Christmas Puppets.

You know how life goes...

You move to a new apartment, get busy with your job and side projects, Thanksgiving  happens, your family does a bunch of stuff, and the next thing you know you've finally finished Christmas shopping and realize that you haven't updated your blog in two months.

Oh yeah, Sorry 'bout that!

Anyway, This year I decided, in an ill conceived effort to save money and time, to make my nephews and step-niece their gifts. I feel pretty comfortable posting the results because I'm fairly certain none of them follow this blog. The kids are the perfect age for this (Six, six, and four), in other words, old enough to get it and young enough to be easily impressed. To no one's great surprise, I made them all puppets. On Thanksgiving, I covertly found out what each of the children's favorite animals were, by the highly stealthy method of asking my sister Anne (their mom).
Nicholas's favorite is the lion

Cameron, like any six year old girl, loves horses

Michael's favorite animal in the whole world, for four year old reasons, best understood by himself, is a white mouse. I double checked this to make sure it was right. It has to be white.

I wanted them to be as simple as possible to operate, while still being fun to play with. The puppets are based off Sicilian Marionettes and have rope legs and tails ( braided clothesline. Incidentally,I discovered that clothesline is next to impossible to dye!). their bodies are made of polyfoam covered in fleece and felt with yarn and leather accents and simple carved wooden feet. the eyes are of course polymer clay.

My room mate, Joe was kind enough to shoot the photos. He also has some video footage that I will upload when I get it. I was hoping to take some additional shots, but apparently I forgot to pack my camera with me. If anyone remembers to get pictures of the children unwrapping these, I'll post them too.
Merry Christmas!

Dragon Skeleton

 Happy Halloween! Today seemed like a good opportunity to post some pictures of one of my better efforts. This is a fully articulated dragon skeleton. each bone has been individually hand carved out of basswood. I like the way the blonde wood plays against the darker ceiling in this hanging. For me this piece is a good synthesis of my love of fantasy and folklore and my passion for natural history and anatomy (I've previously discussed my fascination with bones Here.).  The skeleton is roughly goose sized and that of a Common Sea Wyvern, or Brown Drakie. There is an entire biological profile behind her, complete with adaptations and social behaviors My personal fantasy world grew  fairly elaborate, to the point where there is evolution and speciation taking place. I will delve into that topic later. For now, I hope you enjoy!

Reoccurring themes: Masks

              I find that I make a lot of masks. As Halloween is just around the corner, it seemed like a good idea to delve into the archives and talk about them. I like to make masks because they are relatively a simple form with infinite variation possible. A mask is traditionally something of a ceremonial or magical item. Masks have power. Maskwork may  be one of the oldest  formalized performance techniques and can get incredibly sophisticated.  The dichotomy of masks fascinates me. They can be used to as a disguise to conceal the wearer's identity (in fact in Venice  people became so enamored with the anonymity masks worked their way out of the ballroom and into everyday fashion. I read somewhere that wearing a mask pin on your lapel was a sign you wished to be left alone), or reveal it (this gets into a whole intriguing area of psychology. Masks can be used as a catalyst to tap into areas of our  subconscious that we may not have easy access to). Mask performance can be incredibly liberating and incredibly sophisticated. I have probably made more masks than any other one type of object. In India for one performance i personally shaped fifty of paper mache. i don't know how many have survived and have next to no documentation of them. I was surprised when I was putting this post together how few pictures I actually had in general. Some of them aren't the greatest photos. I think instead of offering my usual commentary on each piece, I'll just let you browse the collection on your own. Enjoy!

Fiction: Border Crossing Part II

                                                                II

                The massive stone doorway dominated the muddy patch of esplanade where it stood. Like a giraffe in a bathtub, it demanded the viewer’s attention by its sheer size and improbability.

         “How can no one know about this being here?” breathed Connor, astonished.

        Alba calmly regarded the ancient, cathedral sized structure

                “If you don’t cross the Bridge of the Wind it is not here. The Mirror Gate is a between-place. You can only find it by one path.”

                “Impossible!” Connor murmured to himself.

                “You would not use that word so often if you truly understood it” she said. He found Alba’s matter-of fact demeanor a bit trying at times.  She pointed at an elaborately carved decorative relief panel.

                “Can you read this inscription? No?  Roughly translated, and leaving out the unnecessary poetry, it cautions you to stay on the path. It says that a great danger may lie within if you aren’t mindful of what you cannot be without.”

 Conner felt drained and confused and they hadn’t even passed the second obstacle. This was nothing like he had imagined such an adventure would be like.  His incomprehension must have shown on his face.

“Thoughts”, she explained patiently “It is called the Mirror Gate because it reflects what is in your mind. Do not ignore the warning. It is potentially the most dangerous of the Three Passages, worse even than The Guardian. Focus your mind and stay on the path no matter what you see or hear.  Flee from your greatest fear or chase your heart’s desire here and you’ll be lost forever. Concentrate and stay on the path. Are you ready to go? “

“Almost”, Connor tried to think of something pleasant and calm while his heart pounded in his throat.  “I know that this is kind of a personal question, but what do you see in there?”

Alba gave him a half smile.

“Wolves”, she stated. “Always it is wolves”

 *****************************************************

“It is a bit much to take in at first” Alba sympathized. 

Connor gazed out the diner window attempting to absorb everything he had just been told. On the other side of the glass a tiny woman rode by on the back of an enormous pig laden with baskets of apples. 

“So…like a parallel dimension?” he attempted

She lapped a dollop of mayonnaise from her thumb with a rose petal tongue.

“If it helps to think of it that way, then yes” she nodded

“…And all those stories about witches and dragons?”

“A better word might be memories. We’ve filled in the gaps with our imaginations over the years and gotten some of the details confused, but for the most part it’s amazing how much the old tales have gotten right. There’s a whole other realm that overlaps ours and for some reason you’re one of the few who can see it. This is a dangerous position to be in if you don’t know the terrain. It is crucially important we get you an audience with the Light Queen as soon as possible”.

“Wait”, Connor sputtered “you’re telling me there really is a queen of the fai…”

“Never use that word!” barked Alba. She rolled her eyes “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Say “Good Neighbors” or “Fair Folk” If you need to refer to them. You never know what you’ll summon otherwise”.

