Daedalus

The old man sat down next to me on the dune. We watched in silence as the waves lapped the shore and I hoped he would not break the spell by talking. Alas, it was not to be.

"It was near here," he sighed, "that I watched my son soar too near to the sun, saw the beeswax dripping from his wings, saw him flailing as he fell ... just as I saw my nephew fall when I hurled him down the cliff in a fit of jealous rage. Perhaps helplessly seeing Icarus die this way was a sort of poetic retribution. I don't know. After all these years, does it even matter?

"But as I say, I watched Icarus spiraling down, down, down. I watched the sea waves rising. I will swear to this day they were rising -- monstrous waves surging up to grab him, to swallow him up in the sea's ravenous, pitiless maw. I cried his name. It was all I could do, even though I knew he couldn't hear me above his own shrieks. And even if I could have reached him, his added weight would have been too much for my wings: we both would have plunged into the wine-dark sea -- we both would die.

"At that time, in that horrible moment, my eyes encompassed everything even though my mind comprehended nothing. I saw in the distance a quaintly garbed plowman cutting a furrow. Closer to the shore was a shepherd who seemed to be studying the sky, but in the opposite direction from my son. Oh, and there was also a fisherman who was also oblivious, or uncaring, to the fatal drama. None of the three gave the least notice to the spectacle above them. Later, in the sleepless nights, I would recall those peasants and somehow, I can't explain how, but somehow their very presence, their common, dull activities, made my Icarus and his whole adventure seen trivial, even absurd." And the old man bowed his head and fell silent.

I waited a respectful interval before replying. "I've heard of a man, perhaps you've heard of him also. His name is something like Pieter Brueghel. A fine man, or so I've been led to believe. It's certainly not my place to speak for him, but what I've heard of him makes me think he might be one to draw a lesson from your tale. Maybe its moral, if it indeed has one, is that the pretentious inevitably gives way to the real, and the high and mighty always seem risibly transitory when confronted by the common and lowly. After all, it is the poor in spirit who possess the Kingdom and the meek who will inherit the earth."

The old man gave no reply, but after several minutes he smiled. Then, without a word, he rose and walked along the shore of the wine-dark sea until he was lost to sight.

The Little Cyclops

There's probably nothing more to this than meets the eye.

Odysseus

I recently disinterred this drawing and was surprised to find I drew it almost a quarter of a century ago. It certainly doesn't feel that long ago. Well, as the saying goes, time flies! And that's the reason I'm posting it now: because one of the ideas behind this piece happens to be the passing of time, alluded to here by the twenty years it took Odysseus to return to his native shore. Although I doubt I'd draw an image similar to this today, its haunting theme of the irretrievable passing of cascading time, be it twenty adventurous years away from home or almost twenty-five years of a quiet life, still occasionally whispers from more recent drawings. Or maybe drawings such as this one only goes to show that, as my overworked friendly neighborhood horologist used to say, I have way too much time on my hands.

Kept Lessons

The first image posted on this site, back in 2017, was that of a young satyr. Thus it seems appropriate that the possible last image should be that of an old one. I say "possible" since I may still occasionally post something: I'm just doubtful that I'll be posting on a regular basis. But in case this does turn out to be the last one, I want to say I hope you had as much fun visiting this site as I did in adding things to it. So, until we meet again, if we meet again, God bless, try to smile once a day and thank you for visiting.

Valentine's Day

In honor of the upcoming Valentine's Day, I disinterred an old newspaper clipping I saved from my youth. Even though it's from a now-defunct advice column and shows certain prejudices inherent and unquestioned in those times, I still feel the question and response fully express that old adage that love indeed conquers all. It also beautifully demonstrates just what that special romance celebrated on Valentine's Day is all about. I found the clipping deeply inspirational, to say the least. See if you agree.

