It can be metaphorical, if you like. Mostly I’ve just been reading too much of The Faery Reel and think Moreton Bay Fig buttress roots look prehensile. Pen with colour added in Photoshop, and you can see a larger version here.

This may end up becoming the December blog header, which is the reason for the shape.

  The Golden Goose Fairy Tale by The Brothers Grimm.

Once upon a time, there was a little red hen who owned a wheat field.

“Who will help me harvest the wheat?” she asked.

“Not I,” said the dog. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Not I,” said the cow. “I’ve got way too much to do already.”

“Not I,” said the duck. “That’s not on my job description.”

So the little red hen did it herself.

“Who will help me grind the wheat into flour?” she asked.

“Not I,” said the dog. “You’re so much better at that than I am.”

“Not I,” said the cow. “There’s not enough time to show me how.”

“Not I, “ said the duck. “I would probably just mess it up.”

So the little red hen did it herself.
“Who will help me make some bread?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the dog.  “I’ve got a deadline to meet.”

“Not I,” said the cow. “I’ve got to leave right at 5:00 p.m.”

“Not I,” said the duck.  “You can’t trust me with something that important.”

So the little red hen did it herself.

When all her guests arrived that evening for the farmyard dinner party, the little red hen had nothing ready to serve except the bread.  Now, it was some fine bread – the best anyone had ever tasted – but it was disappointing as a main course nonetheless.  The little red hen had been so caught up doing everything herself that she didn’t have time to get anything else ready.

Moral of the Story:

Leaders learn how to delegate.  They involve others throughout a project for both the project’s and the team members’ good.  Good leaders challenge their performers to do more than the performers think they can, and good leaders never “chicken out” by doing the whole thing themselves.

This is a story where the reader is immediately drawn in! An incredibly sweet romantic tale, based on the Norwegian fairy tale: East of the Sun & West of the Moon, with a stubborn heroine who fights for what she wants.

Nice. Beautiful. Read it. Now.

Quote, I need to quote:
“I frightened you,” he said. “I am sorry. It was not my intent. Please, give me another chance. I will be charming.”

Friday 20th November

My work on Friday was all around spray painting. I am really pleased with the outcomes from the spray painted work, some of it is finished and others I will now be working with more.

It is definitely best to just delve in and get creating. This leads you to realise what ideas have a good outcome to them, how your idea is actually realised, to have different work to experiment with and also new work and ideas get produced from it.

Now I have finished one piece and have some more to work with.

Here is the progress of my day:

The photos aren’t the best but better quality ones will be taken for my final pieces.

My short story “Frosted Glass,” a surreal erotic retelling of the “Snow Queen” fairy tale, has been accepted by Cleis Press for the anthology Fairy Tale Lust coming out 2010 in the UK.

The London Evening Standard has an article on fairy tales, erotica, and fairy tale erotic anthologies, including Fairy Tale Lust. Read it here.

treading down the garden path ...

I treaded down the garden path, steps unsure, yet tingling with anticipation.  My senses delighted in the fragrant flowers and shrubs lining the path on both sides, a colourful assortment of lively lilies, soft violets, vibrant daisies and others whose names I did not know, in full bloom at the feet of flowering trees. I’d never been here before but my feet knew the path as if it was written on my heart in ink.  

My heart was beating an ecstatic rhythm; I could barely contain my excitement.  

I was going to meet him.  My beloved.  

Stepping through the opening of a large stone gate half-covered in ivy, I could see the trees part to reveal a grassy clearing.  My eyes yearned to see him, to finally be in the presence of the one I’ve heard so much about.  I felt like I knew him already, hearing glowing tales of his goodness, strength, and passion in storybooks and history books alike.  I had often repeated his name in my heart like a mantra, whispered his name in secret, dripping like a sweet wine from my lips.  

I was going to appear before him, uncover the mystery I had for years been yearning to discover for myself.

Though I did yet not see him in the clearing, I could feel him in the soft swell of wind, I could hear his song in the faint melody of an orchestra playing somewhere unseen.  The chords of music were ones I had heard in my sweetest dreams, the low rich tones of cellos and the birdlike ethereal quality of a dozen singing violins.  I scarcely knew how to proceed, seeing in the clearing before me a banquet table draped with plush purple fabrics — my favourite colour — and tastefully decorated with gleaming glasses containing freshly-cut white daisies — my favourite flower.  Two places were set with crystal bowls containing miniature cupcakes and chilled green tea ice cream and tall wineglasses brimming with sparkling white wine.  Above my head, a banner of twinkling fairy lights adorned the trees and my heart fluttered as bold monarch butterflies danced in the thicket.  

My excitement grew and grew.  He knew me.  He knew my simple tastes down to the tiniest detail.  I was anxious to see him, to see the face of the one that was already romancing my soul, hidden from view.

My eyes were drawn to the table where I saw my name written on a card.  Eagerly, I opened it and read the following instructions:

My love, I will appear soon.  Open the door and prepare yourself.

Before I could puzzle over the meaning of the simple message, I saw a door painted blue standing solitary among the trees.  Curious, I opened it.  What would be there, I wondered, that would help me prepare myself?  How would I dress for his arrival?  How would I look to this one rumoured of possessing a heartbreaking, breathtaking beauty?  I immediately felt unprepared for this encounter.  My imagination spun gossamer webs of flowing silk gowns, opal veils and delicate strings of pearls.  Of course, I thought, heart thumping wildly.  I would have to look perfect.  I would have to capture his love at first glance.

When I opened the door and stepped inside, it was not the tulle and chiffon bridal shop I had envisioned.  What I saw was a full-length mirror instead.  Inhaling deeply, I was consumed by the familiar sense of dread as I stood to face my reflection.  I could have cried.  I was about to meet the embodiment of perfection, the one of my dreams, and I could not have looked any more unworthy.  It just would not do. The harsh reminder of my physical flaws, so exaggerated and beastly in my eyes, and ordinary, ill-fitting street clothes was distressing in this anticipated meeting, which was thus far unfolding like a fairy tale.  In a moment of petulant anger, I kicked the mirror — hard — and shards of shattered glass sprinkled down to the grass.  

I waited.  I couldn’t feel his closeness, could feel nothing but my anger with myself and my unsatisfactory appearance.  The door behind me was locked and there was no way of getting back to the clearing, the beauty of which I didn’t feel I deserved.  I felt unlovely and unlovable, disappointed that it had all ended this way.  I was supposed to be a princess, clothed in splendour, resplendent, waiting to unite with my beloved.  He would not have me now, this man of infinite beauty.  I was ugly, soiled, unworthy … as broken as the chips of glass scattered at my feet.  Tears fell unguarded.  

It was in that state that he came to me in the smallest of whispers.

Beautiful, he said.

“No!” I cried.  ”You’ve made a mistake.  I’m not beautiful and you cannot see me like this.  This is not how it’s supposed to be.  It was supposed to be perfect … everything was perfect until you instructed me to open the door and prepare myself.  This isn’t right.  You cannot love this.”