“I don’t get it. Aren’t we talking about the little people with butterfly wings? What’s so bad about them? “

Alba took another bite of her second bacon cheeseburger, chewed and swallowed before responding.

“You say that as if you hadn’t just seen a Kobold” she scoffed

“You mean the guy with the squashed-in face? How dangerous could he be?”

  “If he had found out which eye you could see him through, the nasty little beast would have plucked it out and eaten it like a grape. He nearly got your name, too.”  She smiled sweetly. “As it stands, through him you’ve already annoyed the Unseelie Court and there’s far worse than him under the Dark Queen.  That’s why we need to get you allied with the Seelie Court, and quick! To answer your question, there are, in fact, two Queens of the Star People: one light, one dark, both powerful and both of their courts are perpetually at war with each other and now you are in the middle of it.”

Connor stared unseeing at the crust of his club sandwich

“Why does this thing with names matter? I’m sure I’ve said the “f” word before and nothing happened”. 

Alba snatched another fry from his plate.

“Before, you didn’t notice. The thing about the other realm is when you notice it, it notices back. Words and names have power. It’s a magic so old we’ve all but forgotten it on our side. Giving someone your full name is like giving them a piece of yourself. It can be used to summon and control you. Never give your name to anyone you do not trust with your life. When in doubt introduce yourself as ….Heron.”

“Why Heron?”

“You look like one”, she giggled. “Now I’d like to summon some lemon meringue pie!”

“You’re so tiny, where are you putting all this food?” he marveled

“Quick metabolism” she grinned.

“I’ve been duped!” He cried in mock despair “I wish you had warned me about this before I agreed to treat, you’re going to bankrupt me!”

“Think of it as the lesser of two evils. The last person I know who annoyed a kobold had thorns spring up everywhere he sat. It took months to break the spell, too.” Alba smugly popped another of his fries in her mouth. “Besides, I’m going to act as your guide in the Beyond. It’s the least you can do.”

“You’ll really take me there? When?”

 “I need to get time off from work and inform my pack leader,” she mused. “It should take about a week. Until then, remember these rules: Never tell anyone your full name or use the “f” word, never accept a bargain or a gift without understanding the true cost, be polite to everyone you meet, and under no circumstances eat or drink anything given to you from the Other Side.  Follow these guidelines and you just might survive long enough to make the journey.”

Connor chuckled uneasily.

“Pack leader? Don’t tell me…you’re some sort of werewolf” He had made the joke to cover his nervousness, but he could tell immediately he had said exactly the wrong thing. Alba’s thin frame stiffened and her eyes narrowed.  In a razor edged whisper she informed him:

“No. Not a werewolf, a lycanthropist!”

“Listen…No! I’m sorry! You’ve been really good to me, explaining everything and offering to help me and all. I really am grateful, and I went and insulted you without even meaning to!”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed.

“I forgive you, Connor. You didn’t know what you were saying. It is exactly that sort of mistake that could cost you your life, however. Try to be careful.”

“I still have so much to learn”, He shook his head ruefully “I don’t even know the difference between a werewolf and a lycanthropist “

“Self control” Alba announced.haughtily.

 *****************************************************

Two days after Alba and Connor exchanged numbers and parted company, He found himself wandering in Riverside Park just before sunset. It was strange, he reflected, how quickly he had gotten used to seeing things almost nobody else could. It certainly helped to understand that they really existed, and for the most part would leave him alone.  As he wandered, Connor became aware of a sweet melancholy ambling music played on some sort of breathy flute.  The source of this melody was a satyr perched on an ornamental boulder in a small spruce grove, playing a reed pipe.  He sat down on a nearby bench to listen. The music drifted to a gradual finish. Without looking up, the satyr spoke.

“If you don’t want to appear to be talking to yourself, you might pretend to use your mobile telephone” The goat-man’s voice was rich and deep without the slightest hint of a bleat to it. Connor fished the device out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

“Thank you. That’s a really good suggestion” Connor said into the phone. “You play beautifully.”

The Satyr slid down from the rock and trotted over to join him on the bench. The fur of his legs along with his beard was a blotchy brown and white pattern. His face handsomely fused human features and a goat’s muzzle. The creature gave the air of youth and merriment one moment, and great dignity and wisdom the next. Connor wondered how old his new acquaintance really was, and wondered if concepts like age had any bearing on creatures like this.

“My friends know me as Cattail” offered the satyr extending   a thick strong hand. Connor shook it firmly.  He remembered Alba’s warnings.

“I’m called Heron.”  The name still tasted strange in his mouth.

Cattail nodded slowly. His amber eyes had the strange horizontal pupils of a goat’s.

“That suits you. You are Dooley’s new musician friend?” It was more of a statement then a question. Connor was surprised

“You know Dooley?

“Our world is smaller than this one these days. Word travels through it fast, and everyone knows the Invisible Man. He is a powerful friend to have.”

“Why do you call him that?”

The satyr exhaled slowly.

“Dooley gave himself that title. It is his joke. He says on this side you need no magic to vanish, you just need to hold a paper cup and mutter.”

Connor digested this.

“It’s not vey funny “he said finally.

Cattail turned his painfully earnest face towards Connor.

“No, Heron.” He agreed solemnly “It is not funny”.

The man and satyr sat together for a moment in silence.

“I’m going across soon, what is it like on the other side?” Connor asked

“The realm has many different faces, just like here. My glade is green, cool and peaceful. Naiads sing from the deep pool, and there are many kinds of fruit to eat. It is a beautiful place.” Cattail reflected on his home contentedly for a moment before asking, “You are going to visit The Queen?”

  Connor confirmed this was so.

Cattail ran his hand over his curved horn thoughtfully.

“It is a long and perilous journey. You will need a protector. Do you have someone to guide and guard you on your way?

“A girl has agreed to take me, but I don’t know if she’ll be much of a protector really.” Connor told him, “She’s called Ice.”

The satyr drew in a sharp breath.

“You do not know Lady Ice very well, I assume?” The words seemed to come from a long way off.

“We just met. Why?”

Cattail paused to choose his words.

