Everyone should have at least one friend with whom they can do insane (or just plain weird) things. I am fortunate enough to have that kind of friend in abundance (as has been seen before). So last year, a friend and I were in a silk painting class at school and we didn’t really like it much. Both of us like drawing, simple drawing, with pencils. We shy away from color and paint. Silk painting is all about color and dye and no detail. Not a great match.
I had done a version of silk painting over the summer at an arts camp. I say a version because the method there was very different from at school and less really artsy. I was allowed to produce these simple testaments to my obsession:
My argument was that there was lots of little detail in the Gryffindor crest; the teacher at camp may have bought it, but my school teacher certainly wouldn’t. So in the class, we had to be really creative. Which meant produce stuff in the style of the teacher, to his liking, and use every suggestion he gave us.
Result? This:
In the works. . .
Completed and crumpled.
So we decided we wanted to do something more interesting and fun for us.
Result? This:
So yeah. . . you can’t see what that is at all.
And that’s hard to make out as well.
Well, we found this picture book in the art room (and I feel terrible that I don’t remember what it was called or the author’s name) about a rather grim circus. The illustrations were hilarious and we immediately started doing sketches in the style of the artist on the table. Then we got the idea to make one big silk out of all the characters and things and what you saw above was the product. . . well, sort of. We never actually finished it.
We really only wanted to do the drawing for it. Take as long a time as possible on that so we’d never have to do the silk. We did end up starting the silk (two of them actually, one for each of us, and they were huge) but summer interrupted our work and we have no idea what the teacher did with the silks. But we have the original drawing and its xerox. And it was the drawing we were proud of and liked.
We did the whole thing together, though roughly I did most of the right side and my friend did most of the left. There are contributions everywhere though. Like I couldn’t draw the ferris wheel for my life, so she did that while I drew the dragon.
So here it is, I guess. It’ll have to come in pieces, because the thing was so huge, though.
That’s the center of the piece. It’s a big wooden boxy crate thing with a bunch of tentacles coming out of it. You can also see the “frog prince” on the right, one of the characters on the left, and the “Cheshire cat” at the top of the ladder. The tentacles and crate are the only things in the piece that were a complete collaboration. The “frog prince” was all her (gross isn’t he?) as was the girl on the left. I did the cat and his ladder.
This is most of the left side of the banner. There’s that girl, and the crow beside her. The princess was my friend, but the girl with the big hair was a collaborative effort: I did the hair and ear and my friend did the rest. There’s my dragon and one of my tents. The fence is all collaboration.
There’s the princess up close. We spilled dye on her.
The girl, also sprinkled with dye. What lovely knees you have, my dear.
That’s the original (and better) dragon’s head. He had to be cut off because we cut the size down to fit the biggest silks we had and he was too far over. The dinosaur leg was lost then, as well.
Moving back over to the right, there’s the “frog prince.” Just ravishing, isn’t he? I did the girl and her doll.
Then we have that same big-haired girl staring at a spider as some monster looks through a crack in the fence at her. This three-eyed crow is mine and we don’t know what that eyeball in the crack at the bottom is doing there.
Above that girl’s head is a phoenix. I drew him and made his tail too complicated.
Going back a bit, here’s a detail of the “Cheshire Cat.” Probably the most sorry-looking and insane cat you’ll ever see.
Then, moving over from big-hair girl, there are three stuffed animals against the fence. My friend drew them. For awhile we were thinking of making actual replicas of them. If that ever happens, I’ll post them too.
Slightly above and to the right of the stuffed animals are the flying horse and the girl riding him. I did the horse and girl, my friend did the horse’s wings (though I did that extremely detailed tail) and she did the balloons. Another of my tents, yay!
Close-up of the girl and horse, because I like them.
So then here’s the ferris wheel I couldn’t draw about eight times and then my friend did it in one go. It has skulls on the basket things.
My friend drew the ringmaster. He’s peeping in from the far right side of the banner. He reminds me of Harold Zidler from Moulin Rouge.
And I think that’s it. I wish I could get a better picture of the whole thing.
Maybe this’ll help:
It’s like Harry Potter meets Winnie the Pooh and the Heffalumps. And some people had too much time on their hands over the summer and emailed each other weirdly.