I do, he said, the holiest of vows.  I love you.

“You can’t!” I argued.  ”I’m not perfect, I’m not beautiful, and I’m not ready to meet you this way.”

But I want you this way.  

“Why?”  I asked, incredulous.  ”It’s just … it’s just … not … good.”

I say that it is good, he said.

I flung a handful of glittering stars onto the tapestry of the night sky and said it was good.

I carved the highest mountains and lowest valleys with my hands and said it was good.

I hung the fiery sun and glowing moon into the balance of the universe and said it was good.

I breathed and the wind blew, I wept and the oceans surged from my eyes and said it was good.

I painted sunsets from burnished gold and opaline pinks with loving brushstrokes and said it was good.

I promised you a ribbon of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple after violent storms and said it was good.

I made for you this secret garden, a place for you and me alone from the intricate architecture of your heart’s desires.

 I thought of you long before all of this.  I wrote your name in my book, sketched your portrait, plotted out your life journey from conception to death.  With the same love and creative passion I gave to the sky, sun, moon, stars, sunsets, rainbows, oceans, and secret gardens, I created you.

And it is good.

It is beautiful.

I wanted to believe this, for the voice was slowly unraveling the barriers surrounding my heart.  

You may not believe me, he said, but that’s okay.  You may feel ugly and unlovable and flawed and imperfect, but that doesn’t change what is true.  I will never change, waver, or grow tired of your unbelief.  I will never stop loving you and calling you what you are, which is beautiful because you are mine.  My love is stronger than your deepest protestations, your greatest hurts, and the most convincing lies.  It is stronger than your most intelligent arguments, your darkest feelings, and your tainted ideals of beauty and perfection.  

I, who created and am the very embodiment of beauty, say you are Beautiful.

With these words, I was transported back to the clearing where he stood with his hand out, waiting patiently.  No words in any human language could convey the beauty I saw standing there before me.  If I could describe to you what I saw when I looked in his eyes, I would. But I can’t.

…

Still he waits, arms open.

Loving.

Beautiful. 

 I stumbled on The Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood’s current exhibition “Wonderland”, where 50 Hackney printmakers have produced illustrations of fairy tales, myths and folk tales from around the world, and I like it. The website says:

Folklore, myths, legends and fairy tales are a cauldron of a culture’s deepest hopes, beliefs and anxieties symbolically expressed through storytelling and passed on through generations. The exhibiting artist’s works are loosely themed Cautionary Tales, Fantasy, Good versus Evil, Love and Friendship, Myths and Folklore and The Heroic Quest.

There’s a generous sample of the artworks on the site. Click an image below for more…

I think a commission like this is a wonderful thing and I like it when a museum or visitor place gets away from simply objects and artifacts. I remember when the Museum of Childhood was a very dry and dusty sort of place, with its giant dolls’ houses in glass cases. Now it’s a lot more hands on. Branching out into the realm of story is another great way of getting beyond the static object. And it’s got a lot of talented people re-presenting these great tales!

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We are all looking to end our emotional suffering and solve our life’s problems. We long to answer: How can I find love, stop being so anxious, lose weight, make money, have more energy, have a better marriage, be a better parent?

In this post I’m going to give you the answer to your difficulties and tell you how to achieve true fulfillment and happiness.

In order to do that, I will start with a short review of my basic philosophy of the heart.

As those of you who have followed my blog know, I am inspired by the great Chinese Sage of 2300 years ago, Mencius, who said,

“Pity the man who has lost his path and does not follow it, and lost his heart and does not go out and recover it.”

I believe that we have problems in our lives because we have lost our hearts. Since “essence,” — that which makes a thing what it is and no other — is known as “the heart of the matter,” our essential nature is what Mencius means by the term, “heart.” What this means then, is that we experience unnecessary suffering because we are, as theologian Paul Tillich stated it, estranged from our essential nature. This essential nature is what the Greek philosopher Aristotle called our entelechy, which is that which we are meant to be.

What is our essence? What are we meant to be? I believe that we are all meant to think, feel, act, imagine and connect in the best possible way. When those natural attributes are optimally developed we become wise, passionate, strong, creative and loving. This results in inner harmony, loving relationships, a productive social order and peaceful politics. This is an embodiment, and fulfillment, of the laws of human nature and universal nature. This is our evolutionary purpose and what is best both for the species and the universe as a whole.

A central way that we become distanced from that which we are meant to become is as a result of our relationships. When things go right in our earliest and most important relationships, we develop our potentials in the best possible way. As Mencius knew from observing nature, anything properly cultivated will grow. As we all live in a lost hearted world and each one of us is raised by flawed parents, we are all, more or less, and in different ways, emotionally wounded. When we do not receive the proper emotional sunlight, soil and water, we do not grow in the best possible way.

We become distanced from that which we are meant to be due to relationship failures in our upbringing. As a result of this, we are living in some way out of alignment with our own nature. When we are distanced from our nature, we live out of alignment with nature in general. We have, what Mencius would call, a lost heart. This results in our suffering and problems.

Science has now proved this to be true. When we get the proper love in early childhood our brain grows the way it is supposed to. When we do not get love in our early life, our brain does not develop to its full potential.

Though these early interactions leave very deep traces, we continue to grow and develop through life. Mencius said, “The principle of self-cultivation consists in nothing but trying to find the lost heart.” This means that we can live out our entelechy, we can be what we are meant to be, we can realize our optimal potentials, we can end our unnecessary suffering and solve our problems, through working on ourselves.

The Answer to Our Problems is Finding the Lost Heart

The answer is that in order to solve our problems and get what we want in life, we need to find our lost hearts. And the way to do this is to live a life of self-cultivation. What does this mean, and how do we do it?

Throughout history, everyone has wanted an instant cure, a quick fix, a magic pill. Cardinal Richelieu, who lived in the 17th century, was prescribed a mixture of horse dung and white wine to cure his ills. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. He died. The instant cure doesn’t work. Whenever we try to take a shortcut, we never reach our destination. And even though I am a psychotherapist, psychotherapy alone is not enough to give us what we need.

The  wisdom of the ages tells us that to find the answer requires a quest. The method I propose may take more work then you’d like, but, unlike the Cardinal’s cure, it will work. It includes wisdom that has been proven by thousands of years of historical experience, and modern insights proven by cutting edge science.

The essence of finding one’s heart can be distilled into five basic steps.

1.    The Path of Devotion
2.    The Path of Wisdom
3.    The Path of Healing
4.    The Path of Vision
5.    The Path of Action

The Path of Devotion

Finding true fulfillment begins and ends with living a life of devotion to finding our lost heart. The devotion to a life of self-discovery and realization is a personal bhakti marga, which is a Sanskrit word for the path of devotion. This total intellectual, moral, and emotional commitment to daily practice is more important than the particular method itself. As Sri Ramakrishna said, “One can reach god if one follows any of the paths with whole hearted devotion.”