"Guest's Station (Virginia) News Progress," evening edition, February 14, 1941

Dear Miss Lonely Hearts,

I am a genteel young lady who strongly believes people should know their proper place in society and that my elite upper class should never fraternize with commoners. Nevertheless, my heart has been won by someone far beneath my social station and I am torn as to what I should do. I am hopelessly enamored with "Larry," a common werewolf. I realize being married to a werewolf isn't equal to the social disgrace of being married to, say, someone who posts his doodles on an obscure blog, but it still troubles me that I would be marrying far beneath my station. I am naturally worried as to what my friends would say if "Larry" should give me fleas, or if I have to constantly bail him out of the county dog pound, or if he devours our children. Although I love my red-blooded lupine lover with all my blue-blooded heart, I also dearly cherish my place in society. Last night I was going to tearfully tell him we are through, but before I could say a word he suddenly sprinted off into the woods. Minutes later he happily loped back with the carcass of a squirrel in his mouth, the bloody stump of its mauled head craftily chewed into the shape of a valentine heart. What a sweet gift! And then, under the romantic full moon, he tenderly held my hand in his hand (or claw or paw or whatever it is), and gently ululated in my ear. Well, what young girl's heart wouldn't melt at that? This is why I need your advice. Should I hold on to my caste or cast my caste away to be with my uncanny canine man? Oh, dear Miss Lonely Hearts, whatever should I do?

Signed, 

Lycanthrope Loving Lady

Dear Lady,

What you should do is quit writing me.

Signed,

Miss Lonely Hearts

The Aged Faun

    Night was coming on fast by the time I reached the mountain crest. The gentle winds carried the scent of decay and the swaying vegetation, what little there was, was stunted and dry. The old faun was near the mouth of a cave, resting in the growing shadows. I tipped my hat. "Nice place."

Riddles in the Round

"Isn't it curious," Iago suddenly said, "how geography affects so many things?"

Quasimodo put his hands on his hips, smiled and gave his companion a sidelong glance. "I'm no C. Auguste Dupin," he replied. "There is no way on earth I can deduce what led to that question. It just came out of the blue. Besides, what exactly are you talking about?"

Iago was surprised. "Why, dragons, of course. You know, things like that. How could you not know what I was referring to?"

One-Eyed Jack

The sun was beginning to set by the time I eluded my final pursuer. Having a moment to rest, I studied my surroundings. I had never been this far in the woods before. Some things ... or some thing... was moving in the overhead canopy, but the dying light and thick clumps of leaves kept the source of the rustling well hidden. Some distance to the left a full-throated basso choir of frogs commenced their evening performance. Dropping on the moss and resting my head against a dead sycamore, I thought, "So, water's close by and, in theory, the mosquitoes should be few. Not bad. I've slept in worse places." I then closed my eyes and fell instantly asleep.

Gorgon

The sound was similar to the piercing cry of a hawk or, at times, to the yapping of a small dog. Yet there was also something unearthly about it, some indescribable element of... what? Agony? Well, of something strange and dark and indefinable. It waylaid the the two men traveling through the forest. Fascinated and appalled by the mysterious strident notes, they followed the siren call through the tangled underbrush until they reached the top of the hill where they finally rested, rubbing their barked shins and scratches. Peering in a small clearing in the vale below them, they saw the source of the haunting cry. It was a gorgon.

The Fledgling

I closed the door behind me a heartbeat before the storm broke. The proprietor of the pet shop glanced up from his book and gave me a half-smile. Leaning over the ebony counter he looked for all the world like some Dickensian character out of his rightful time. Truth to tell, the shop itself seemed anachronistic and unreal: a musty, cluttered labyrinth of cages and tanks, smells and noises, most of it enshrouded by oblique shadows that the shop's undependable light did not penetrate. Attempting to ignore the slight unease I felt at not being able to discover the light source, I returned the proprietor's half-smile with a  half-smile of my own.

Yet Another One

Just to be nice, because I certainly didn't want to, I accompanied Odysseus that night to the old cemetery (you know the one I mean). He had poured the blood into the bowl and seemed to be mumbling some incantation over it when he suddenly cried out, "Oops! I just remembered I'm supposed to go with Penelope tonight to a PTA meeting! Be a pal and take over, will ya?" And with that he ran pell-mell into the darkness. Cursing myself for allowing him to trick me again, I sat on a damp clump of earth and watched the specters rise from their graves. Sniffing the air, they formed a thick haze around the blood and me. I must admit that even though I was greatly annoyed by Odysseus' prank, I was nevertheless even more greatly charmed by the way the ghosts' shambling and gossamer forms intermingled with the moonlight, giving the illusion that both the pale lunar light and the thirsting dead were locked in some sad and slow and stately dance.  I couldn't help but smile.