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!

Mona

     On the cusp of my 33rd year, I decided that I would take up an instrument that most people begin learning when they are six. I was told in advance by several reliable sources that the fiddle was not an easy instrument to learn, especially if you intended, as I did, to teach yourself. I'll admit that was even a part of the attraction. I felt fairly comfortable with most of my skill set and wanted to really challenge myself. I wanted to force myself into something that changed my frame of reference and perception. I consider myself to be mostly a visual person and not inherently musical. If you discount my harmonica skills, the closest I come to having "an ear" is that I can do  a few accents, voices, and sound effects successfully. I have always loved music in it's endless varieties.
The question to my mind, is not why did I decide learn music, but why I waited so long. Music more than any other art form seems magical, requiring a special God-given ability. Throughout my life I had always been half in awe and half envious of those who could open their mouths or take an instrument in hand and create so spontaneously. A week of trumpet lessons and an unsuccessful  relationship with my high school chorus left me convinced that my sisters had all the musical talent in the family. Besides that, I was way too busy drawing or reading old stories or learning to track to have any time to practice. Maybe in my next life I'd learn to play something, but this time around I had far too much on my plate to add yet another unmarketable skill...Right?
Eventually I wasn't convinced by this argument either.

Maybe I finally got sick of my excuses keeping me waiting in the wings.I finally realized that while I may never  be good enough to play in front of an audience, I really wanted to play. I liked the sound of the fiddle and I wanted to learn, Not to amaze anyone with my virtuoso skills ,but to simply be able to make music even if only for myself.
A week later in one of those inexplicable moments of serendipity, I found my fiddle. She was half concealed in a battered case in an antique shop. there were small body cracks in several places. The horsehair of the bow had been eaten at by carpet beetles. She hadn't been played in such a long time that the two intact strings were gut strings. I knew I was going to buy it, even before I consulted a friend who played fiddle. I still remember the first time I heard her voice. It was deeper and more resonant than I had expected, a sound that I felt in my marrow. I negotiated a fair price and took her to the local music store for repairs. Rarely have I regretted a purchase less. The luthier's eyes lit up when I opened the case. My new fiddle was a German made Amati copy violin from the 1930's. He showed me the inscription paper in the body that read "Nicholas Amatus Fecit in Cremona 1630 " and beneath that "Made in Germany" This and the noises I would probably be making for about the first year was what made me christen my new instrument  "Mona". further conformation of my good fortune came the next day when I received an offer to buy my fiddle for at least twice what I paid from the shop's violin teacher. I politely declined.

Learning to play has been a challenge, but less of one than I anticipated. I suspect this is because I never played an instrument with frets and so didn't have to unlearn any habits. I initially decided that I would put aside an hour a day to practice. This changed when I noticed how much time I was wasting by watching the clock. I now attempt to pick up the fiddle at least once a day, if only to play one tune. this is a far more attainable goal and I often find I play much longer than an hour without noticing. I have been playing for several years now. Recently I've noticed that I actually look forward to practicing. Playing tunes has become fun for me. I learn new music best from a combination of hearing the tune several times and sheet music. I'd like to train my ear a bit more so that I can pick up tunes just by hearing them. Most of what I play is traditional fare from Ireland and Scotland, with a few early American tunes thrown in for good measure. I love the intricate patterning of these songs as well as their evocative titles. To give just a few examples: Whiskey Before Breakfast, Soldiers Joy, The Road Lisdoonvarna. The Wind That Shakes the Barley, The Devils Dream, Ashokan Farewell and of course a catchy little tune called John Ryan's Polka! One of the weirder things to me about  playing the fiddle, is that  it still terrifies me to play in front of anyone. It is the one thing in my life that still gives me stage fright!  Possibly because I'm still not very good yet...

Finally Here is one of my new favorite musician jokes:
What's the difference between a Violin and a Fiddle?

Nobody cares if you spill beer on a fiddle!

Up to Eleven!

Gonzo: (To mirror) You're a reflection! You're supposed to do just what I do.
Reflection: But you do ludicrous things!
Gonzo: I do what?
Reflection: Ludicrous things!
Gonzo: Of course I do! I'm an ARTIST!
-The Muppet Show

Brewery Ommegang in Cooperstown has recently come out with a new beer called "Eleven By Volume". To commemorate this historic event, they asked me to carve them a custom tap handle in the shape of vertebrae. I eagerly accepted the commission. I really like this project for several reasons:

-It allows me to make a ridiculous yet functional object
- The project lets me indulge in my own highly specific form of geekery
-Ommegang, aside from making some really good beer, is a good company to work with. There was no petty quibbling over the cost or unnecessary interference in the design process. The deadline was realistically achievable
-Any commission that involves this kind of abysmal pun is one that I am wholly in favor of. (think about it!)

For once, I thought to document my working process from beginning to end.
Here is the concept sketch. Ordinarily I don't draw out a carving first, preferring to discover it as I go along. Most clients, however, have this odd liking for what is quaintly called "having some idea what the hell we're spending the money on"

 I offered a variety of choices for the top of the handle. This detail is the one we all agreed upon. Personally I was lobbying for the ram skull...