The most important aspect of this path is daily study. In the collected sayings of Confucius, called the Analects, the very first statement is, “Is it not pleasant to learn with a constant perseverance and application?” But the purpose of this learning is not an accumulation of facts or information. Its point is the personal development of the individual.

The Path of Wisdom

One way to do this is to study the ancient wisdom texts from every culture, whether it is the Upanishads from India, the Four Books of the Chinese, the poems of Rumi, the Confessions of St. Augustine, or the Old Testament of the Hebrews. Confucius devoted his life to the study of ancient wisdom texts because he believed that the past is an inexhaustible source of content for self-discovery. He believed that in the sincere search of ancient texts one finds true knowledge. The classic texts are the best guide to understanding ourselves. This is the Hindu knowledge path of jnana-marga.

The study of the great wisdom of humankind is one important path to finding the lost heart because these texts are the evidence left behind by the great heroes of self-discovery who have travelled this road before us. These writers went into themselves, and the words they write tell us what they found there. Because we can never truly put what is deepest about being human into words, their utterances require contemplation to grasp. Their meanings are endless. The more we immerse ourselves in them, the more we find. These writings are symbolic in a particular way. I call them yantras, where a yantra is a complex symbol that is used as a revelatory conduit for cosmic truths.

Yantras are not only to be found in the writings of the wise but can come in many forms. They are in all the products of culture. They are in myths, rituals, fairy tales, mandalas, the results of scientific research, and art and literature. This path of devotion through contemplating the yantras of culture is known in German as bildung. Bildung is another essential way to develop our innate potentials. Bildung involves not simply an intellectual exercise but the participation of the complete person in the process of self development that leads to a realization of ultimate character. Whether you read The Frog Prince, Victor Hugo, or David Foster Wallace; listen to the music of Mozart, Ray Davies, or Taylor Swift; watch the movies, Citizen Kane, Groundhog Day or Ratatouille; you will find the answer wherever you look  if you immerse yourself in the work.

These practices give us a means of making a deep exploration of our selves. As inscribed at the temple to Apollo in Delphi, Greece, the answer to life is it “know thyself.” In order to find the lost heart we must embark on a journey of self-knowledge. The journey down the yellow brick road is a journey into the self. We must learn how to go within, as all the great heroes have before us, and discover the “jewel in the lotus.” In our deepest depths, we find what the Indians in the Upanishads would call Atman, the ultimate within the heart. Gestalt therapy is a good way to learn how to do this. This is a phenomenological method, which means that you learn how to go within and listen to the silent voice of the heart, your authentic self.

The Path of Healing

In the fairy tale, Cat Skin, as a result of the childhood emotional wound of incest, the princess hides her dress of diamonds in a walnut shell, covers herself in ash, lives under a staircase and does the work of the scullery maid. She has a lost heart. Because of her childhood wounds, she has hidden the best of herself, and lives a life of shame. The disguise becomes so convincing, she forgets that she is really a princess. This yantric fairy tale shows us in symbolic form the story that we all live. As a result of our childhood wounds, we hide our beauty. The low identity we create becomes so convincing we lose touch with the glorious beings we actually are. The next step in finding our hearts is to heal these wounds of the past so that we can bring our dress out of the walnut shell and reclaim our throne.

As a result of our wounds, we might live our lives believing that we are the problem, that we are broken or bad. We must uncover the true stories of our lives, and discover how we were taught these falsehoods about ourselves, how we learned that we are scullery maid instead of princess. New therapeutic techniques have been developed to help us  process those early stories so we can transcend them. In so doing, we can end the emotional suffering these wounds caused, and learn how to transform our shame into self-love, which is central to getting what we want in life. My favorite method for this is based on a method called EMDR.

Methods like the 12-steps of Alcoholics Anonymous also teach us the importance of taking responsibility for our own past and present behaviors. Part of the devotion to the recovery of our hearts is to  look closely at the hurts we have caused to ourselves and others and to do all we can to rectify those wounds.

The Path of Action

The next step in finding the heart is to take actions in the present. This corresponds to the path of karma-marga. The most important thing we can do in our lives right now to help us find the heart is to learn how to truly connect with others. If we were wounded by relationships in our lives, learning how to have relationships in the present provides us with a core means of self-realization. We need to learn the methods of authentic connection in order to become all we are meant to be. Harville Hendrix’s IMAGO technique provides one wonderful way of doing this. In this technique we learn how to speak from our hearts, and truly listen to another. We learn how to express our needs in healthy ways and meet the needs of others.

In order to find our hearts we also must care for the heart’s temple, our bodies. Good nutrition, exercise, rest and sex with an intimate partner are some of the primary ways of caring for our bodies. Health counselors trained at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition can provide terrific information on the best way to care for your body in order to optimize energy, mood, health and well-being.

Nature is the best yantra. It provides all the wisdom we need to embody and live from our hearts. Spending time in nature is essential to finding and living out our true nature.

Our own creativity is a central way of finding our hearts. When we go within in a process of self-exploration, we want to express and manifest what we find there. This is the source of creativity. It is the gift we bring back for others to share, to help them on their own paths of finding their hearts. By creating, we find out who we are. As William Faulkner said, “I never know what I think of something until I read what I’ve written on it.” Part of our essential purpose is to express ourselves. The quality of what we create is not our concern. Our job is, as the inventor of modern dance, Martha Graham, said to her student, Agnes De Mille, “to keep the channel open.”

Finally, we must learn to live from our integrity and do the right thing. When what we want to do and what we should do are in harmony, then we have inner peace. This right thing is not something imposed by external doctrine or held in the dogma of religion, though we might be able to learn a great deal about the good and true from such sources.

Ultimately, what we discover is that our source of compassion and empathy, the core of our ability for moral action, is the heart itself. Just like the tongue knows the delicious and the eye the beautiful, the heart is the part of us that has a taste for goodness. When we have access to our hearts, we know the good from the inside. Cultivating the self and finding the heart, are in the end, about developing our source of goodness, which we all share, and is within us. In this way we develop what Mencius called imperturbability. Tillich called this the ‘courage to be,’ the ability to act from our hearts in the face of any external threat or danger. Once we grow this ability, we have what Mencius called ‘flood-like ch’I,’ which is access to the endless stream of universal energy. No fear of rejection or failure can stop us. We can do anything.

The Path of Vision

Next on our path of finding the heart, we must envision that which we want to become. A unique capacity of the human heart is the ability to imagine. As the ancient Greek myth put it, Prometheus created us upright so that we could contemplate the stars. We are aspirational beings. If we can imagine, we can imagine a supreme, an ultimate. As a means of finding the lost heart, the Chinese philosophers spent much of their time visualizing the ultimate person, which they called, jen. The clearer the vision we have of what it is that we want to become, the more likely we are of becoming that thing. The quarterback needs to see the ball being caught in the endzone in order to make the touchdown. In order to develop this image we need to find symbolic heroes who hold the qualities we long to realize. By contemplating and communing with these ideal figures, we free these attributes within ourselves. Napoleon Hill, in his book, Think and Grow Rich has a wonderful exercise where he communes nightly with his board of ideal advisers in order to accomplish his goals.