We don’t mean to offend any magical races or persons.
Any similarities to recognizable Harry Potter characters, ideas, or objects are completely intentional. It’s because we like them.
L: ”Resembles a gummy walnut.” I think that is the most disgusting description ever. I would like to throw up.
E: What resembles a gummy walnut?? A brain?
Well here’s a bag.
L: Tom. The barman at the Leaky Cauldron. Says so on in the paper. “Wizened old man who resembles a gummy walnut.”
Thank you. It has not yet materialized. I will call you when it does. Um, who throws up in a bag?
E: It says that Tom the Barman resembles a gummy walnut? Well that’s demented.
Hmmm. The teleportation portal must be crowded. People on planes.
L: Disgusting, huh? Actually, I may have closed it on my side. I’ll go check.
E: Okay, and?
L: No, it’s open, I don’t know why that bag is not coming through.
E: Hmmmm. Maybe it was intercepted by a bag-nabbing wirszuz.
L: This system is so inadequate. If you can’t protect items from bag-nabbing wirszuzes, how can you possibly guarantee they won’t fall into the hands (claws, I guess) of snarkle-nosed kaputs? Or worse, the purple-snail-clad-assasin priests?
E: I can’t. I should’ve insured the darned thing. Against polygleefis mirdipuds as well. Those are practically taking over the east Peridian portals.
L: I suppose it’s a necessary precaution, nowadays.
Did you put a tracker on it? I was so hoping for that bag. We ought to go I.I.E.M.P (Interfering and Intentionally Ivil Magical Pest) hunting this weekend. The bpalooker knazzes (among other things) are getting out of hand. I’ve used all my poison guided arrows and don’t know where my ray gun is, though. Do you have extra of either that I could borrow? I mean, my wand would do, but those IIEMP’s have an uncanny ability to avoid stunning spells, and one once carried off my friend’s wand. I do NOT want that to happen. I only have a limited amount of money, and I’m using it to buy school clothes.
E: I forgot to get the tracking number. Damn. The zollipleedus widdlefugs enjoy eating trackers anyway; they hardly ever survive. You think it was the IIEMP’s? Gosh, I’d only gone as far as IMP’s (Interfering Magical Pests). We should probably owl extermination. Lately I’ve been finding kahzoozles all over the house. One was even in my fridge drinking Old Ogden’s! If I see that happen again, it’ll be the magical pest bureau and no mistake!
I used my last guided arrow on friday—killed a garnickle with it, too. But I still have a couple rayguns and quinrim spears. You should probably fly by to pick them up though; can’t trust the portals now. And they’re too heavy for owl.
Wow. Did your friend complain? She should have. And all the new books! Insanely expensive.
L: Really E? I’ll never get that bag. Think how many gold bobbets we’ve lost!
See, I suspect the IIEMP’s because they’ve been knocking off the IMP’s lately, polishing them off by the dozen. It must be the weather. All these lunar flares, planetary enlargements, and shooting stars could be affecting their appetites.
Owling extermination, that’s a good idea. You should suggest that to the Department of Magical Portals and Transportation. They’re being much more open with and accepting towards the public now.
Wow—kahzoozles! The only thing I ever get are bidiplogs. What do you do with them?
I support you all the way, though good luck getting ahold of the bureau.
No more arrows! Do you know anyone who has a few to spare? Oh fantastic. I’ll surely do so. Definitely not. These transportation networks have all gone haywire, from what I’ve heard. Did you read about what happened to the latest distributed batch of floo powder? It will either immobilize you or take you to the spot furthest away from your chosen destination. Wouldn’t want to waste another owl, either.
She did, but, as you know, a snapped wand is a snapped wand.
I know. I’m loosing gold so fast you wouldn’t believe it…
E: I was all in a tizzy when I sent it. . . the neighbor’s crizzenthen was attacking my old cat. I’m afraid you might not.
WE lost? It was all me! My gold to send you that bag. . .