“Heron, listen” he finally said “There are creatures across the border too terrible to contemplate, beasts of nightmares with no mercy and hearts of shadow. When these things awaken from their dreams in terror and cold sweat, Lady Ice’s name is on their lips. She is a fierce warrior and one of the most respected among the Wolves.  You could not have chosen better if you thought about it for many days. You are most fortunate in your friends.”

 ******************************************************

“It is time” Alba stated, “Let’s go

The gigantic doors began to grind open with glacial speed

“I have to return from this,” Connor thought irrelevantly “I promised Cattail we would teach each other some tunes”

Alba sighed heavily as the stone doors gradually swung open.

“Nothing is ever done without dramatics here” she complained theatrically to the sky, “It gets tedious”.

Connor laughed anxiously. He gripped the handle of his mandolin case and forced himself to concentrate on the trip he took to Yellowstone when he was nine.  With a deep breath he followed his guide through the Mirror gate and into Fairie.

Fiction: Border Crossing Part I

        Since several people told me how much they had enjoyed "Haunted", I decided to try my hand at another story.  Interestingly, Dooley, Alba and Connor all started out as minor characters in other tales. Those of you who know me well enough to know my weakness for wordplay will appreciate the fact that when it came time to give Alba a surname, I resisted the urge to make it "Kortuna" or"Tross".

Without further ado, here's the first installment of "Border Crossing"

Enjoy!

    Border Crossing

          “Just keep walking and stop looking down!” chided Alba.

Connor swallowed and forced his eyes away from the brightly lit party boat in the icy river twenty feet below.  The ancient rope bridge gave another sickening lurch.

           “I may not actually be mentally ill, but I have definitely lost my mind.” He told the night air under his breath. He tried to focus on a fixed point on the horizon like all the books said, but it was difficult to choose one among the brightly lit city skyline when the slightest breeze made the bridge sway. He checked the strap of his mandolin case again and tried focusing on the pommel of Alba’s sword. This did not help.  

         “I still don’t see why we couldn’t cross over there” Connor complained pointing at the remarkably stable looking suspension bridge upstream.

         Alba shot a reproving look over her shoulder and sighed dramatically.

          “I know I explained it. You keep thinking in terms of conventional geography. We could get to the same shore that way but it would be a different realm.  This is the only way, see?”

          Connor did not see. He never liked heights at the best of times and crossing the river at midnight on a frail rope bridge that might technically be imaginary was not the best of times.

         “As tall as you are, I don’t see how you can be afraid of heights”, Alba stated airily “It must be traumatic for you to get out of a chair.”

             Connor swallowed hard and did not answer.  He knew she was only trying to lighten the mood but the only thing that would do that would be for him to stand on solid ground again.

        “If it weren’t for that homeless man I wouldn’t be here right now”, he thought, staring at his own blanched knuckles.

                                    *********************************************

           “Do you have anything that you can give a poor soul who’s down on his luck?” slurred the beggar, holding out a grimy palm towards Connor.

         The old man’s face was gaunt and wrinkled as a walnut. His matted beard would probably become white after the next rainstorm.  His ragged clothes smelled of whiskey, sweat and earth. People walking through the park were making a wide detour around him.

        Connor invented a code that he lived by when he moved into the city. Part of it was that no matter how drug addled or lunatic the person addressing him appeared, he would always respond politely. He would never allow himself to forget that they were a person too.

         “I’m sorry, sir. I just spent the last money I had getting this banjo repaired.  Unless you want a tune, I’m afraid I have nothing to give.” Connor expected the old fellow to swear or shuffle away disappointed. Instead the beggar clapped his filthy hands clapped and crowed with delight.

          “Aha! That will do for me! A tune on your banjo will be just the thing to lift old Dooley’s spirits. Play for me, lad! Let it be a merry tune”, Dooley nodded slowly with the sagacity and certainty only available to the very drunk.  “This old world has enough sorrow in it”

         Nonplussed, Connor made his way to a nearby bench, unpacked the instrument and checked his tuning.  Another one of his principles was that he never refused to play when asked.  He brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes and began to pick out a jaunty reel that he learned just last week from his friend Tom.  Halfway through the first phrase he was amused to remember it was called “Whiskey Before Breakfast”. Dooley shut his liquor blurred eyes and began to sway appreciatively. Before long, his sway had turned into a loose jointed, inebriated, shuffling sort of hornpipe. Connor found himself chuckling as he played.  The laughter proved infectious. Connor realized as he began to improvise on the theme that he was now in the middle of a small knot of people who were laughing and clapping along with the song.  He finished to applause and the audience dispersed. About ten dollars had been dropped into his case. Connor fished out the money and pressed it into Dooley’s palm.  The old man eyed him suspiciously. For an instant Connor could have sworn the beggar’s eyes became clear and focused.

         “What’s this for” Dooley demanded

         “For you”, Connor replied “, I played you a tune and that tune made money, that makes it your money.”

        “A gift freely given?” Dooley asked, apparently confused.

        “That’s right.”

      The beggar struggled with the concept for a moment.

     “And you want nothing in return? You ain’t even going to tell me not to spend it on booze? ”

     “Would it do any good if I did?” countered Conner, laughing.  

     “Gift freely given” Dooley told the sky. The intoxicated slur was gone from his voice. The beggar’s eyes had suddenly become sharp and bright as though they had emerged from behind a cloud.

    “Had you said or done differently, lad, I would have walked off without more than a fair thee well”, Dooley addressed him with authority “but as you’ve done me a good turn asking for nothing in return, I must respond in kind. Your visions are real, son. Blocking them out with medicine is doing you no favors.”

    Connor could feel the blood drain from his narrow face. He had never told anyone about the hallucinations, not even his best friend Tom.

    “What? How did you… what are you …. That can’t be!”

     Dooley gave an avuncular chuckle

     “Typical of people nowadays. You run into something you can’t understand and you just deny it and assume that something must be wrong with you. You try to cure yourself before you even understand what you’re dealing with, and usually make things worse. That’s the age we live in I’m afraid.”

     “But I see things that can’t possibly be there!” protested Connor

     “That you believe can’t possibly be there” corrected Dooley “Tell me, since you know so much, do you see your visions with one eye and not the other?”

     Connor nodded mutely. He could not believe he was actually having this discussion.