Finding the Lost Heart

What does life become when we follow these paths and find our hearts? By following the path of finding the lost heart we live in accordance with what the ancients called “the Tao,” or The Way. We are in harmony with our own and cosmic nature. Our problems are symptoms that indicate we are living out of harmony with the Tao. When we find this central harmony, our problems dissolve. We receive the rewards for our efforts. We have great relationships and realize profound intimacy. We discover and live out our heart’s vocation and do work we love. We become prosperous. We feel great, and are healthy in mind, body and spirit. We look great and have our best body. We live a long and energetic life. We are great parents and raise happy children. We find true success, living out our meaning and purpose. We live lives of giving. We give and receive infinitely increasing love. We contribute to the healing of the planet. We find deep spirituality and a live a life of connectedness to the all.

As the fairy tales tell us, the path is long and filled with impossible tasks, but if we take the advice of magical helpers on the way, and follow their instructions, we end up with the kingdom.

Fairy Tale is the one of the newest animes to appear on my list of favorites. The Main character is a teenage girl named Lucy Heartfilia who is in the world of wizards and guilds.

HIAAA

She comes to a small costal town looking for a guide to a famous guild called Fairy Tail and finds new friends. Her friends are Natsu Dragneel, a wizard withdragon like powers, and his friend, Happy who is a talking cat. The show goes on about various missions for Fairy Tale.

There comes a point in a painting when you must move on.  Wrap it up, onto the next idea and vision.  This week, I’ve wrapped up a few paintings, and the feeling of satisfaction and completion is lovely!  Below you’ll see the finished works.  

"Sunset on Kriebel Mill," 36" by 60", oil on canvas, copyright Jessica Libor 2009

The sunset painting above, “Sunset on Kriebel Mill”, is painted from pictures and memories of the street I grew up on, Kriebel Mill Road.  The time of year is around Thanksgiving, where the seasons are transitioning from autumn to winter.  The branches are bare and look like black lace against the brightly lit sky, but the tone of the earth and foliage left is still warm and autumnal.

"Red Satin", 24" by 36", oil on canvas, copyright Jessica Libor 2009

This next one, “Red Satin”, is simply a celebration of the colors and textures portrayed.  I have always been drawn to the rich contrast of a deep red and lavender together, and the tapestry print of the violet cloth was so fulfilling to paint.  The slippery satin of the red dress was also fun to execute–I learned a lot painting this one, and hope to do more like it.  Also something I learned was how to better paint the folds in order to reveal a shape beneath the fabric, to give it form.  I’ll also admit that the subject matter was an excuse to paint as many beautiful, sumptuous fabrics as I possibly could!

"Castle by the River Arno," 16" by 20", oil on canvas, copyright Jessica Libor 2009

This piece, “Castle by the River Arno,” has a bit of a fairytale-like quality to it.  Indeed, that is exactly how I felt when I first saw this scene in person.  I was standing in Florence, Italy, on a bridge by the Ponte Vecchio, over the River Arno.  It was just before sunset, and the sun had cast everything in that magic golden glow before dusk.  The clouds were just lit up in a tremendous pile over the river, and a castle by the river glowed red in the golden light.  I just stood there and drank it in.  And now, although you may not get the full experience, I’d like to share a bit of that with my viewers.

       Hope you’ve enjoyed these pieces as much as I have creating them.  More to come!

Cathy admiring Robsten, or Rob rather...

I’ve always been one of the Nonstens although I swear I never made fun of the Robstens for thinking Rob and Kristen were toghether. Then I saw the pictures of them smiling at each other and holding hands in Paris. Yeah, Paris, the city of love, I know. So I’m going to admit it now. Maybe I was wrong and they are indeed together. There you have it, I just said it. Hope you’re satisfied now, dear Robstens. But actually I wanted to write this post about something else, so here we go.
I found out that Cathy Hardwicke gave MTV an interview. In case you lived in a dark hole all that time, she’s the one who butchered directed Twilight. So during that interview she said the following:

After I cast him, I told Rob, “Don’t even think about having a romance with her. She’s under 18. You will be arrested.”

So now we finally know! This is the reason why Rob and Kristen didn’t get it on way earlier. Because Cathy Hardwicke threatened to call the cops and send Robert Pattinson to jail. Dear Robstens (only the real fanatics now, if you’re one of the normal ones, please don’t feel offended now!), after hating on us Nonstens because we didn’t want to believe the real-life fairy-tale you promoted so hard I hope you’re going to do your duty now. Aka hating on Catherine Hardi instead of us because she kept those two young actors apart from each other for so long and denied you the proof pictures all that time. Because Rob and Kristen couldn’t show up together in public. Because they were scared Cathy might see them and immediately call the police. So that’s the real reason I bet. And now, let’s have a guess why she extorted our beloved Rpattz!

Catherine Hardwicke, Cougar for life

Well, after pondering everything for about 1 millisecond I come to the following conclusion: She clearly wanted him for herself! (Yeah, who doesn’t?) Because she seems to like younger men, a lot. I found pictures proving that fact. Several. And Robert Pattinson seems to be one of her favorites. Cause on 98.7 % of all the press pics I found she’s staring totally dreamily at him. She’s trying to relive her youth. She wears the clothes of a hip twenty-something even though she’s already 54 years old. To be honest I’m not that a big fan of her, so I had to google how old she is.

A young woman's clothes and an old lady's shoes...

Well, too old for her clothes obviously (Bet she bought them together with her once BFF Nikki Reed with whom she wrote the script for “Thirteen”). Not too old for her shoes though. They look like the wedge-heel peep-toe version of orthopedic shoes for old ladies. And as if that wasn’t enough already, take a look at their color… or no, you better don’t because this might cause eye cancer (*technically false, but you know what I mean…*).

She even invented the famous “Cathy the Cougar down with the kids” red carpet pose which she loves to show to the paparazzi. Looking for a picture for your essay about cougars? Just google Catherine Hardwicke, I promise you’re going to find the perfect one! I did… well, not for a school essay because I left school quite a while ago now. But for this post at least! Why I think Catherine Hardwicke is a cougar? Um, because she is! Just look at that pic where she’s totally enjoying that young guy licking her throat… You cannot deny anything after that!

Okay, and now because I know you all want to see it so badly… Oh yes, you do. Well, at least you don’t wanna miss it, cause you’re so gonna laugh your ass off!  Enjoy the “down with the kids” red carpet pose!

