hosted. I must guide my wobbly craft back to WordPress and it’s beautiful landing field.
Thank you. May you dream of candy airplanes and marshmallow clouds…
Tinhood came out of the forest two days ago. Clion and Blogtox are old pros.
Countdown to blogtox injection and return to WP – 2 days…