      “They ever tell you to do things, or do they mostly just leave you be?”

      “They let me alone, but my analyst says…”

    “Doubtlessly a fine person”, interrupted Dooley “but they don’t know the first thing about it. Mostly when people see things that others cannot it’s a sign of madness. They’re seeing what isn’t there. Then, there are rare folks like you with the Sight.  You are seeing what’s really there, and what few others can. What you see can be, and is real. Stop taking your pills and you may learn something worth knowing.” 

     The old man’s eyes suddenly snapped out of focus. Dooley took a lopsided bow that nearly overbalanced his body and stumbled off down the path.   Connor packed his banjo and left the park as if in a dream. At the gate he looked back to convince himself that he hadn’t imagined the whole exchange. Dooley was engaged in a heated argument with a tree.  Shaking his head, Connor wandered off and tried to forget the whole thing.

        ****************************************************************************

    The next morning Connor found himself staring at the two white tablets in his palm, unable to bring himself to ingest them. He slid them back into the bottle.

   “What the hell, it’s just for one day.” He thought as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door to teach his first guitar lesson at the shop. Nothing strange happened all morning.

        That afternoon at the crosswalk of Oar St. and McCLancey , Connor stood beside a regal looking woman in a business suit waiting for the light to change when he heard a scuffling by his leg. Looking down he saw an odd little man who didn’t even come up to his knee. The spindly limbed creature had a look of intense concentration on his Pekinese -like face and one long fingered hand deep in the woman’s handbag. He extracted an expensive looking phone from the bag and a wide predatory grin split his stringy red beard. Conner instinctively snatched the gadget away from the little man.  Connor shot him a reproving look before turning to address the woman. She had clearly not noticed anything.

    “Excuse me miss, but this just fell out of your bag”

   Startled, the woman took the offered phone.

    “I didn’t even hear it drop. Thanks! My whole life is in that thing. I don’t know what I would do if I lost it” Without a backwards glance the woman crossed the street and turned into the doorway of a tall building.

     “Master is very clever to spot me”, chirped the little man in a surprisingly falsetto voice. Connor had expected a bullfrog croak from the stout little figure. “Tell me which eye you can see me out of, Clever Master!”  He was grinning sycophantically up at Connor with an impossibly wide mouth filled with tiny pointed teeth. The little man’s fawning demeanor failed to conceal the cold menace in his bulging eyes.

    “I am nowhere near fool enough to tell you that” Connor curtly told him

     The creature gave what it clearly believed to be a jovial laugh.

    “Master is clever indeed! Master must tell me his name so that I may properly in his service”  

    “Little Man, you have business elsewhere!” barked a stern woman’s voice from behind, causing them both to jump. The source of the voice was an ash blonde woman. She probably stood about five feet tall and every inch of her radiated indignation. The little man bowed deeply and simpered

      “Your pardon, My lady but I was merely asking my friend a question”

      The woman’s blue eyes narrowed with disgust

        “He is no friend of yours”, she sniffed haughtily “and you will get no answer”

       “Forgive me mistress, I meant no offense! “The creature groveled.

       “You have business elsewhere”, she stated imperiously. Connor realized that her slight accent was probably Russian.  “You should be off to discover what it is now. Do not mistake this for a suggestion.”

        The little man’s eyes bulged in abject terror. He bowed and scraped several steps backwards before bursting into a lopsided sprint into the mouth of an alley.  The woman turned her penetrating gaze on Connor.  He felt uncomfortably under scrutiny.

        “That”, she informed him “was a very stupid thing to do.”  

         “So I should have just let that…thing rob her? “ Connor demanded, feeing childish and indignant. He was treated to another critical stare.  She sighed

        “Probably not”, she admitted “but sometimes it’s wisest not to interfere. Most folk know me as Ice.” He shook the proffered hand,marveling how small it seemed in his own

        “ I’m Conner Davis. Nice to meet you.”

         The woman seemed slightly taken aback. She studied him for a long second before she appeared to reach a decision.

     “My Name is Alba Petrovavich“She smiled “and you, Connor Davis shall buy me lunch now.”

    “Um…Okay. Glad to. But why?”Conner asked, confused.

      Alba's smile widened knowingly as she counted the reasons off on her fingers:

     “Because I am hungry, because you need to know what I have to tell you, and because I have probably just saved your life!”

          

c. J. Ryan 2011

Reoccurring themes: Saddles

              My good friend Joe Von Stengel is undoubtedly a lot more tech savvy than I. Aside from creating some very cool digital themed art, he knows everything there is to know about  having a successful web presence. He always tells me that I need to post on here more frequently. This annoys me. It is particularly irritating because I know he's right.

The trouble is most of what I do is fairly time consuming. I could crank out two or three pieces a week and post them, but only if I had sufficient financial backing to not have to worry about minor details like food and bills (anybody who happens to be fantastically wealthy and follows my blog: Hello!). To rectify this I've decided to start a regular feature where I discuss some of the ideas and themes that repeatedly crop up in my work. Hopefully this will provide some interesting insights into my work. Also it gives me a valid reason to post older pieces.

It's MY blog and I can do whatever I want with it......

Saddles:
Whether it's because of the copious amount of fairy tales I read when I was younger or an enduring affection for carousels,  there's something very appealing to me about putting riding gear on animals that don't ordinarily wear it. To me it implies a whole story. Who rides this beast? Where do they come from? Where could they possibly be going?

This is one of my newer themes. I hope to do a lot more with it in the future. It's also apparently one of my more popular ones. Both the pieces that I'm showcasing here have sold fairly quickly.

 

"Charger"

This is the more recent of the two pieces. He comes directly from the Grimm Fairy Tale "Hans the Hedgehog."  Like all my work he is carved from a single block of wood. Notice the gap between the reins and his neck? This sculpture can balance entirely on one foot in flat surfaces. At his new owner's insistence, he was later mounted to a base, a weathered wooden box that i feel really adds to the piece. She also displays him against a white wall which make his colors really "pop". I want to photograph him in this location soon.  Those colors are not paint by the way. I love using experimental finishes. On this piece I used Kool Aid, rust, steel shavings, paprika, curry powder, colored inks, shoe polish, and coffee. There may be one or two more ingredients but I forget what they are.