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Off before my eyes give in from looking at these pics for too long…

Saveyoursoul

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Wow, writing this post made me really feel kind of 2nd-hand-embarrassed for Cathy Hardwicke…

Robsten? Nonsten? Blaming Cathy the Cougar right now? Imitating the “down with the kids pose”? Getting sick from watching that woman looking at Rob like that ifyouknowwhatimsayin’…? Leave a comment or send us an e-mail!

(images: google and socialite life)

y Deaf Culture teacher asked us to get into groups and adapt a regular hearing children’s story to contain elements of Deaf Culture, including pictures.  She would then turn them into a book of short stories for an elementary school classroom at a deaf school.  My group picked the Grimm fairy tale The 12 Dancing Princesses, and I’m so proud of how it turned out!!  I couldn’t resist posting it here with the pictures.  I did all the Illustrations myself.   Here it is:

 nce upon a time, a hearing king had twelve deaf daughters, each one more beautiful than the last.  They all slept together in one large, splendid room.  Their beds stood side by side and every night when they went to bed the king locked the door and bolted it so he knew his children were safe.  Every morning when  he unlocked the door, he saw that their shoes were worn out, with holes in the toes and laces broken.  The king ordered an investigation, but after many weeks of trying, no one could find out how the princesses were able to leave the locked and bolted room. 

The king was very upset that he had to spend so much royal money on new shoes for his daughters, for princesses could not wear shabby shoes.  He proclaimed that whoever could discover where his daughters went at night could choose one of them for his wife and be king after his death.  If, however, they could not discover where his daughters went after three days and nights, they should be banished from his kingdom forever.

It was not long before a prince from the next kingdom came and offered to discover where the princesses danced at night.  He was welcomed warmly into the palace with a large feast, and in the evening, was led into a bedroom next to the pricesses bedroom.  He was to watch and discover where the twelve went, so the princess’s bedroom door was left open.  Nevertheless, the prince’s eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep.  When he awoke in the morning, all twelve pairs of shoes had holes in them and he had no idea how this had occured.  The same thing happened on the second and third nights, so he was banished forever from the kingdom.  Many others came after and undertook the mystery, but none discovered how the shoes got holes in them and were banished as the first prince had been.

One day a poor, wounded veteran found himself on the road to the town where the princesses lived.  He met a funny old woman on the road who asked him where he was going. 

“I really don’t know,” he answered jokingly. “I thought I might discover where the princesses danced holes in their shoes and become the king.”

“That’s not so difficult.”  Said the old woman mysteriously.  “The secret is that you must pretend to be sound asleep.”

With that, she gave him a little cloak and said, “If you put this on, you will be invisible.  Then you can follow the princesses at night.”

When the soldier recieved this good advice, he decided to try his luck.  He went to the King and announced that he also wanted to take the challenge.  The King welcomed the old soldier, and had his servants dress him in royal garments.  At the feat that night, the oldest princess stood up and performed an ABC story in sign language for everyone in the hall.  Her signing was beautiful and it made the soldier want to learn more.  It also made him want to succeed more than ever before.

Later that evening, he was led into the bedroom next to the twelve princesses.  He lay down immediately, and after a while began to snore as if in the deepest sleep.

The twelve princesses felt the vibrations of his snoring, and so they got up.  They then opened the wardrobes and brought out pretty dresses and dressed themselves in front of the long mirrors.  They sprang about and rejoiced at the thought of going to the dance.  Because the girls were deaf, they didn’t realize how noisy they were being while getting dressed and dancing about laughing.  But the youngest princess wasn’t feeling joyful and signed to them that she had a bad feeling.  Her sisters just thought she was being silly and teased her.

When they were all ready to go, they looked carefully at the soldier, but he had closed his eyes and did not move or stir, so they felt themselves quite secure.

The eldest went to her bed and tapped it.  It immediately sank into the ground, revealing a secret pathway.  The sisters went down through the opening, the eldest going first.  The soldier, who had watched everything, did not wait any longer.  He sprang out of bed, put on his invisibility cloak, and went down last behind the youngest princess.  Halfway down the stairs he stepped a little on her dress.  She was terrified, and she began waving her arms to get her sister’s attention.

She signed, “My dress is stuck.  Someone is pulling my dress!”

The eldest signed back, “Don’t be silly, you caught it on a nail.”  They then continued down the stairs.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they were standing in a wonderful avenue of trees, all the leaves of which were silver shone and glistened.  The soldier thought, “I must carry a token away with me.” and broke off a twig from one of the trees.  The youngest thought she saw something, but since her sisters had made fun of her before, she decided not to say anything.

As they traveled deeper into the forest, the leaves of the trees turned to gold, and then to diamonds.  Again, the soldier broke branches from each of the trees, and each time the youngest princess thought she saw something move, but he was too quick for her to be sure.  They went on and came to a great lake where twelve little boats stood, and in each boat sat a handsome deaf prince.  Each took one princess with him.  The soldier seated himself next to the youngest.

The youngest prince signed to his princess, “I don’t know why the boat is so much heavier today, and I will have to row with all my strength if I am to get across the lake.”

“What could be the cause,” she signed, “but the warm weather?  I feel very warm too.”

On the opposite side of the lake stood a splendid, brightly lit pavilion, perfect light for signing and dancing.  The princes rowed over and endered a silver and gold ballroom.  Each prince danced with the girl he loved most all night long.  The dancers could feel the pulsating music and they moved with so much joy.  They did not know that the soldier danced with them unseen.  They danced until 3 o’clock in the morning, and when they were finished all their shoes had holes.  The princes then rowed them back across the lake and this time the soldier seated himself by the eldest, so he could get back to bed without suspicion.

On the shore, the girls took leave of their princes, and promised to return the following night.  As they were saying their long goodbyes, the soldier ran out in front and lay down quickly on his bed.  When the twelve had come up slowly and wearily from their midnight dance, the soldier was already snoring so strong that they could feel the vibrations.  They felt confident that he had slept the whole time they were away.  They took off their beautiful dresses, laid them away, put the worn out shoes under the beds, and went to sleep.

The next morning the soldier did not tell the king what he saw.  Instead, he went with the twelve princesses again to their wonderful dance, and again the next night.  Everything happened has it had before, and each night the princesses danced until their shoes were worn to pieces.

When it came time for the soldier to give his answer to the king, he took the three twigs with him as proof.  The sisters stood outside, peeking through the window, trying to read his lips as he spoke to the king.  They noticed the tree twigs and wondered, worried, how he got them.  The youngest concluded, “He must have followed us.”  They knew they had been caught.

When the king asked the soldier, “Where have my twelve daughters danced there shoes to pieces at night?”  the soldier answered, “in an underground pavilion with twelve princes.”  The soldier then explained how he had found out.

The king then had his court guard get his twelve daughters and bring them in.  The king yelled at the girls as he always did, thinking that if he shouted loud enough they could hear him.  Of course, it was not until the interpreter signed that they understood what their father was saying.  He asked if the soldier told the truth.  When the princesses saw that they were betrayed, many of them closed their eyes so they could not see the interpreter signing.  However, the eldest felt obliged to confess all.  Hearing this, the king asked the soldier which one of his daughters he would have for his wife. 