Oh, right. Good point. Read an article about IIEMP expansion yesterday in The Prophet. Their advice was to lock your doors and hide the children. All you can ever expect from that paper anyway. Someone should ask the centaurs. Not me though! I had enough of them last year at the International Interspecies Convention! Always asking for something or telling you you were about to die. . . worse than Trelawney! And they wouldn’t leave my department alone about a new broom that could seat a centaur! Really now! A broom for a horse?
I think I will. Well they have to be, what with all the goings on recently. They’re losing face and’ll take any suggestion to get out of it. And now with all the waddlumps in their offices. . . bidiplogs are rather scarcer my way. But kahzoozles! I do it the muggle way—after ‘em with a hatchet. They’re immune to most minor hexes and jinxes.
Yeah, I’ve tried 9 times in the last week. They’re backed up till next christmas. I think Grizelda Marchbanks had a few. But she was murdered. . . let’s see. The Prewitts’ were stolen by biddipongs last Wednesday. . . the Turpins might have a couple. Try them. Yeah. And I can’t drop ‘em off either. My hovercar broke down this morning. I think a kneazle crawled up inside the engine. Brilliant. I have to speak to the Department of Futuristic Un-Wizardly things now on top of all the IIEMPs.
Oh yeah, I heard about that at the office. I caught Jan trying to give some to Pete too this morning. Had to stop THAT. Still. There should be some kind of reimbursement.
L: I thought your cat was part snerklax? Well, you can give me a new bag when I fly over to pick up the raygun later this week.
But you see, the ministry has just instated that black gold tax, so it was partially me as well.
Oh well that’s helpful. Biting books? Lock your doors, hide the children. Leaking cauldrons? Lock your doors, hide the children. Dark wizards? Lock your doors, hide the children. And now IIEMPs? Same thing. Precisely, I’ve come not to hope for too much. One might even find more truth/relative information in The Quibbler!
How did you work your way into that convention? I heard it was going to be packed; did people skive off because of the dragonpox epidemic? Oh, so NOW they want to involve themselves with us? It’s always been their dearest ambition to disassociate themselves from the human magical population. Filthy seers, the lot of them. What hypocrites! A broom, merlin’s pants! Next time one prances up to your department, tell it to consult the stars for its’ answer. But i don’t know, E. Trelawney could give them a run for their galleons. She’s taken to haunting my office this summer, I don’t know what she’s hoping for. She thinks my hair is a sign of distress. “The curls! Ah, my child, a sign of certain impending doom, a deathly shadow on the horizon!” Excuse me, but if she thinks I’m going to go running because of my hair, she’s up her tree. I think what she really wants is my office, but I’d sooner eat my owl.
That’s what I thought. The ministry is completely useless these days. Have you tried talking with filius? for some reason I think he has a connection in that particular department. Though I don’t know how useful it will be now, what with all the goblin inquiries.
E: Well she is, but she’s getting up in her years. Can’t do anything against a crizzenthen nowadays. Used to be she could tear their scales off with one swipe, but not now. She can’t even outrun pete.
I will if you remind me when you’re here. Everything’s just gone to Azkaban in a dementor’s pocket these last few days. . . can’t even get my shoes on the right feet most mornings.
Oh right. The black gold tax. Aren’t they protesting that over in Godric’s Hollow already? Not surprising seeing how much they’ve lost there due to all the stiltend attacks in the few years.
Always the same. Honestly. All those leaky cauldrons a few years back were not threatening anything but your fire. My potions put it out all the time. So let’s hid the children! Why not? Merlin. I’d like to strangle that Rita Skeeter woman and then feed her to a kernuzzle. Slowly. Recently The Quibbler‘s been publishing some good stuff in between the reports of crumple-horned snorkacks in Kent. Did you see the bit about Shacklebolt’s secret pudding recipe? I don’t for a moment doubt it’s true. That man’s always been a little too gruff for my liking. . . and 50 page reports on every call! What a git.