.

"Western Saddle"
I used coffee, paprika, ink and white watercolor in the finish of this Jackrabbit. He now lives in someone's home in New Mexico, which seems fitting to me. Note how thin I made the ears and that once again the reins and stirrups are free of the main body. One of the things I like about this theme is it allows me to work with this kind of obsessive technical detail  (Trans.: Show off).


















I'd love to continue this idea in a larger format. It would be a lot of fun to maybe do a rocking "horse" or full sized carousel figure. Any takers? Anyone have any ideas they'd like to see in this series?  Let me know. I love your feedback.

Fiction: Haunted, Part Three (final chapter)

                              III

Without raising his eyes from the chess board, Anselm rises slowly until his head was directly between the bowed heads of the two old men. He then lets loose a deafening raw animal scream. His bellow would have certainly emptied his lungs and left him gasping if he were alive.  The chess player to his right scratches his bald head and toys with his bishop before replacing it. Anselm bounds onto the tabletop and plants himself in the dead center of the game. Spreading his arms wide, he announces to the park at large:

“Achtung,  Froggies! Germany has re-occupied Paris! I have been appointed as your new emperor! I decree that you all must wear socks with sandals and Bavarian Polka must be played over the public address at all times!  Now you must all bring your daughters before me at once so that I can start my harem!”   The bald chess player checkmated his opponent through Anselm’s foot.

“Hey! Frenchies! Did you not hear?  Bring me your daughters! Mach scnell! Scnell!  You there! Where are you going?”

Anselm leapt down in front of a large mustachioed delivery man. Behind him the two chess players shook hands and reset the board. 

“I demand that you do as I say at once! Are you paying attention?”

 The delivery man wheels his dolly towards the bakers humming quietly to himself. Anselm follows, flailing his arms wildly and shouting.

“Don’t you know it’s a crime to ignore your emperor? For you insolence I condemn you to wear a really large moustache!  Let’s see you try to live with that humiliation!” Anselm walks off haughtily to make faces at a small child who is nagging his mother for sweets.   

“Knock it off, you lunatic Hun,” I tell him

Anselm turns to me with an air of injured innocence.

“Do you know something? I don’t think they have noticed! Maybe I need to yell louder, do you think?”

“No. Stop it. You’ve made your point. The living can’t see or hear us,” I concede with bad grace.

“I’m certain that everyone is not reacting because they are so happy and content with me in power. The French people have always loved us Germans, you know.”

“Will you cut that out? All I said was: what if she did see me?”

Anselm waves his hand in front of his face as if shooing away midges

“What if, What if!”, he grumbles irritably. “You are seeing what you wish to see. That is all. Your young lady is special. Do you know why?  Because you believe this. You want her to see you and so in your mind, she does. She is really no different than anyone else, and none of the living know we are here. Not even if they stare into a crystal ball all day long. “

“It could be possible though”.  

He groans with exasperation. 

“Of course it could be possible! Anything in the world ‘could be possible’. It could be possible that The Fuerher never rose to power, and I lived to become a very old with a hundred fat grandchildren in Stuttgart.  This is possible, but it did not happen.  This is the way things are”, his tone was final but not unkind. “We are still here when most of the rest of the dead have gone on to whatever happens after life. We cannot eat drink or touch. The living can not see or hear us. I do not know why it should be so, but to pretend otherwise is a good way to make yourself crazy. There is however, one good thing about being a ghost.”

I know exactly what he is going to say. It is the same thing he always says. I ask him what it is anyway. He flashes a huge wolfish grin

“We no longer need to buy tickets to the cinema!”

With only token protest I allow him to drag me to yet another film. It’s a loud flashy American movie with subtitles about travelling to distant planets. Anselm enjoys it immensely and laughs uproariously throughout. The film provides a welcome but all too temporary distraction. I leave wondering what generations to come will think of this latest interpretation of the future. I hope not to find out.

In a dismal, dusty corner of the town museum hangs a formal photograph of my unit. The picture is dated 1915. There are thirty eight of us posed uncomfortably in front of the barracks in dress uniform. Were it not for those uniforms and rifles, we could be a town cricket team.  These were my comrades, men who were barely more than boys. I remember their voices and their laughter.  There was Bingo Fletchworth who wrote his sweetheart every day and always borrowed my cigarettes, Mike Jones who was teaching himself to play banjo, Chalky Stevens who would cut the strings of the banjo while Mike slept.  Ace Miller with his lucky helmet that had a bullet hole straight through it, and our radioman Pete Tooley who could fix just about anything.  All that remains of them is this photo, my memory, a few artifacts in a display case beneath it. Several years back a tractor unearthed my engraved pocket watch and now it gathers dust in this display case. Tourists wander solemnly by the photograph and dutifully mutter: “So young, they were so young”, before moving on to the next display.  I despise it here, yet I have forced myself to stay all afternoon to avoid seeing Sabrina.

Anselm is probably right and I resent him for it. I have decided that there is no point in deluding myself any further.  Aside from one incident, which I may have imagined, Sabrina has given no other indication that she is aware of my existence.  I have told her my name, all the secrets of my heart and my entire story, yet she never heard any of it. No matter how pleasant the delusion, I cannot pretend any longer. She is a living, breathing young woman whose future lies ahead, while I am nothing more than a fading memory.  To pretend otherwise is fruitless. Though it strains every sinew of my resolve, I know I must stay away from her.  For a full week I have eschewed the places that I know she frequents.  I cannot prevent myself from hoping for a forbidden glance of her face in a crowd. The small electric thrill I get from a chance sighting of dark locks or a swishing skirt and the crashing disappointment when it invariably turns out to be someone else are unavoidable, so I stay to the most isolated places I can think of.

The museum staff is turning off the lights and locking the doors now. This place is depressing enough during daylight. After closing it becomes unbearable. I slip out into the twilight unnoticed.  The buds are unraveling into nascent leaves and the world once again is becoming warmer and greener. Before I realize where I am going, I am following the path to the wheat field. I consider changing direction until I realize Sabrina must have gone back to her dormitory by now and continue on.  My solitude is assured, I think with melancholy satisfaction.

