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.

 

A Handshake With Fate

 The smudged lines and gritty charcoal were like the smoke, dust, and darkness of the story; it took me some time to find the inspiration. But here it is, the face of my brother's very first self-published album, 'A Handshake With Fate.'

It tells the story of a monster hunter who pursues the answers to the supernatural. The music itself often sounds deranged and distorted, and the names are just as odd, but I think they will capture you're interest. If you have the time, you can listen to the album on his YouTube channel;

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCi62Q-pXyEFkjfu3f_KOVRw

The Waters of Aslan's Country

    This painting was done by me and my sister at the request of my aunt and uncle. It was a heavy reminder of how much me and my sister have changed artistically since she taught me all those years ago. While I wished to linger on the details of the crest of every wave, my sister splashed the canvas with whatever she felt was right and spread it around with just as much purpose (or so I deemed and hoped).

    This was also my first finished acrylic painting, which means that its value will only increase as more are added to my collection. And one day, I'll see it again in person; it will be hanging on the wall at Viola's and Tobi's house, and I will be holding a cup of tea in one hand and a nice sandwich in the other, looking at it again for the first time since I'd painted it. The sandwich will have a good layer of butter, some nice cheese, with salted cucumbers, and some ham.

 

 For Tobi and Viola, October 2021

At the Gates of Redwall

The Abbey of Redwall is a safe-haven for critters everywhere. It was built from red sandstone long ago, and there is has stood since. Inside lie friends, food, a cozy fire, and tales waiting to be told by any well-travelled visitor or elder.

    Many Redwallers have ventured off to faraway lands, and returned to Redwall after their many adventures. I imagined one such lonely warrior walking down a road, that led through Mossflower wood, and up to the gate. His pack, though empty of any good food since yesterday, lies heavy on his shoulders; his cloak is dusty from all the walking; his sandals are worn, and wet from wading through that stream; but his love for home drives him on. This piece is called 'On the Road to Redwall.'

 

Here are the gates into Redwall, surrounded by Mossflower woods.

 

I imagined the gates being battered and old, after keeping out Redwall's enemies for so long. Many have wished and tried to conquer Redwall and end the peace.

But I also imagined the gates being heavy, sturdy, and impenetrable, always standing to protect the good creatures of Mossflower wood. 

In my opinion, the Redwall Saga are classic tales, and I almost wish I had discovered them sooner, so I could have enjoyed reading them before I turned my attention to larger, much fatter books. But for now, I look forward to going back and reading my favourites from the series.

 

Half-Eared Harold Who Loves to Fly

From time to time again, Harold's airplane breaks. But I always fix it so he can go flying again.

 

 

Yes, Harold loves to fly. In fact, I don't think he's ever left the cockpit. Even when his airplane is broken, he sits there in anticipation of when he can take off once more.

    Yes, Harold is a special rabbit. I've always joked that he only listens half the time; though he does only have one ear when it comes to conversation. I'd imagine his head is always somewhere in the clouds, flying loops and barreling off somewhere into some new horizon.

My sister bought Harold at some store or other so he could grace my shelf with his ever-flying presence, him being the very picture of wanderlust cast into fragile glass.

    And that is why, alas, (while I can fix his airplane) I cannot fix his missing ear. It's the way I got him. But the only voice a rabbit like Harold really wants to listen to is that of the wind.

   I've always meant to draw Harold, and now I have him in my sketchbook as well as on my shelf. Soon, if I find the time, I'll fix his airplane again, so that he can go off and break it once more.

The Great, the Charitable, the Humble, the Genius, Mr. Toad

 As well as adventurous, a wise, a well-dressed, a not-the-shape-of-a-fat-washerwoman, a patriotic and law-abiding citizen, is that Mr. Toad. 

 "The World has held great Heroes,

As history books have showed;

But never a name to go down to fame

Compared with that of Toad!"

(The Wind in the Willows, Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad, pg.180.).

The Professor's Door

 I painted this, once, a long time ago. I felt it did not capture the feeling that I wanted, and so I tried painting it again.