The dragonpox epidemic hit Surrey hard, but I was there on official business. Not that I wanted to be, but I had to represent the Ministry along with ol’ bushy-hair Granger. She was there petitioning for house-elf and centaur rights and I was there to make sure she didn’t accomplish anything. God. Can you imagine house-elves getting wages? And holidays? They LIKE it. Why granger has to go about stirring up trouble when we’ve got enough on our hands as it is I don’t know. . . and the centaurs and their brooms! Godric! It was worse than the Romanians at the world cup this July! And they are such hussies! You’re right. Only 2 years ago they were content to go live off in their forests doing who-know’s what with twigs and now? Brooms! To accommodate a horse! And of course they got all offended about being called horses, but what else could I say? We were all nearly kicked out on the second day of the convention. Dueling over whether or not one is like that hag umbridge is apparently not convention-sanctioned. But I talked my way out of it, Granger was no help of course. She just threw me dirty looks the whole time and told me I was hurting her cause. Well good, is all I have to say.
Didn’t Granger walk out of a lesson with Trelawney back in school? Don’t blame her, but why she would have taken the class in the first place beats me. I’ve only met the old bat three times, but each time it’s: “The signs! The signs! I have seen in my crystal that you will meet an old wizened woman in shawls in the near future. Do not speak to her, she spells DEATH.” The arse. Doesn’t even realize she’s talking about herself. I’m not sure she wants your office, Minot. What would she do with it? Make it rain? Naaaah. She’s a crazy old bird if there ever was one. Can’t see why Dumbledore’s kept her on so long anyway. . . then again he’s misplaced a few marbles along the way too. Thinks the world’s problems can be solved with a hug. Bit like The Prophet. Bad grade? Here’s a hug. Giant snake attacking students? How ’bout a hug? Mass-murderer escaped? He just needs a hug. You-Know-Who’s back? His mummy never gave him hugs. And I don’t blame the poor woman, with a mug like his, not even your own mother’d want to get too close.
No, I’ll owl Filius later today, that sounds like a good idea. The pesky goblins!!!! Almost worse than the centaurs! Though of course they picketed the convention. That solved a few problems. Security was looser too. Never can trust a goblin. They’ll give their allegiance to the highest bidder and, rumor has it, right now that’s He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Brilliant. A whole race we have to capture and interrogate.
Dun. . . dun. . . duhhhhhhhh!
That’s a quote by the way, I didn’t decide to probe “my darkest ponds” on my own. It was an assignment. And it wasn’t fun.
My friend and I spent hours discussing what the heck we were going to do about that assignment while wandering around campus the day it was assigned. Neither of us really ended up doing it. I wrote this and she emailed our teacher an extremely long and detailed description of why she could not, would not, and should not do the assignment. I think she probably ended up doing it better than any of us.
Anyway.
I don’t think I have a “deepest, darkest pond.” And I certainly couldn’t think of anything to write about. So I rambled about why I couldn’t and deteriorated into a sword fight with a sea monster (who lives in a deep, dark pond). That bit was atrociously fun to write. My friend gagged upon reading it.
There are a million excuses on my tongue
I had an epileptic fit.
I was temporarily abducted by aliens.
The dog ate it.
My little brother stole it.
I got amnesia (temporarily).
My memories were hijacked.
I got turned into a zombie.
But only one of them is true, and unfortunately it is not nearly as interesting as alien abduction, memory bandits, or even canine starvation.
I simply couldn’t.
I’m not sure why; different theories have been offered. According to some, I’m too good to be touched by sin. Others, there are too many to decide between. Still others say that I can’t admit my sins—a sin in and of itself. Or maybe that I just can’t write about any of it, let alone share it with a class. Or maybe that I just don’t know.
“Indecision!” shout the unhelpfully helpful. What a sin.
Cynicism? Sarcasm? Skepticism?
Others may consider those crimes, but I do not. To write about them as such would be like rubbing a cat’s fur backwards: wrong.
I have a reputation for being difficult. And it’s essentially true. But this is not it. I honestly have given this more thought that anything else this year, save perhaps Wat Tyler’s life and death, which I will not pretend to find less interesting that my darkest ponds. I have tried every angle and come up with zip.
I studied Dante’s circles of Hell for some help in the matter, and found myself guilty of only one vice: heresy, surprise, surprise. Except that, being atheist, I do not view this as a sin, so again, nothing.