When I come to the break in the stone wall I am convinced that I must be dreaming, but as I draw closer I see that this cannot possibly be a trick of the shadows. Sabrina is leaning against the wall she is clutching a paper cup as if it were a talisman. Plumes of her breath mingle with the steam from the beverage. She is wearing a baggy brown sweater and blue canvas trousers. Her hair is pulled back loosely revealing her pale anxious face. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and I believe she is thinner. I have never seen Sabrina looking so fragile or tired. She is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. I cannot imagine how or why I have avoided her for so long.  I want more than I have ever wanted anything to take her in my arms and comfort her.  I may no longer be able to breathe but a sigh escapes me, nonetheless.

Sabrina turns towards me and all traces of worry melt from her. Her face is aglow with a pure luminous smile, the exact perfect expression she wore on the first day watching the roebuck drink.  This time there is no ambiguity or doubt. I was wrong, Anselm was wrong!  Sabrina’s shining dark eyes look directly into mine

“Hello Robert”, she says in a voice like brushed velvet “I’ve missed you!”

The End

C. John A. Ryan 2011

Fiction: Haunted, Part Two

                                                      II

“They used to carry our bodies down the hill over there from the hospital tents to the cemetery on mule carts. My remains are somewhere in there but they couldn’t find any identification, so my grave is unmarked.”

Sabrina wouldn’t be listening even if she could hear me. She is bent over the neck of her guitar. Her expression of intense concentration is partially concealed by curtain of inky curls. She strums a chord pattern, pulls a face, and tweaks one of the tuning pegs.  Another attempt results in another grimace.  I find myself telling Sabrina things I would never say to anyone else, things about the horrors of battle and secret places from my childhood. I wonder sometimes if it is because I know she cannot possibly hear that I feel so free to unburden my soul.  

We are resting beneath what I have come to think of as “our tree”, a magnificent ancient spreading oak that is starting to blush with the first green of early spring. Sabrina enjoys coming here to pretend to study.  I believe that she always intends to concentrate on her coursework, but within twenty minutes of settling here, “The Essays of Montaigne”, “Practical French Grammar” and “The World in the Twentieth Century” are usurped in her attention by a bottle of wine, bread and cheese, and whatever novel has managed to slip in the bag along with the notebooks. Sometimes the distraction is provided by the cat, a half grown piebald animal that is transparently devoted to her. Often Sabrina just lies back on her blanket, contentedly watching the sky drift behind the branches. In these moments I wish more than anything that I could ask her what she was thinking, but I would hate to disturb the sublime tranquility.

Even if you had seen these fields torn asunder by violence as I have, it is nearly impossible to imagine on days like this. How very strange it is to watch time pass without you. During my life this massive oak was a mere sapling.  In Sabrina’s bag and pockets are wonders that even the wildest imaginations of my generation could not have conceived.  I’ve seen her use a small rectangular device with no wires that can act as a camera, telephone, radio and a myriad of other functions, a computing device barely larger than a magazine, and speakers so miniscule that they can fit into a person’s ears and allow them to listen to music privately.  Everything has become so much smaller and more complex now.  While these nearly magical contraptions make me feel ancient and out of place, nothing brings the impossibility of my situation into sharp relief like music. Nearly every song Sabrina knows is unfamiliar to me, played in unusual rhythmic patterns and lyrics that ring oddly in the ear.  She has a pleasant soft singing voice and plays well, so far as I can judge, but the fact that we know almost none of the same songs saddens me greatly. How many millions of songs, paintings and books have been created since my demise? I ache to know what the world has become. Oh, to be able to pick up and read “the World in the Twentieth Century” for just ten minutes!

“Merde!” 

Sabrina’s sudden expletive sends a brace of turtledoves whistling terrified into the air.

“All this time I’ve been playing it in the wrong damn key!”  

“Darling,” I told her once I had stopped laughing “I don’t know why, but it is the funniest thing in the world when you curse!”

She chuckles ruefully and with a shake of her head starts the song over. It is a pretty French tune that she is learning it to improve her French. La Vie en Rose, I believe it is called. About halfway through the second verse, a woman’s voice with a heavy local accent interrupts.

“Your pronunciation is becoming less horrible, I think’ the voice observes dryly.

Standing by the fencerow is a willowy girl with wheaten hair and lynx eyes. She is exactly the sort of fragile looking young lady my contemporaries would have called a hot-house flower.

“Bonjour Yvonne!” Sabrina grins like a sunbeam, getting up to greet the newcomer with a kiss on either cheek. “What brings you out into the wilds?”

“You are again not answering your mobile” accuses Yvonne.

“Reception is awful out here. I usually just shut it off” Sabrina explains.

Yvonne examines a leaf that she has plucked from her sweater with mild distaste before flicking it away.

“The girls from our floor are all in the café on the square. They sent me to find you and bring you there.” she sniffs.

“Let me gather my things. I’ll just take a minute.” The books, blanket, and half filled bottle disappear into Sabrina’s shapeless black bag.  Yvonne leans against a fencepost disinterestedly fiddling with a small flat black device.

“Bridgette tells for you to hurry” she announces. “She misses you”

“Tell her I’m on my way” Sabrina replies snapping the latches of the guitar case. She looks around straightening her jacket “I think that’s everything. C’mon”

The two young women start off on the path towards the village arm in arm.  Yvonne gestures critically at the landscape.

“I can never understand for what you always want to come out here. Out here, there is just nothing” she complains.

“Maybe there is and you don’t know how to look properly “teases Sabrina. “Besides I like it here. It’s peaceful”

Sabrina smiles back over her shoulder with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. The two friends soon vanish around the bend.  I stay rooted to the spot until the sun is touching the horizon, unable to believe what I have just seen. It cannot be possible. It must have been a trick of the light or an illusion created by my hungry desires. Yet I can’t shake the impression that when Sabrina glanced over her shoulder, she looked directly at me…

…and winked! 

