The Cricket's Last Concerto

  There was once a cricket

who listened and marvelled

at the music it heard from afar;

it jumped forth from the thicket,

and followed the sound,

like a wise-man and the star.

 

It came to a garage,

and making itself small, it snuck inside.

Was it a dream? Heavens, no! And lo!

there was a boy playing the piano. 

It observed and listened unseen,

serenaded by the music that played;

and the cricket, thus so inspired by song,

jumped forth from hiding and sang along.

 

They harmonized, he played,

the cricket sang; like an opera, 

doomed to end with a bang.

And when the final-notes, they faded, thus departed,

the cricket, ended it's part.

And when the boy saw it at his feet, chirping it's last bit,

he frowned, and stepped on it.

Based off true events.

Märchensammler

 'Märchensammler' or 'Fairy-tale Collector' is the album I've been working on since the summer of 2021. As the writing process took its toll on me, I found it increasingly difficult to imagine what the cover would look like, or what I would even call the album altogether; but in a single moment, I imagined, I like to think, exactly this.

The imperfection is part of every art; as you grow in skill, you learn to execute what lies before your mind's eye with increasing accuracy: but every raw idea becomes muddled with details and developments as it grows to it's completion. I think that this is very evident in my own compositions; I start with an inspiration, and it develops into something whole and complete. Many of the pieces are written in F Minor, which I felt said the whimsical words 'once upon a time' in a dark and tragic fashion, befitting the gloom and brooding themes of the whole collection.

As I read through my favourite tales, I stopped at the brief description of Geppetto's time in the Dogfish.

'And how long have you been shut up here?' asked Pinocchio.

'Since that day-- it must be nearly two years ago; two years, my dear Pinocchio, that have seemed like two centuries!'  (Pinocchio, Chapter 35, pg.189).

It spoke of a much larger story, one of great despair, as he spent those many months alone, facing what seemed his inevitable death. With these thoughts I turned to my piano.

 

 If you would be so interested, you can listen to these fairy-tales being told through music on any major streaming platform.

What Happened During My Walk

 One day I felt so crammed, the words so forced between my ears,
It felt like my head was in a whir; my vision felt a-blur, a-stir with thoughts that did not come out onto the page, how-ever much I tried, the words stayed inside my head and there they laid, biding in my mind.
I peeked out the window. It was a nice spring day. It was without wind or rain: so I went outside and walked along the lane, taking any further attempts of writing to be in vain.
I looked for the words in the clouds. But they gave me none. The sky was filled with those clouds, and with a slight warm breeze. But they gave me no words that day, so I continued on my way, taking in nature’s display.
I looked across the meadow, though which my path had led, and saw this little red cottage out by the farmstead.
‘My! What a cute little house.’ I thought, and continued walking, knowing little what would happen next.
The words had left my mind. I enjoyed instead the feeling of being outside.
Until I turned and saw the house. The winding path lined and signed with grass and flower had left the farm and barn far behind, neither of which I could find.
What? Did it have an identical neighbour? I mused, and I laughed, and I continued on.
My steps they traced up a hill; and going down the other side, I looked back again, I gave a cry, my eyes grew wide, for there the house did now bide, on that very hill-side.
My steps grew faster. My heart began to fail. My face grew pale, my nerves frail. And I wondered what I had done to gain such a giant tail.
When I had the courage I looked back again, and saw it still nearby, and then I cried and ran, but the house followed faster!
faster! faster than any house could or possibly can! And the whole time it thought to itself, ‘My! What a cute little man.’

 

Moon by Night

 

I drew this some time ago.

The wonder of giving away your art is that returning to it later, having forgotten it, is a gift in itself, even when it is not as impressive as you remember it.

House & Home

 As I sat there, taking the photos below, there was no sound; just complete silence, except when a crow called from somewhere in the trees and took off into the sky, only heard by the flutter of its wings and the branches that then threw snow to the ground. It was wonderful to hear absolutely nothing, and watch the forest slowly grow dark around me and the snowflakes softly and peacefully fall over it. It was like stepping through a door and into Narnia.

    If I listened very closely, I could hear the candle sizzle when a tiny snowflake was caught by the flame.

 

The neighbours of the house in the drawing could not tell you much about the old man lives who there. He has very few visitors, but the few who come are dressed nicely, in suits, ties, dresses-- and they come in limos and black cars. Sometimes they hear music drift from the house, the faintest notes played lovingly by a pianist at his piano, and the young children, outside past their bedtime, can hear it long into the darkening night, experimenting and changing like a thought. 

Sometimes the old man will leave the house for weeks, and return without anyone noticing, his arrival only marked by a few lit windows at night. He doesn't take much care of the house- the lawn is overgrown with grass and forest ferns, and the trees begin to claim back his yard-- but the children can tell you about all the times he had climbed to the roof, to the distress of every adult watching, on a ladder to carefully fix his weathervane after every storm. 

 

 

Sometimes he throws birdseed around the yard, and the crows come and gather on the roof and on the lawn. Eventually they learn from his mild manners that he means no harm, and will gather right up to his feet, moving only so that he can return to his door. The children start to call him a wizard after that. 

He even took in a stray cat; it was tattered and brown, and it wouldn't let anyone but the old man touch it. The only thing that changes about the house is the crows migrating for the winter, and the cat that would spend those colder days sitting at one of the windows of the house. As seasons go by, the house becomes surrounded by the forest, so that it gets harder to see through the trees, and the crows gather in the branches and the cat lurks underneath them, and the important people still come to visit, though they never stay long. The music still drifts through the forest on some evenings, though the glow of the windows is hard to see through the trees.

And that is all the neighbours could tell you about the old man who lives in that house.

Very Late for Dinner

 A long time ago, I posted a drawing. I had hastily taken a picture of it, and filled it with so many things that it was impossible to see. Then, I decided to retake the picture, but forgot about it for the longest time. Finally, here it is, still hard to discern. I've since learnt that a light pencil, while easy to erase, is also easy to miss.