Game Time!

So I wanted to do some fun stuff. This was a drawing I kind of just threw together. I didn’t really edit it, so bear with the lack of figure/ground relationship.

Is just for fun

Remotely yours,

Sicily

PS If you won then apply here:

https://www.cia.gov/careers/application-process/instructions.html

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Story Time!

So one way that I get my brain going is by telling myself outrageous stories…it’s a lot like when I have way too much caffeine but for creative purposes. Usually they make no sense without the context of my life, but every once and a while I get some nuggets. It’s how I come up with concepts for Boy’s Cat…or any other art that I do.

From now on, whenever you see Story Time! as a post header, you know it’s going to be one of these outlandish little episodes that I have. So here you go! My first Story Time!

So, once upon a time, there was this turkey named Harold. He was from the renaissance and went around telling tales of how his girlfriend was eaten by a king. Little did Harold know, he was the first animal activist. Many in history argue that an animal who is standing up for animal’s rights is not an animal’s rights activist…but they’re wrong.

One day, he was a-strollin’ down the road to a town that was known for its famines. Oh, the famines they had. Never had there been such a variety of famine-types as you could suffer in this town. It was such a freaky twist of nature that it became a tourist trap for those that wanted to witness the strange and rare famines they had to offer…like a cheese famine. Some said it couldn’t be done, but they were proved wrong when the milk that was milked from this town’s cows refused to turn to cheese. Some marveled…others just wondered if the town’s folk were just stupid. Thus was the destination of our good friend Harold.

He arrived on a day of celebration. The town had just gotten over a terrible tuna famine (much to the delight of children whose palates cursed the existence of tuna salad in all its various forms) and many were preparing tuna salad in various forms (much to the distaste of children whose pallets cursed the existence of such things). Amongst the commotion, Harold managed to find his way to the local turkey pit, where he found, as one might easily guess, turkeys. He struck up a tune at once, and sang, most beautifully, the tale of his lost love.

The local turkeys listened, well, and with each passing verse a tear welled up in the eyes of every one of them. When Harold strummed his final notes, a silence came over the crowd of turkeys, a silence befitting of a magical experience such as the one they had just witnessed. This lasted until a larger turkey by the name of Hollandaise inquired of Harold about his tale. Harold assured him that the events described in the song had come to pass but three short months ago and it was this series of events that had led him to travel in the name of his trade. The local turkey’s were moved to the point of restlessness. Hollandaise struck the nearest post of the turkey pen in protest.

“We shall not take such abuse,” he cried. “Turkey’s can love, why should we be kept from fulfilling that love!”

The other turkeys gobbled in agreement, and, much to Harold’s delight, they began marching through the town, proclaiming their protest. One of the townsfolk, a child whose palate did not allow him to enjoy a celebration of tuna salad in its various forms, noticed the parade of angry turkeys and decided to investigate.

“What do you turkeys think you are doing?”                                                                                                                                                               “We are protesting the treatment humans have towards turkeys,” explained Hollandaise.                                                                   “Yeah, WE QUIT!!” exclaimed a rather passionate turkey amongst their ranks.                                                                                            “Quit? What is it you are quitting?” puzzled the boy.                                                                                                                                                 “We hadn’t thought about that…what is it we turkeys do?”                                                                                                                                   “Well,” said the boy, “the only thing I can really think of is you being our dinner.”                                                                                      “The lad’s right, we must be striking our jobs as meals!”

The turkeys stopped. Now that their motives were out in the open like that they were rather distressed. The boy, whose palate was not too fond of turkey, either, suggested that they protest elsewhere, as they may easily be captured in the streets. The turkeys agreed, and made a clean get-away, on account of the fact that every one was much too busy celebrating having tuna salad in its various forms back in their lives.

The next day the turkeys were out in the next field starting their new lives as free turkeys and the towns folks had added another famine to their list, which was much to their dismay, as they were looking forward to something other than tuna salad in its various forms from the day before.

Moral: If you’re a turkey, don’t be foolish enough to go on strike because in the wild you immediately get gobbled up by foxes, coyotes, bears, and other animals whose pallets are rather fond of anything that is easy to hunt.

So there you have it folks. A rather good dose of my random little brain. I hope you liked it, despite its shortcomings as a fully developed story.

Blissfully yours,

Sicily

Sharing is Caring

Have you ever had a teacher that you say has changed your life?…or maybe a teacher you compared to Miss Frizzle from The Magic School Bus?

Well I have one such teacher in my past*. Let’s call her Miss K. (ps Miss K even looks a little like Miss Frizzle). After four years of having not gotten to talk to her I…well, talked to her. I had gotten her current number after meeting with a friend from the school I went to when I lived with my dad and called her that same day. It was awkward at first because I didn’t introduce myself until after I thoroughly apologized for calling so late. However, after we both got over the shock of finally getting to talk after all these years we started talking about books.

I’m not sure if I told you all this before, but my Gila Bend education did not lead me to a whole lot of reading (except for some hard working and dedicated teachers that I had the pleasure of being taught by every now and then throughout my time in Gila Bend). I had always longed to be a book worm but I never really pushed it too hard on myself (mostly because I read a whole crap ton of newspaper comics). When I was in Miss K’s class she loaded us up with books, and for the first time I found myself with every spare moment I could manage greedily gluing my nose to the inside of a book. I even missed one of my bus stops by over 4 miles and ended up getting lost and having to walk about a mile to the nearest bus stop in the opposite direction…but that’s a story for another time.

Point being, I was in heaven, and Miss K. was the angel of literary light. She was there for me in other ways, as well, but that’s all very personal and I’m not willing to get that close with you, internet. Anyway, Miss K. also had this 6th sense about finding books for her students. And, towards the end of the year, when our final projects were about to begin, she approached me with a very terrific book that she told me she had been saving for a student that could make it their own. This book was called Twenty-One BallloonsIt’s a marvelous tale that captured my imagination. And what’s more, the project was perfect for me to take my imagination and run with it.

You know those books that are “field-guides” to fun things like wands, fairies, dragons and such. Well, Miss K’s final project was for us to make one of these based off the book of our choosing (except me…Miss K. had known this book would be perfect). If you read the book you will understand…in fact. If you read the book, email me and I will elaborate more on what I did. It was fun and very interactive.

The focus here is on Miss K. She not only taught us to read books, but she taught us to experience them. And for that, I am grateful. Moral of the story is:

When you read a book, don’t just read it. Learn about the author and what they were doing when they wrote the book, comprehensively read the book, and ponder it…because authors are artists, and, like in paintings, every stroke/word is intentional.

I would have more to say if I didn’t have so much to do tomorrow morning. Have a good night, all.

Sleepily yours,

Sicily

*…not just one but this story is about one particular teacher and putting it in those words sounds more dramatic.