John A. Ryan 2011

Fiction: Haunted

    I can only credit myself with making a few genuinely wise decisions in my life. One of which occurred when I was fairly young. I must have been about six or seven at the time. I had just explained some detail of my inner world to a teacher and went back to drawing. The teacher turned to one of her colleagues and said
            "I  wish I still had the imagination that I did when I was that age".
I can't remember what I was talking about or who this teacher was, but I remember thinking "Aha! this imagination stuff must be pretty important if the adults wish they still had it.I'd  better not lose mine!"
So I didn't. Instead I cultivated my imagination, feeding it new bits of information and teasing out it's ideas. It grew up with me. During my worst moments I had any number of worlds to retreat into. Fits of boredom could always be assuaged by a visit one of my characters or inventing some new creature.
    While it may have lost some of the technicolor sparkle it had when I was younger, my imagination still regularly provides me with my best ideas. Even though I think I am well acquainted with the way it functions, my imagination still has the capacity whip around and catch me completely off guard with something like this short story. It almost seems as though someone else wrote this. I still don't know what to think of it.
Hope you like it


 Haunted

Black is the color of my true love’s hair.  She plays the guitar, reads constantly, and doodles in the margins of her journal. She dresses like a gypsy from story books. Her name is Sabrina. She speaks halting French with an American accent.  Her eyes are dark. She is one of the funniest people I have ever encountered and I strongly suspect that she is brighter than I ever was. Her eyes are dark and mysterious.  Her laugh is full of mischief.  Her voice is dark and calm. She constantly amazes me surprises me, and leaves me feeling breathless.  Sabrina’s presence is intoxicating. She is 20 years old, a year younger than I was when I died.

      They called it the Great War and it was more terrible than anyone could have ever imagined.  Brave fools that we all were, we all truly believed that this war would end all others. Our brave boys would take one last glorious charge to make the world safe and free forever more. We’d show the Hun what we were made of for King and Country and be back in London by Christmas.  It turned out that we were made of fragile sinew and blood like everyone else. None of my battalion would ever see England again.  A tide of artillery fire washed us all out of history on the fields of France. Infants who were born that year are now old men and women.  Barely anyone remembers.  Wheat is planted where I fell. Wars still rage around the world. Nothing has changed. Nearly a hundred years later and I still don’t understand what I died for.

     Being a ghost is like watching at the window of a train. You can see and hear the world moving on around you but you cannot touch it or affect it. Nobody knows you are there.  For the longest time I sought out mediums and spiritualists. Not because I had any great message to pass along, but simply to connect with someone. They were as unaware of my presence as anyone else. The living simply cannot see or hear us. We are not tied to any one place or object, but most of us stay put out of habit. Where else are we to go? Ghosts are merely echoes of the past, unable to change or move forward. We are stones in a brook.  I have met a few others of my kind, Most of us soldiers from a long ago battle. Romans and Gauls, Revolutionaries, Napoleon and Charlemagne’s men, Warriors from the Hundred Years War and The Second World War all still wander. When we can make ourselves understood to each other, we reminisce about what we miss most about being alive, things we barely noticed when we had them: Lungs filled with breath sunlight on our skin and the taste of water. German, British or Carthaginian, it makes no difference.  The thing that everyone misses the most is the touch of another person.  We all long for a simple hand on our arm or a kiss on the cheek.  Any ghost would readily shake hands with their worst enemy just to feel the press of flesh once more.

Sabrina came to Northern France to study history and literature. I first saw her walking across the winter stubble of the field where I lost my life.  She was wearing a lime green knitted hat, a too-large gray duster, a flowing patchwork skirt and a trailing striped scarf that I later learned she had made herself.  She sang a song under her breath that I didn’t recognize. It was something about gardening and an octopus.  The nonsensical lyrics and the way she hugged herself to keep out the cold reminded me of a child playing dress up.  I followed after her. Ghosts often follow people like fish following a boat. We don’t wish to frighten people or have any real purpose. It is just pleasant to be near someone again. I often wonder if people can feel that I am there. I remember the sensation of feeling someone’s presence in an empty place when I was alive.  It would be nice to think I kept some lonely spirit company at the time.  I enjoyed that first walk with Sabrina. She rambled slowly across the field and into the woodland, pausing frequently to investigate a toadstool or flip a clump of dirt over with the toe of her clunky boot.  Sabrina occasionally spoke her thoughts aloud, a habit I used to have when I was alive. People would tease me for it.  In Sabrina I find it charming. I can pretend that she is talking to me. That first day I learned that she was from Michigan. She had a younger sister who she missed she had only been in The Academy for a week   and was worried that she’d never master the language.  When we were walking along the banks of a stream in the low wood, a young Roebuck broke cover on the opposite bank. Sabrina stood stock still and breathless for the entire time the animal drank. An enormous grin spread slowly across her wind kissed face. Her eyes lit up and grew wide. It was one of the most perfect expressions of human joy I had ever witnessed. When the deer faded back into the woods she whispered “Wow!”  She gave a skip of delight as she continued on her way. I suspect this was the moment I first fell in love with her.

Ghosts of course have no heart to beat faster as the object of their desire approaches. I cannot blush when she glances toward me or even be seen. The whole situation is ludicrous and impossible. It should not be possible for one so long dead as me to fall in love. Had I survived the war, I would be old enough to be her great grandfather. Yet in spite of all reason I found myself waiting at the edge of the field impatiently every day for Sabrina to arrive for her daily walk. If she were but a few minutes late my imagination will concoct awful irrational scenarios where she had either suffered some horrible accident or met a young man.  I don’t know which I dread more.  I exist for the hour or two when we can walk together and relive every moment of our walks over again in my mind. I could easily follow her back to the dorms and spend every waking moment with her, but the few times I dared to return with her made me feel like a criminal and I left strait away. I never would have thought it possible, but there can be no doubt. This is Love. This is torture.  

                “This Fraulein can neither see nor hear you. She doesn’t even know you are there” Anselm tells me for what seems the thousandth time. “Forget about her. Why must you always dwell on what you can not change?”

Anselm’s ghost is tall muscular and blonde. He is my closest friend now.  He looks the way every German soldier would like to.  He was twenty four when he died in the Second World War, which makes him both older and younger than me. I wish we could have met when we were alive. Anselm speaks English fluently. He is clever and easygoing. His sense of humor is a bit fatalistic, which is understandable under the circumstances. He continues:

“It is like this obsession you have with wanting to know for what you died. What difference would it make now? Trust me. It does no good. I found out this too late. If I knew why we were fighting when I was alive, I would have turned my gun on my comrades. But this is all past. Nothing can be done anymore. If you can’t learn to let things go, Dummkopf, I’m afraid you will worry yourself to death!”