The soldier answered, “I am no longer young, so give me the eldest.”  But he was also thinking of how beautifully she had signed the ABC story on his first night in the palace.

The engagement was announced by the royal herald and the whole kingdom was invited to the wedding the following month.  The sisters were dismayed that their older sister was marrying a hearing man, but eventually he won them over.  During that month, the soldier used pen and paper to communicate with his fiance, but he was secretly taking sign language lessons.  On his wedding day, the soldier signed his vows to his new bride.  He learned as much as he could about the deaf world, and always went with his wife and her sisters to all their social activities.  As the soldier’s sign language skills grew, so did the love between him and his princess, and they lived happily ever after.  The End,

A School assignment to reinterpret the
fairytale Little red ridning hood.

Animation by Tomas Nilsson

Here is a fairy tale about a man, let’s say an Italian man from Tuscany because Italians are known for cooking. Let’s say this man, we’ll call him Umberto because that’s a good, meaty Italian name, had learned to cook at his mama’s side (or at least eaten the savory tidbits) and had pulled himself up by his bootstraps. He had once been a busboy. Busboys are little better than slaves; they get paid but no one really respects them and so, like the grime of morsels left on the plates, Umberto held a piece of shame and anger in his heart. 

Umberto worked hard in his native country, moving on to better jobs and bigger cities. He may even have learned how to cook professionally. Eventually, because he was a young man and therefore had the good looks of youth, and an Italian man and therefore his accent was attractive in foreign countries, he managed to woo a woman. It’s possible that he did love her in the first heat of romance. But that woman had more than looks to tie that nuptial knot. She had money and she believed in Umberto and his dream.

She married him and so he embarked on a new path, a culmination of years of work and being in the restaurant business. He became a restaurateur, not just a cook or a chef and opened his first restaurant. Umberto was now king, reigning over the ingredients of Italian cooking, making an atmosphere fit for kings and queens. Well, if not kings and queens, at least celebrities and many were known to come to the West Coast where the clime suits their complexion and temperament better.

Umberto’s success was great and he opened several more restaurants, all Italian but each with a slightly different flavor. But Umberto forgot his roots and his mother would have rolled in her grave had she heard what he became. It wasn’t that being a bigwig restaurant owner was a bad thing but it was the way he treated people. In public Umberto wined and dined and smiled charmingly at his guests. He helped buy his popularity. In private his darker side came out.

Umberto thought himself very attractive and expected women to swoon and all lowly workers to bow low and be cowed by his mighty business savvy (fueled by his wife’s purse strings). But Umberto forgot that lowly workers observed his overly friendly and touchy way with the restaurant hostess. It wasn’t long before everyone knew that he was having an affair with the woman. But lowly workers who want to keep their jobs keep their noses out of their bosses’ affairs.

Umberto set unrealistic demands on his staff. First was the unwritten rule that all be awed in his aura. In one restaurant there was a small lounge where food was also served, as well as drinks. The two young ladies that worked there were expected to take the orders for the full lounge, make and serve all the drinks, as well as take the food orders and make the salads and serve those. If someone from the restaurant wanted a special drink, then the two waitresses were expected to make those too. Needless to say they were very busy.

Umberto also had a plan. It required exact proportions and measurements for meals. The waitresses were told to put two slices of tomato on each salad. No more. No less. One waitress, as young as the other, felt that a person needed to achieve respect, not pay for it nor have it because of more money. She worked hard and diligently but did not feel cowed by the mighty Umberto. Well one day, she was called by the maitre d and told she was let go because she put too many (or too few) slices of tomato on a salad and some rich thing complained. Umberto set his minion to do the dirty work.

The waitress felt this was very unfair as she was only following instructions and had been polite to the customers, so she went down to talk to the mighty Umberto. All the while that she was in his office talking to him, he would barely look at her or answer her concerns. Finally she blurted in frustration, I think you don’t like me and you can just f**k off.

She left and many waiters who also worked at the restaurant were thrilled that she told him off because they felt the same way but didn’t want to lose their jobs. She also worked at another Umberto restaurant where she was hostess and which claimed to have self-autonomy from Umberto’s rules. However the next day she received a call telling her not to come in. So she went to the restaurant and recorded all the hours she had worked, including all the overtime that they had not paid her. They asked why she was doing this and she replied, Because of Umberto. She took them to labor relations and was paid a year in backpay for overtime.

Another worker, also fired unfairly, had a friend who was a lawyer and took Umberto to small claims court. The young waitress went as a witness but the other worker won because Umberto sent his minion. She felt great joy at this and though for many years entertained thoughts of keying Umberto’s red sports car (you know the type that says you’re over the hill but trying to be sexy to the babes) decided he was too much a bug to warrant her attention.

Well years passed and the young waitress, like many previous Umberto workers, went on to better jobs. Umberto got richer but his temper was like a pot left on to boil. It continued, his pomposity rose higher than a souffle and he divorced his first wife. He married his second, opened more restaurants and a cooking school. He also took some of his roots back to his home country and opened a hotel there.

But one thing never changed, his bad as fish left out for two weeks temper, nor his attitude to staff who he saw as servants in his various castles. Much went unnoticed by the rich or adoring public but once in a while Umberto would blow his top, as he did in his new ski resort restaurant. And once in a while a worker would sue and win to the tune of nearly $100,000 but what’s that to a king? The moral of this fairy tale. The good often go unheard or noticed if they’re menial laborers and the bad are often rich. However, the rich would get way more if they were nice. Oh and watch out for characters with cool Italian names like Umberto.

Hey Ya’ll!!

I have been a road dog the past few days and out of touch so my apologies!!!   And I thought the world was connected!!!!  So much to talk about this week though!  ET of the Yr Miss Taylor?  Lady Antebellum group of the year?  I think both of these groups are great with a lot of potential, however didn’t both of these winners open tours for the acts they were nominated with?  Ha….how does this happen…I don’t get it!!!  Who’s votin’ for this award show anyways! 

A very deserving category for Taylor is the #1 Video of the Yr!  I must say I did vote for her in this category and her video “Love Story” is up for review today!  Such fancy sets and great shots!  What can I say….it’s #1!  I give it a 10! 

