Merry Christmas

The image says it all, so all I can do is repeat myself; but since it's such a pleasant sentiment there's no harm in saying it twice:  Merry Christmas and a happy New Year!

 

Aunt Ada's Recurrent Dream

He sat down beside me, uninvited, and said, "Things sure change around here, don't they?" Not in the mood for conversation, I mumbled, "Around here, change is the very definition of life." I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as he studied me out of the corner of his. I hoped the well-rehearsed hostility in my voice would make him move on. Instead he just made himself more comfortable.

And so we sat side by side, silently watching the great yearly migration of the ghosts. They were a ceaseless stream of the small and great, the historical and the forgotten: a vast herd relentlessly marching from dusk to dawn. Yet, being ghosts, they marched in utter silence, and all their countless steps did not bend a single blade of grass or raise a single dust mote.

"A pretty sight," he said. "This your first time seeing this?"

"No, I've observed them many times before."

"Oh? So where do they start and where do they end?"

I shrugged. "Can't say. I've yet to see the beginning or the end of the migration. Even though I try, I only ever see one phase, this one phase, of their journey. I always only see the middle."

We fell back into silence and watched the dead wandering by as the rising moon shone through them as if they were glass.

"So," he asked, "do you think they know where they're going? Like, are they migrating butterflies or stampeding cattle?"

I shrugged again. "Not my place to say. Maybe it's up to each individual ghost to decide."

"'Individual'? Hmm! It's hard to see them that way, isn't it? At least here and now. They're so transparent that all their neighbors' features mingle with their own. It makes it hard for someone like me to differentiate. To me, it's like they're some single endless, writhing creature always in flux, always changing. It's sort of like they're an infinite concatenation of innumerable imprecise parts that form an unformed whole, if you know what I mean."

"Maybe to you, maybe here and now. It's like I said though: it's not really my place to say. Still, I like to think there is a definite destination to their migration, and that at the end of it they will be individuals, distinct individuals formed by the paths they chose on their journey." I yawned. "But then again, maybe, or maybe not. Really, who am I to say?"

He shot me a severe glance out of the corner of his eye, but then broke into a smile. "Well," he said in a cheerful tone, "maybe someday you'll know, or maybe you won't. Maybe that's your path." He then stood up, nodded to me, and joined the migration. I watched him for a while until he dissolved, losing his identity in the throng. Then I laid back on the cool, wet grass and watched the moon slowly rise higher and higher in the sky.

In His Arms

Yet another failed attempt at illustrating the 10th chapter, verses 13 through 16 of the Gospel according to Mark. Ah well... maybe someday.

"And they were bringing children to Him, that He might touch them; and the disciples rebuked them. But when Jesus saw it He was indignant, and said the them, 'Let the children come to me, do not hinder them; for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.' And He took them in His arms and blessed them, laying His hands upon them."

A Gentleman in His Time

This was done on a sheet of paper that had seen better days. I don't know if you can see them, but that explains the random dots and the big crease in the corner. The sketch was inspired by a book I was reading about the Golden Age of Dutch Art. I must admit, though, the drawing certainly doesn't look like anything produced in the Netherlands in the 17th century. Still, it was delightful to think about Rembrandt, Lievens, Hals, Steen, and countless other astounding geniuses while drawing it. So, despite how the drawing turned out, I consider the time working on it to be time well spent. 

 

Shocking Macabre Theater 3

The latest issue of the comic book "Shocking Macabre Theater" has just been released upon an unsuspecting world. This shockingly macabre collection of terrifying tales was a group effort by the talented Matthew Brassfield, Damien Brunk, Juliet Fromholt, Jason Gilmore, Bob Hinton, Eric Shonborn, Don Stephenson and Jason Young. I assisted by illustrating two of the tales along with the humorous wraparound story. It's thirty-six pages of eerily illustrated scary stories, both serious and tongue-in-cheek.  If you're interested, you can order the book from their site at www.bloodscreamcomics.com.

Child and Toy

There's nothing to this: there is neither theme nor story behind this image. It's just a quick and simple drawing of a child who could be from about any time period, yesterday, today or tomorrow, since, albeit a child is always changing, children remain constant. And that's yet another reason why this old world remains so constantly beautiful.

Thoughts in the Rain

They sat at the entrance of the cave as the rain poured down, Iago chewing on some fennel and Quasimodo absently tapping his fingers on his leg. "Well," Quasimodo finally said, "you must admit we needed the rain; the woods were getting pretty dry."

Iago let out a deep, long sigh. "Rain or no, I don't think it makes any difference. These woods, these indescribable woods, I don't think they need rain or sun or... or anything. I think these woods are self-sustaining, complete onto themselves. They'll survive, unchanged, long after we're nothing but rodent-gnawed bones. I tell you this, too: sometimes I think this forest is sentient... a conscious organism always watching us... maybe even laughing at us. The sun, this rain, even you and I, maybe we're all just ephemeral, transitory amusements to this eternal forest... all, all of us... just a joke, a momentary smile on the face of eternity."

"Well, even I have to admit that it seems we've been wandering these woods for eons. But there's no need to become morose about it. You have to admit the woods are beautiful, so beautiful I doubt they'd maliciously laugh at us, risible as we may deem we be."

Iago smiled at his friend. "You know I'm always morose. Sure, I'll admit the woods do have some beauty to them, but that's only because most mysteries, by their very nature, have an intrinsic beauty to them. Even you and I may have some beauty to us, if one only knew how to look."

Quasimodo laughed. "Well, I may have some discoverable beauty, some well-hidden allure even. But you?"

"Well, maybe once upon a time, long ago. Or at least grant me I at once had the potential for beauty."

"Indeed, my friend! We all do... or did. But can leopards such as us ever change out spots? Can our old souls ever reclaim our long-lost innate beauty? Can we ever even hope?"

Iago stared up at the sky, at the falling rain, a puzzling expression on his face. "Maybe," he whispered, "the cleansing rain from above can cleanse the dirty things of the earth, might wash off the grime, might... restore what was lost." He stood up and turned to Quasimodo and smiled in spite of himself. "You old scalawag, you! Do you think it's worth a try?"

Quasimodo also rose. "Even in eternity," he smiled, "there's no time like the present." And so, arm in arm, they walked out into the rain and back into the endless woods.