 We both laughed at this. Death is much funnier when it’s already happened

“Don’t you think if we knew the answers we could move on?” I ask him, more to distract myself than for an answer.

He looks at me with uncharacteristic solemnity.

“No. If that was the reason we are still here the world would be full of nothing but ghosts of soldiers who did not know why they died.” . 

I suspect that Anselm is right but it still doesn’t change anything. I still want to know the answers and  I cannot stop myself from thinking about her.

John Ryan, 2011

Hearts and Minds

The battle is as old as humanity itself. It has raged on virtually unceasing since our species could first ask "Why?". The problem is, the fight is rigged. 

In the battle between the Brain and the Heart, the Heart never fights fair and the Brain can never understand this. The Brain follows a strict code of conduct and expects it's opponent to do so as well. The Heart changes the rules and tactics as it goes to suit it's needs. The Brain lines up it's troops in orderly formations thinking time and again that reason will win the day. The Heart only acknowledges reason when it can use it to it's advantage. It takes hostages, ambushes with emotions and lays siege to thought.The Brain has elaborate strategy to minimize damage where the Heart is willing to sacrifice anything for it's cause, even itself. It fights like a true believer. The Brain negotiates and bargains. The Heart makes threats and demands. The Brain can surrender with grace and accept defeat, The Heart sulks and throws tantrums. The Brain is straightforward and honest in approach, the Heart, devious and manipulative. Facts and Logic melt like sugar before the flamethrower of  "I WANT!".  It seems the Brain can only achieve any form of victory when it's nemesis finally comes battered and exhausted  to plead for mercy and help to extract it from the trap the Heart has built for itself and cannot get out of alone.

Puppetry: The Fun Parts

           A recent conversation with my college roommate Mike reminded me of something so simple and obvious that it is easily forgotten. I am one of the fortunate few. There are many out there more talented than I, or possibly more deserving, yet I am one of those rare lucky individuals who gets to do exactly what I want and get paid for it.
        I realize that when I have discussed my professional life in this forum and in other places it has often been with a sense of exasperation or bemusement. At times when dealing with the arts and entertainment industries you can too easily become cynical and bitter about the fact you appear to be living in some sort of Absurdist literature. There are weird hoops to jump through, strange business procedures that seem designed to prevent you from getting ahead, and people to cope with who seem downright otherworldly.

         Well this time I am not going to write about that at all. I shall not bemoan the fate I have chosen. There is to be no wailing and gnashing of teeth here. I will write about what I do and why I do it without cursing the gods or righteous indignation, no matter how funny I think I can make it. Without a single complaint  about aching muscles or the near impossibility of earning a living wage I want to discuss the Art of Puppetry and why after all this time I still get excited when I am asked to put on a show

Okay. One Joke...and only because I wrote it!

Q: What do you call someone who works in the arts who has no business acumen, personal charm, or discernible talent?
A: Executive Director!

Part One: Planning and Design
  Puppetry is really the art of problem solving at this stage. You figure out what you want to say and do and then try to figure out exactly how to make it happen. Does the character need to speak?  dance? fly?  Would this idea work best as a shadow show or mask work? What, in short are the specs? At this stage anything is possible. I love getting the most effect with  simple, elegant solutions. My Art-School explanation of puppetry was that it is a form of minimalism. You strip away all that is unnecessary  to get to the essence of what you want to say.

Life sized Monkey. Modified Bunraku style puppet. Work in progress

Part Two: The Build
If  I were to be forced to pick a favorite stage in the process this would have to be it. Often for me it blends almost seamlessly with the design and planning. I feel this is where I make most of my discoveries. It seems almost literally magical. With scissors and hot glue, sheets of foam, fabric and leather  transform into body parts which connect and become a whole new creature, waiting to come to life. I build with a method that I have, according to other puppeteers, invented that involves shaping and trimming the foam on the fly. It is a spontaneous,  organic method of working where the results can often surprise even  me !

Part Three: Rehearsal

Performing Dog. Based on a Sicilian marionette
  Built for my "Circus" show (currently on hiatus until I can find funding)
It took seven mop heads to make his coat!

If the Puppet comes to life during the building process, It develops a personality when you pick it up and manipulate it for the first time. The character traits I had attempted to portray solidify in this stage. Here is where my creation both literally and figuratively finds it's "voice". Once again this sounds like some sort of magic, but in reality, it is a form of play with a newly built toy.  Not only do I discover what I want this specific character to do or say, hopefully I find any flaws to my initial design and can modify them or find a work-around before facing an audience. If other people are involved in the show, this is usually where they are incorporated.  I find working with other performers changes my perspective and ordinarily enriches the experience.

  

Throg, A Troll. Muppet style Hand puppet.
This is possibly my most developed character.  

Part Four: Performance
To be honest, this is the aspect that first attracted me to puppetry. You would think that eventually the thrill of stepping onto the stage would wear off, but all these years later, it's still just as fun. For just a moment, my bizarre creation comes literally alive to someone else. It is the best kind of illusion. You can understand exactly how it works and still be taken in. I find myself a willing dupe of other puppeteers along with the rest of the audience. So long as they don't do anything to break the spell, in the moment I am eager to suspend disbelief and go right along with them. This seems to be a universal truth. Everyone but the very young understands that the puppet is in reality, a moving doll, yet most people will play along for as long as you are willing to engage them. Performing a puppet is a wonderfully liberating experience. Puppets are allowed to say or do practically anything. There is no typecasting and few taboos. I can be more outrageous, crankier, sillier or more whimsical than I could ever get away with offstage. With the right puppet and the right voice I can turn into a senile old woman, a disgruntled parrot, or a clueless martian. In that moment my identity can vanish, and be replaced by something of my own devising, only to come surging back whole and undamaged the instant I put the puppet down. Best of all, I get to make people laugh, to tell them stories, to maybe give them a moment of enchantment. The money is not and will never be more than a pleasant side effect. I get paid in applause! Tell me if you can think of any better way to make a living!