Now, I ask you, whether I was expected to come up with a real answer to this. Have I known sin? What is my darkest pond? A quick reminder: I am fifteen years old and not to put a damper on anything, but there’s not a whole lot of evil that I’ve had the opportunity to accomplish so far. And I go to Poly. That reduces the time available for evil deeds by fifty percent. At least.
Not to be a traitor to my own self, but I don’t feel important enough to speak of sin. I am flawed, I grant you that, but sin is a word of the Bible. A word of Adam and Eve, of Jacob, Laban, and Rebekkah, of Moses. Not of ******* ****, who, incidentally, doesn’t even believe those people ever existed. ******* **** is also completely unimportant in the grand scheme of things, incapable of sin greater than teasing her brothers (which, however, some apparently consider the greatest sin of all) and especially of immoral acts considered transgressions against God, excluding the fact that she does not believe in him.
Someone like that is absolutely useless for probing their darkest ponds. Maybe it’s self-delusion in an attempt to hide, but I feel that that is too deep and foreign. I just think that my mind cannot wrap itself around the idea of a fathomable darkest pond which, while within reach, is also lofty enough to cross God. I am no angel, I am no devil, I am human, complete with all the defects.
Like not being able to answer the question “What the hell is most wrong with you and why?”
That’s the best I can do. Analyzing my thoughts as they rattle around my brain attempting to attain some shape. But the jigsaw is missing all its edges and I’m fifteen. Useless fifteen. Incapable of interesting things like sin.
I wish I could meet the sea monster inhabiting my dark pond. I’m sure he’s there, lurking out of sight. But he’s shrouded in mist, taking no specific form and disallowing me to continue self-analysis with any outcome. And I’m not avoiding him. I went looking, double-edge sword in hand, awaiting the leviathan to rise dripping from the water at any moment, hulking and obvious. But my dark pond does not stir. The surface is clear and untroubled by ripples. I throw a stone, perhaps unwisely searching to stir something up. There is no reaction. The monster sleeps, and I must wait.
I took Creative Writing: Nonfiction as an elective this semester. But I wouldn’t have if I’d been a little better informed on what the class was. I know plenty of people who love it; in fact it almost seems like the whole class does except for me. Well, and one of my best friends, but she hardly counts because she doesn’t like anything except Sweeney Todd and tea. In fact, another of my best friends practically worships the class, then again I disagree with him on pretty much everything except the fact that fencing is fun.
Well, I don’t know what most people think when they hear Creative Writing: Nonfiction, but for me it certainly wasn’t memoir. I was thinking, I don’t know. . . historical stuff, creative essays, whatever. But NOT memoir. Or mehm-wahr as I now say and spell it automatically as a result of my teacher’s peculiar stressing of the word.
Memoir is writing about yourself (honestly!) as if the rest of the world cares. There is no making stuff up. There is no lying. Changing names is discouraged. And you have to think about yourself constantly until you’re virtually wallowing in self-pity. For some reason, no one is interested in your story at all if it’s happy. And this makes perfect sense to me in writing fiction: conflict, conflict, conflict. But in memoir-writing, that means I have to think about my worst experiences and then whine about them. …? Really? This is supposed to give me closure. . . or help me towards my apotheosis. . . or something. . . but isn’t that my business? Not something a class at school should be doing?
Apparently not.
It’s by far the most touchy-feely class I’ve ever had, kind of like a less direct human development session. And as if this weren’t enough, we don’t even read the works (or fine, the memoirs) of amazing writers. Or even great writers. Hell, I’d settle for good ones. Much as I hate to say it because I respect him so much, Somerset Maughm’s writings would be perfect models for this class, but do we read anything like him? Nooooo. We read David Sedaris as if he were Joseph Conrad. (He’s not. I shouldn’t even have put them in the same sentence.)
Only this week we read his The Ship Shape (and you can’t imagine my horror when I found that in The New Yorker) and yet again I felt the need to complain to some higher power which would deliver me from Sedaris and poems about glasses full of mucus (I didn’t make that up).
So I’ve decided now that the only way I can could get anything good out of the class would be by posting my assignments on here and, well, making fun of them. So here goes:
Tarot Card Exercise: September 7, 2010
Look at the card that you have selected. What does it remind you of? A story from your own life? A feeling you have experienced? A relationship you have had? A memory?
