My inbox is rattling with people again, a JG Ballard fan with an opinion about Burnt Norton, someone chasing a rumour about their old art master, and a Texan looking for online echoes of his memories of childhood. I shuffle through places I don't usually visit, trying to retrace the steps that brought them to me, fetch up in petloss.com, Personal Tributes 1999, Haku thru Hydrox [mute before you visit!] reading personal tributes to pets who have crossed the rainbow bridge ("making cotton candy" for you Home Movies fans) awed and faintly dsiturbed by the force of love for pets: heartfelt (We were both damaged souls), quirky (We know that you are up in cat heaven begging for cheese), no-nonsense (Hans, thank you for teaching me about dressage), gnomic (Loved to crawl on the keyboard! We miss her!) and full of praise ("He was a 150 proof dog").
There is still too much to do for Caption, and the logistical problems are also stressing me out. The more I think about it the more it feels like an exhibition I could set up in a day rather than an hour. Solution? Break it down for me, baby.
Cover for comic. Write through On the Anger Line pt. 2
- Fill in blacks on Black Butterflies
- Find sufficient shiny black paper for Black Butterflies covers (10xA4).
- Scan up page of Black Butterflies for alleged.
- Select for comic from TWS, clean + assemble artwork.
- Draw in On the Anger Line pt. 2
- Photocopy Black Butterflies (also ascertain whether it's going into booklet or comic)
- Drop comic into copy shop + collect.
- Mount and finish Black Butterflies .
- Check for clamps, invisible tape, paper clips and thread, buy more if necessary.
- Finalise workshop plan and draw up full props/tools/papers list.
- Buy stuff for workshop.
- Prepare workshop notes/sheets/instructions>
- Draw up exhibition plan/task list.
- Get pulps from bookshop.
I think sleep is overrated, don't you?
dotty left me an owl sanctuary flier at the pub last night (I was off watching fairies) for an owl sanctuary I've been to! One winter my parents (at that time living in a series of rented cottages in rural Southern Britain) fetched up round the corner from the New Forest, and I found out that there was an owl sanctuary in the next village, so one day I went for a walk, stepped up my pace, and paid a visit. It was the dead season, cold and grey and not a lot of sunlight, so I didn't get to see them do this thing where they wave hosepipes at Secretary Birds (snakes are their prey in the wild) but I did get to see a bored owl handler flying a series of owls, each smaller than the last. They all sat waiting along the perch in size order, like fluffy Russian dolls. When he hit Barn Owl size, he started letting the audience join in, and eventually (there were four small children and me) I got to fly a Little Owl. It was as light as a sparrow, nothing to it except beak and claws and a knot of gristle, all wrapped in a puff of feathers and fierce predator attitude. The owl handler was cold and cross and looked as sullen and tired as his owls. He had pale skin and yellow hair, and there was something about the face shape, too, something about the way he stood; he looked like an owl. A Barn Owl. It was the only good thing that happened that holiday.