Check out the video @
Taylor Swift – Love Story
Music Videos at www.yallwire.com

Country Rocks!
JW

The Thin Line Between

‘He doesn’t love me, Auntie, he never will,’ said the pretty girl to the good witch, and the good witch sighed and cleared away the dinner plates.
The good witch looked out of the small kitchen window while she washed the dishes and her gaze fell upon the house and garden next door. They belonged to the bad witch. The good witch’s niece was in love with the bad witch’s nephew, but he was as evil as his auntie; he wasn’t capable of being in love with anyone.
The good witch sighed again. She was very unhappy because her niece was unhappy. The pretty girl spent the days hiding her face with her long blonde hair and weeping quietly whilst pretending to read a book.
Next door’s garden was very dark and overgrown and great black clouds hung above it so there was never much daylight to dispel the heavy gloom. The good witch looked at the crooked trees and the tangled overgrowth, and suddenly she spotted the bad witch’s skinny goat emerging from a bush.
‘Oooh!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’ve got some left over lettuce leaves. I think I’ll give them to the poor goat.’ The good witch smiled to herself, unlatched the gate and, grasping the generous handful of salad, she carefully stepped into the bad witch’s garden. She shivered, partly because of the cold and partly because she could always sense the evil that seemed to seep out of the air itself and into her skin.
The goat heard the cracking of twigs underfoot and looked up from the black bubbling river from which he was drinking. He stared as the woman in white approached him, her outstretched hand offering food. He knew he shouldn’t be tempted by the goodness of this witch, but his nose began to twitch and he could not resist nibbling a few lettuce leaves. After all, they were free, and the bad witch hadn’t given him half as much to eat as he’d wanted.
When he had finished eating from her hand, the woman in white walked away, pushing through the trailing spiky fingers of the overgrown plants that almost hid the stony path from view. The goat was still hungry, and he could sense that on the woman’s dress there were remnants of food clinging to the material, and so he trotted after her, the whiteness glowing in the dark to guide him.
However, when he reached the fence that divided the gardens he began to feel very uneasy. He began scraping the earth with his hooves. The witch had walked into her garden that shone with radiance in the moonlight. He blinked, and continued to follow the smell of food.
The good witch was so pleased that she had enticed the starving animal to a place of happiness and plenty, and the pretty girl was delighted to have a pet. It was some time before the evil had completely drained out of the goat. For the first few days, his eyes had glowed red and smoke billowed from his flared nostrils as he paced the length and breadth of the garden. Eventually, the pull of goodness was too strong against the evil that he had breathed in for so long. Now he could see the darkness that hung over the other garden and was grateful that he had left it behind.
One morning, as the sunlight sprayed the beautiful garden and made the dew drops sparkle like glitter, the goat awoke and felt perfect peace. He was happy, and he was good. The pretty girl was able to feed him and pet his soft head.

Unfortunately, things had been dramatically changing next door. The bad witch’s nephew had seen the good witch stealing their goat and he had told the bad witch, who was furious. She planned her revenge over many weeks and eventually decided she would put her plan in action.
She wanted to steal the most prized possession of the good witch: her pretty niece. The bad witch’s nephew was going to be the bait. She knew how much the silly girl was in love with him, as she used her crystal ball a lot. Her nephew thought the whole thing very amusing and heartily agreed to tempt the girl into their blackened evil garden.
On the fateful evening, they laughed over their meagre meal and then the boy was ready to go. He did feel slightly uneasy about being too near the pure, good garden, but his auntie was persistent and dangerous so he didn’t want to disobey her. Besides, he couldn’t wait until the girl was as evil as he was.
At 7.30 every night, they had observed, the good witch would leave the house through the back door to feed the goat some left over scraps. At 8.30 every night, the good witch’s niece would creep out of the back door to feed the goat some more food she had saved from her meal. It was at this time the bad witch’s nephew would go to her.
‘Pssst!’ he said, quietly, from the top of the fence. She thought it was the breeze rustling in the trees.
‘Pssst!’ he said, louder this time. She thought it was the insects starting their music for the night.
‘PSSST!’ he insisted, very loud this time because his auntie was standing below him poiking him with her staff.
The young girl stifled a scream when she saw the overbearing figure leaning uncomfortably over the fence and grinning wildly. When she realised that it was her Love, a smile began to grow on her lips and her heart skipped a beat. She was thinking that finally he had come for her, that he was at last in love with her.
The boy held out one hand and balanced himself with the other.
‘Come,’ he said, softly and quietly so as not to alert the good witch as to what was happening. But the good witch’s niece was rooted to the spot. The sound of his hushed voice washed over her like warm honey and the fluttering of her heart made her chest ache in longing for him. She half closed her eyes and let her hair fall away from her face, allowing the moonlight to bathe her skin with silver.
‘Pssst! Come here!’ the boy repeated, more forceful this time as his auntie prodded him harder in the leg. She was getting impatient.
‘Hurry up, boy! Get her!’ she hissed from below.
The girl jolted back into reality and stepped towards the boy’s outstretched hand. She was anticipating the touch of his flesh against hers. She had waited so long.
She held out her hand, wanting him to kiss it delicately. Instead, a bony old claw gripped her hair and the bad witch’s walking stick hooked through her dress, and the girl was heaved over the fence into the evil garden. Aside from the sound of her muffled cry, it was possible to hear a thud as the boy fell over the fence and landed in the good witch’s flower bed.

And so it was, that the good witch’s niece was trapped in the tower in the bad witch’s house with no light or food or warmth, and the bad witch’s nephew was tucked up in the spare four-poster bed being nursed by the good witch. The boy had quite hurt himself when he fell.
Slowly but surely, the evil in the air seeped into the girl’s blood. Her eyes would occasionally flash red while she gripped the bars of the window looking out on the eerie shaped in the garden. When the bad witch was sure that the girl was thoroughly bad, she unlocked the heavy door that kept her inside. The girl didn’t run. She breathed in the stale air and sniffed the stench evaporating from the stone walls. Her figure was hunched from being in such cramped conditions and she crept downstairs to explore her new home. She was grinning, and had an evil glint in her eyes as she sensed the pure badness that saturated the entire place. The bad witch was happy for the first time since losing her nephew. Her plan was to get him back and keep them both.
Meanwhile, the young boy was unable to resist the cleansing powers of the glowing goodness that warmed his blood and softened his heart. The good witch spent every evening sitting by the bed telling him of her niece, showing him photographs and drawings she had done, and reading him poems she had written. Slowly, the boy began to fall in love with the good witch’s niece and longed for his broken leg to heal so he could rescue her from his evil auntie. Since the air was so pure and the water so clean he did heal quickly and was soon strong enough to walk in the garden, feed the goat and help the good witch with her housework. He was very happy, but he mourned the loss of the girl almost as much as the good witch did herself. It was very sad. The good witch wasn’t capable of bad thoughts so she would not concoct a plan of revenge. She was waiting for her niece to return.
The boy felt increasingly frustrated at the barrier between the good garden and the bad garden. He couldn’t bear the evil force that struck him every time he opened the gate and made him double over with sickness. He was unable to return.
One afternoon, as he was trimming the roses, he thought he would throw one of the flowers over the fence to tempt the girl. That one lone rose lay unnoticed in the undergrowth. However, the boy never gave up. The next afternoon he threw another red rose. It fell alongside the first which had slightly shrivelled due to the lack of nourishing goodness.
The following afternoon, the boy threw a handful of lilac and magenta pansies over the fence and they fluttered down through the gloom landing randomly on branches and bushes and grass.
The boy was determined in his efforts and daily he sent over a handful, or an apronful, or a barrow load of lilies or poppies, daisies or roses, violets or forget-me-nots, and over time they created a beautiful carpet of colour in the bad witch’s garden.
Now because the bad witch was so engrossed in plotting to steal back her nephew, consumed as she was with bitterness and hatred, she failed to notice the change occurring in her garden. The good witch’s niece, who had become very bad, spent her time wandering the house and learning from the bad witch as she didn’t really know how to use her badness. One particularly gloomy day, the girl decided to venture outside and become familiar with the layout of the garden. She picked her way through the treacherous undergrowth, not caring if her clothes were ripped or her skin scratched enough to bleed. Her red eyes helped to light up the path ahead of her.
She eventually reached the fence and walked alongside it in order to get back to the house more easily. The boy’s flowers still shone in many layers and colours, their power of purity stronger than the evil that was being slowly stifled. The good witch’s niece gasped when she saw the spectacle and as she did so her lugs filled with the sweet intermingled fragrances of all the flowers and her heart was filled with goodness again. It was poured into her as if the flowers had been storing their power until she found them.
The bad witch was in her blackened room and she jolted upright, dropping the potion that she was holding. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, letting out a scream audible to only evil things. Her world was closing in. The beauty, light and colour spread through the garden, saturating the heavy gloom with life. The trees that had grown bent and crooked stood up straight and spread their branches. The thorns shrank back and flowers flourished. The grass glowed many shades of green and the tangled black ivy that clung to the fence and the walls became a healthy thriving plant with tiny buds that popped open.
The bad witch was repulsed by the goodness and she sped after the evil as it disappeared into the distance.
The pretty girl, who stood in the centre of this spreading beauty was welcomed by an old woman in white and a young man with a limp who kissed her hand.