 I chose to work with a piece of kiln dried maple 15 inches long and 2 and1/4th in. square. I chose maple because it has a subtle grain pattern, finishes nicely takes details well, and is durable enough for frequent handling.

 Sometimes I find it helps to roughly sketch out what I  intend to do on the block first. During the carving process, you'll notice that I will occasionally draw a few crude lines to act as a guide.

By the end of the first day, things are pretty well blocked out

 On the second day I roughed out where individual bones were to be

 On Day three, I concentrated on the top piece and separating the spines

 By Day Four you could see a nice curvature was emerging. I think this is also the day that I learned that if  you listen to ear buds while working with a knife, it is an excellent idea to run the chord through your shirt.

On the Fifth day of work I am entirely finished carving and have put the hardware on. The only reason this was photographed in a studio setting was that it happened to be raining at the time.

Here is the tap handle halfway through the painting process.

Sometimes you simply don't have the amount of drying time recommended on the back of the can of finish. I think this is one of my more inventive Jury-rigs.

  

 And finally, the finished product! Say it with me: "This Is SPINAL TAP!"

 Note that there are 10 bones under the top piece. This actually does go up to eleven! (I even numbered it )

Hopefully soon I will have some pictures of this installed and in use.

Filler

For reasons that might become apparent later, I have something specific in mind for my eleventh blog post. This means I have to get the tenth one out of the way to make it fit properly. So....here are some pictures of a lizard

 Her name is Cecelia. She is an African Fat-tailed Gecko.

 You can see why they are called that.

 Fat-tails are comparatively docile and easy to keep. They don't mind being handled and are attractive little lizards, so they're pretty popular as pets

 She has a pretty cute face too.

Well, that's about it. Thanks for tuning in.

The Donkey on the Stairs, Explained and Illustrated

My older sister, Anne, asked me for the reason for my blog's title. You will notice that Anne credits me for having a rational and well thought out explanation for my behavior, in spite of the fact she witnessed most of my adolescence firsthand. That's just the sort of person she is.  I promised that the story would be the subject of my very next post, and then promptly fell into a deep blue funk for several weeks and didn't post anything.
       So here it is at long last, The reason this blog is called "The Donkey on the Stairs" (Although to boost readership, I'm considering changing it to "It's Got Lots of Pictures") :
When I was travelling I started my first blog, Tourist Monkey to keep everyone updated on my travels. One curious thing about travel writing is when monkeys are stealing your luggage or you're crammed uncomfortably on a bus with 59  unwashed people, or something generally unpleasant is happening to you, it's remarkably easy. When you are happy and at peace, writing about your adventures becomes very difficult because nothing, from a purely narrative perspective, is happening. It was exactly this predicament I was facing in Bhagsu, an extremely pretty and peaceful little Himalayan town in India. On one beautiful sunny morning I was walking to my favorite breakfast place. As I strolled downhill watching the blue magpie flip back and forth between the trees, with their long streamer-like tails and vaguely suspicious expressions that made them look like fugitives from a story book illustration, I was thinking that I was overdue to post an entry.  Just as I was thinking that I had nothing at all to write about I stepped out of the way of a train of donkeys. It should be mentioned that most of Bhagsu's streets are actually a series of narrow staircases because the terrain is so steep.  No wheeled vehicle could manage them. The only way to get supplies up and down the mountainside is with pack ponies or donkeys, Trains of these animals march up and down the hill all day. On average you would have to stand aside and wait for them to pass five or six times a day.If i hadn't been thinking about writing home, it simply would have never occurred to me that there was anything unusual about this and I might have never mentioned it. It got me thinking about all the other things I accepted as commonplace that would seem exotic and strange to an outside observer. I had very little trouble writing that entry.
       For the most part I think that I lead a fairly ordinary life, yet I am a professional puppeteer and artist. These are not exactly common career paths. My morning routine involves misting lizards and putting fresh greens in the bird cages. I think upon closer inspection, most people could find something unusual and interesting in their day to day routine. On the whole, ordinary life is an extraordinary thing! I chose this title to remind myself of this.

When my sister asked me about the title, she asked why I called the blog "The Donkey on the Stairs" and not "The Capybara in the Cupboard". This struck me as really funny for some reason:

 The Idea expanded into an Alphabet of obscure animals in strange locations (bear in mind these sketches are rough drafts). For example: A Babirusa in the Bathtub:

 A Vicuna in the Vegetable stand:

 A Wombat In the Washing Machine:

 A Pangolin in the Picnic Basket:

 An Aye-Aye in the Aquarium :

 ...And so forth.

On a completely unrelated note, I was chatting with my friend Gennarose the other day.( Aside from being a wonderful human being, Gennarose may just be the single most  talented person I know, which is really saying something!) During the course of conversation, she announced "I hate singing rodents! unless they're singing opera. Then that's just classy" (It actually makes sense in context). Then, this happened:

Apparently, you should really be careful what you say around me....