    A hedgehog makes his way to Joe's house in a blizzard, struggling to waddle through the frozen snow and brace himself against a frenzy wind that blows wild in his face, biting his nose and paws. His scarf is wet and he wishes he'd worn gloves. 

    He eventually finds the bright door standing amidst the mixing black of night and white of bitter snow, and hurries forth with renewed spirits. He is expected by Woe, who ushers him inside and hurriedly puts him in a cozy chair in front of a fire to warm up with a mug of hot chocolate at hand. Woe returns from the kitchen with a tray of cookies and a helper.

 

       Here they are, gathered in front of a fire, the cold forgotten.

Hot Chocolate

 

 

 

In the wintertime, the smell of coffee and hot chocolate sifts through every room of the Professor's house, bringing out critters who warm themselves around the temporarily abandoned mugs and stuff themselves with marshmallows.

Gandalf the Grey

 

Dulce Domum

I had seen a painting of huddled buildings caught in a time of wintery wonder. The vividness of which I could imagine Mole and Rat walking down the street that winded between them was so inspiring that I decided I had to put it in my own sketchbook.

 

    In particular, it reminded me of Chapter 5, in which Mole and Rat go on a long stroll out on the countryside and come across a small village just as it begins to get dark. "The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through casements into the dark world without" (The Wind in the Willows, Chapter 5: Dulce Domum, pg.81.).

 It remained unfinished in my sketchbook for some days, during which Christmas and New Years passed me by.

  

 I kept painting on it, though, and slowly it took the form I had first imagined.

 

Night and snow slowly cover the little village. The two friends walk along between the buildings, watching as the light from the windows grows brighter as everything else grows darker around them.

 

 When I first read Wind in the Willows, I found flipping between pages created a feeling I cannot quite explain in words. The sentences wrapped around the artwork was like a window on it's own, letting us, the readers, look into their world much like they look through the glowing windows of every house. Every page feels full and complete. It is a feeling I hope to one day create in readers as they flip through the pages of my own stories.

There is Still Much to Read

 

 “I can’t imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once.”  

               ~ C.S. Lewis

A Lazy Afternoon at Pete's

I don't remember where the idea came from, or how it began, or the moment I finally signed the drawing at the bottom, but A Lazy Afternoon with Pete has always been a favourite of mine to flip back to.

 

Pete's stranded caravan, surrounded by his many scattered belongings.

 

Woe sometimes spends his afternoon with his dear friend Pete the spider. He is served cup of tea after cup of tea, while Pete excitedly tells the stories about his many adventures in the great big world.

Woe would tell you that the best thing about Pete's house is that there was always a new story to hear with another cup of tea.

Here they are caught in a single glorious and lazy moment in time, simply enjoying each other's company.

That Forgotten Sock

 

 

Oh, the excitement of finding a lost sock, dusty and long forgotten under the bed. I could jump for joy.

Tim's Favourite Pass-time

     Sometime ago, I began to write a story about a boy named Edward who found himself in the clutches of a constant and unending boredom. I began scribbling down the first words into the pages of my notebook, taking the arbitrary thoughts as they came and putting them into sentences and paragraphs. Some pages into the story, I began to peer out of the windows of the house and away from the doings of Edward. I instead looked across the street, where an old man played croquet on his front lawn. I found that, though the discovery of this old man had been an accident, he and his doings were far more interesting than the rest of the story.

His name was Tim, and as I continued to write and rewrite the story, I found that Tim remained unchanged in every draft. 

 

With the story almost complete, I wanted to share the drawing that finally took the character I had written about and put him into a picture, just as I saw him in my mind when I first looked across the street on that dreary day.

 

The Nine Pursue the One

   "The Riders seemed to sit upon their great steeds like threatening statues upon a hill, dark and solid, while all the woods and land about them receded as if into a mist." (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 1, Chapter 12: Flight to the Ford, pg.278.)

This painting was done some time ago. It was inspired by the corresponding scene in Peter Jackson's film.