Write for 50 minutes about how the imagery in the card relates to you.
You may use the card as a literal or figurative source of inspiration. For example, if you have drawn “The Tower,” you may write about a literal experience that you had with a Tower, or you may write about anything the image of a tower reminds you of. You may use the card in any way you would like.
Do not worry about making a polished piece. Begin writing and see where your thoughts take you. If you find yourself getting stuck, hit the enter key and move onto something else.
I got: 
I wrote:
77
If a black cat crossed your path, little woman, would you walk along with me?*
Yeah, I would. Right under a ladder.
And so, is it surprising that all I see is a lousy bit of laminated cardboard staring self-importantly at the ceiling. My future? Present? Past even? I doubt it. If a human can’t predict how I’ll kick the bucket mathematically or psychologically, why should I believe that a flimsy card can help decipher tomorrow morning’s breakfast? Right. I shouldn’t.
Just like I shouldn’t call 1 (800) 792-3243 (that’s 1 (800) 792-3243) for a Palm, Tarot, and Psychic Reader whose pathetic ad I unfortunately glimpsed on TV.
I think I’ll leave that to anyone so completely lost in life that they cam actually put their faith in a bit of paper. And not even a paper dollar, either. Just a simple red-backed card bearing an odd illustration of five men fighting with medieval quarter-staffs in Roman togas under the caption “The Five of Wands” as if I’m meant to care. Am I supposed to take that seriously? Apparently so, but I exist to disappoint.
I’m staunchly atheist. Staunchly scientific. And staunchly logical. Tarot cards, do not even verge on logic. The word itself is absurd—Ta-row? I distinctly recall a ‘t’ coming at the end of that word and yet I’m not allowed to rhyme it with parrot. How can I trust something that deliberately misleads a person with it’s name? It would be like befriending a pterodactyl! This expensive deck of cards is right up there with tea-leaf reading, palm-examination, and crystal ball-gazing. All superstition. All laughable. All equally non-existent.
At this, the card no longer stares, but glares. Challenging my challenge to its own existence. I answer it gladly and pick up my own wand: Ikea scissors, label still attached—the Five of Wands’ white flag. See? The word “wand” can apparently apply to anything. A pink sparkly thing topped by a bright star and wielded by some grotesque fairy at Disneyland. A quasi-sentient stick of wood. A walking stick. A medieval quarter-staff. And even, a pair of twenty-first century scissors. Amazing, isn’t it, the flexibility of one word?
They quake and tremble now, clawing at the frame of their card-cum-prison as I raise my Ikea scissors—snip!—open them—snap!—and close them once more—snur! The little men have abandoned whatever brotherhood (or lack thereof) they once belonged to and tumble and trip over one another as they fight to make their way out of their picture—all wands but my smilingly bright one forgotten.
They all tilt and fall against the side of the sky as I pick up the card in my left hand, Ikea scissors poised. Their wands roll over the hill and out of sight, whatever power they once possessed bowing to my utterly human one.
Ikea scissors flash and the deck is one short. I told you not to trust me with your card, Alice.
*The Kinks, Good Luck Charm
Brilliant, right? Riiiiiiiiight. Just thoroughly annoyed. And even more so when my teacher wrote on the paper right by Just like I shouldn’t call… “Yes! Please do!” Yuck.
The assignment bugged me so much I couldn’t take it seriously at all. Just look what I ended up writing about: cutting up the card. And 50 minutes? Psh! I get like 5 hours of homework a night! I’m not spending 50 more minutes to write about my experiences with wands.
That same friend sent me another link to a second movie, which was just as intriguing as the first. This one is visually dazzling as well as very open to interpretation. It looks like my kind of world.
Filed under: Plume, Uncategorized | Tags: Alma, Movie, Mystery, Random, Sci-Fi
A friend of mine emailed me a link to this movie today, telling me to watch it. Being the obliging person I am, I did so. And I’m glad I did. My friend described it as ”subtly terrifying”, and she was right! But it’s intriguing and a pleasure to watch at the same time. As well as being cute. See what she meant?