THE END

Fairy tales do not exist

Only endless night

A lone gull cries

Never ending waves

Darkness creeps in

Cold seeps a winter chill

Whisper silent

Heard too late

On its crest death rides in

Brandishing his scythe

Slicing away my breath

Time rolls on

          Once upon a time, there were three friends who lived in a beautiful hut. They were really good friends and helped each other a lot. Their names were Bird, Mouse, and Sausage. Everyday in the morning, Bird would fly out into the woods and gather some wood for them so they could be warm and have hot food to eat. Every afternoon, Mouse would go outside and bring some water in to drink. And every night, Sausage would cook soup for them to eat. Sausage had a secret ingredient that only Bird and Mouse knew. After he put in all the vegetables and spices, sausage would jump into the pot and roll around so that the soup would have a great taste.

          One day as Bird was going out to gather some wood, she met a crow. They started to talk to each other and Bird started to tell the crow about her friends and how they helped each other a lot. Then crow said something that made Bird start to think.

“Don’t you think that your friends are using you?” Asked the crow.

          Bird didn’t know what the crow was talking about. Her friends all helped each other. There was nothing wrong. Then the crow told her that she had to do all the hard work. She had to go into the woods and carry heavy wood all the way back to the hut. Bird thought crow was wrong so she just ignored her and flew back to the hut with the wood. Well, that did the trick. When Bird got back, she told the others that maybe they could switch jobs. They all agreed because Bird was their friend.

          So the next morning, Sausage put on his cute little backpack and hopped off into the woods. As he looked for tiny little twigs to fit in his cute little backpack, a dog came running to Sausage. The dog ate him up in two bites and ran off. While mouse was sitting on the couch eating cheese chips and watching television, he noticed the time on the GRANDFATHER clock. Sausage should have been back already. Then Mouse remembered that it was his turn to cook that day so he told bird that he was going into the kitchen to cook soup for dinner.

          As Mouse was putting in all the vegetables and spices, he remembered that Sausage would jump into the pot and roll around so their would be a good taste. So Mouse did the same but he forgot to turn the tap off so then he drowned in the pot and died a horrible death.

          Bird was waiting for Mouse to come out with the soup and she was wondering why it was taking so long. So she went into the kitchen and looked everywhere for Mouse but couldn’t find him. She accidently knocked the stove on the ground and fire started burning everywhere. Bird was in a panic.

          Before I tell you the next part, let me just tell you a fun fact. Birds don’t have thumbs so they can’t pick stuff up. So as she was trying to fill the water into the bucket, she accidently fell into a hole with water and died a horrible death.

THE END

My rounded weight presses down on the skin of the water, the gentle resistance as I settle into my displaced shape. I feel the ripples shudder beneath me as I move in her wake, her powerful webbed feet scoop her forward. In my awe I am a faint replica of her graceful, delicate mass: I am the fading echo that will eternally follow. Our wings rest huge and light on our backs, arched in protection of the bubble of air we carry; secretive; safe. The immensity of our strength is veiled by our brittle-rooted, wavering feathers, as insubstantial as clouds seen up close.

I push myself faster, throbbing with the booming double-beat of the heart as it demands physicality; she is tugging me closer. I am propelled alongside and spin halfway round to slow-paddle. She subtly turns in response, knowing she has drawn me to her and she curves her neck in shyness and encouragement. Her heated presence glows stronger and I am captured: she is glad I am closer as our pace slows and we drift from our own momentum. Black rivulets swirl around us; the chilled green liquid laps against our oily bodies, slapping, splashing indecisively as we dance, flirting, but with that magnetic certainty that keeps us together. We bow our heads beautifully and hold each others’ gaze; her glinting black orbs wink and flutter before we simultaneously twist away, only to return side by side, continuing our journey upstream.

I am following her again, and in triumph and flattery she snaps her beak high in the air, a sound like shells thrown against shells. The orange of the setting sun is reflected in the droplets of water that rain from her laughing mouth; she is drenched in beauty. The darkened lines of twisted branches that reach above us across the river frame her and cast shadows on the interrupted surface; drapery trails down to reach sunken rocks. I become aware of the darkness that grows in the overhanging banks to either side of us where the ripples of water are absorbed almost noiselessly.

I remember our cygnets, grey flecks in the green shadows, calling, calling us home. I yearn to make her happy once more, to make her complete in her purpose of raising our children, the embodiment of our love. I had shined with my true essence of fatherhood. Protective and proud I would lift my wings, outstretched and awesome, in defence of my family. That was my purpose, my fulfilment.

Now, as I try to communicate my desire to quench her longing, she keeps herself from me, she denies me. Beneath the curved bulb of her eyes I see her unhappiness, and yet she masks her heart by teasing me, by leading me forward to where she wants me to be. Her glances towards the land are as frequent as mine but I sense she searches for something different. Her iridescence glimmers in the fading light, and seeing her bowed head glancing tentatively at the rustling undergrowth, I feel her sadness that throbs around her and I am saddened. I know she will continue to swim onward even if I stop.