Zebra dropping in: A Sentient Excerpt

An excerpt from the currently in-process novella, Sentient. 

Which, by the way, is an awesome story.

A/N: This story started a long time ago in PK with a short story sketch titled The Question/Inner Peace. Since then it has inspired few other short stories and skits. I finally decided I needed to get to the bottom of this story that kept coming up in my writing and for the past year and a half, I have been attempting to write it out. My writing process for it is very different from my usual process. This one is written out in scenes, in snippets of dialogues and paragraphs. In my head the overall feel of the story is crystal clear, but bit by bit the details are coming out. They are not in chronological order, so my randomly ordered excerpts will not be able to illuminate the story properly but I still think you'll enjoy them. Also they'll jump from first person to second person narrative because I'm exploring both right now. Sorry if it's confusing, but it's all part of the process and you get to see it in its raw, unpolished form. And yes, hopefully I'll be showing more excerpts as time goes on. Story is mostly in note-form and random scenes right now.  

Excerpt # 1

I want more of the world. Even when I am on top of the mountain there is not enough of it. In fact, on the mountain, my hunger grows. What's beyond the horizon? I feel drawn to the elusive, hazy horizon, especially the western side, where the sun rises. Perhaps if I get up high enough there will be no horizon to obscure my view. Perhaps if I can lay my eyes on everything spread out below me, I will be satisfied. It is definitely a hunger that I feel. A strong desire. To consume it? To take it all in a wholesome and satisfying way, and keep it in. The spring of sharp wet grass, the spongy cool earth, the elegant, sensual curves of a tree, the delectable cotton clouds, the colours of the sky, the drowsy roll of this flat green prairie spreading out from the foot of the mountains. The mountains. Solid and ancient and steady. The silence, the wisdom of these mountains. It's all so much and I want to take it all in and much more. I am greedy fro the curves of this world. I want to sink my toes in its dirt, stretch my arms up to the sky on its highest peak and drink in the air. I want to feel more than I already can.
 Its as if there's another experience there but I don't have the bodily sense to sense it. But I have a feeling, a void that tells me it exists. It isn't all that confusing, this wild desire. But the fact is I can't explain it and I think it's unique to me. I'm not too sure about that, but lately I've been observing people acutely to see if anyone else feels it. I was with Bryon the goat herder the other day and when we made it to the top of the hill I was hit by that feeling again and I couldn't sense it in him. The day was bright and cool, the grass a cheerful perky green, the prairie overwhelmingly vast and green, the sky glowing blue with fluffy delectable clouds. My hands were clutched tight to my side trying to contain the desire for it all. My heart was leaping and aching and I at once utterly peaceful and filled with longing. I looked toward Byron. He was drowsily looking at the white dots of bleating sheep ambling away while he chewed on a single blade of grass. I envied his job and pitied him. He was not overtaken the scene around him and did not display the same wild desire--in fact very little interest at all.
Liss, the butcher's daughter however displayed a different attitude. She was far more interested. We were walking down Fyll's farm which is at the farthest one.
"Beautiful day, eh?" Liss said. I'd heard such exclamations followed by sighs before, and I always got excited. But I realized soon enough they lacked a wild ache and longing, a strong desire that I always had.
"Yes! Yes, it's gorgeous." It was a gorgeous day in deed. The sky was heavily clouded except fro a few patched  where the sun poured through, a glorious golden. The clouds too glowed golden because of the sunlight behind them. It had just finished raining and a slender rainbow to the east was still visible. Everything around us was clean and fresh looking, and now bathed in honey coloured sunlight. I was overtaken again by the way the sun poured through small patches in the sky. I want to be a part of it. I was not satisfied with just marveling at it. There was something else I had to do it. Fly to it? Touch it? Open my mouth and let it pour into me and then swallow it? But you can't touch light. I clutched my hands tight, trying to keep that urge in control. I glanced towards Liss's hands. One was calmly holding on to a pail, the other was loose by her side.
"Makes you want to drop everything and just stare all day," she said.
"Or much more," I said. She looked at me curiously.
"Like paint it?" She asked.
"Sort of. More like become it. It makes you want to become it." She looked confused.
"Oh," she said. There was a brief silence. "What do you mean?"
At that moment I felt I shouldn't go deeper into it. That what I would describe would was something very freakish, not natural at all, that it would set me even further apart. I felt it was a personal feeling, no supposed to be shared by anyone because no one would understand it. But I longed so much to be understood, to know that I wasn't the only one with such passionate longings for unachievable things. What if she could understand? I wouldn't be alone. I looked at her hopefully. She was my age but a head taller. She had pale hay colour hair and a splash of freckles on her nose and cheeks and wide honest brown eyes. There was a clean and simple quality to her that drew me to often seek her company.
"It's like there's something more you're supposed to do with this kind of beauty. I want to touch it but I can't. There's something that tells me what I'm not supposed to just stand around and stare at it. I need more of it, and I need it very close to me. I can't stand that it's not tangent."
"Oh. Yes, you need to paint it. I think you're a painter," she said in her simple matter-of-fact way. I shrugged. I did not say this to her but I knew she was wrong. Painting would not have been satisfying. I couldn't fully capture what I was seeing before me. It would only be a small piece of it. A painting could never capture the wonder, the splendour, the rush of all my senses, the chills of my spine, the goosebumps and the ache within that was part of the beauty. A painting in its one dimension-ess just could never do it justice. Nothing could. It was in the moment sort of thing and you could attempt to make it tangible with colours or with music and only succeed in revealing just a small part of it. A painting of a sunset can never do justice to the sunset itself and that's what it was like for me. I needed do something with it that would do complete justice to it and satisfy my longing for it by making it achievable. I had to make the sunlight stay in my hands.

...excerpt end....

Excerpt # 2

We could hear the distant sound of the waves. Every time I heard that sound I would realize with a sudden jolt how long I had come. I would look to the sky and still feel amazed that around me were the shapes of buildings, not an open landscape of softly swaying grass. I looked towards the old man. I still didn't know his name. He took another sip of the tea and set it right.
"It is curious indeed," He said.
"But it's driving me crazy. And I well--sometimes I do feel I am crazy. I mean other people don't feel it and it kills me to badly desire something I can never attain." He didn't say anything. I was getting used to his lapses of silence.
"It is because you are mistaken about what you desire," he finally said. I waited for him to continue. His papery wrinkles were dark and mysterious in the night, but his eyes were youthful and bright as the moon. If I looked at them too long I felt shivers, so I looked down at his hands. There was nothing young or odd about those hands. "I think you are pinning an inner sense of beauty and grace, a feeling your soul to this outer beauty, " he continued. "Nature is indeed very beautiful, but what you want deeply, what you are desiring most is that inner beauty. You want to understand that sense more. You're grappling passionately with it. And you've pinned it to nature because that's when that sense is most alive--when you're around beauty and splendour like nature--and that's why you want more of nature. It is actually more of this feeling, and understanding of this feeling that you want more of, not nature. So, you're searching in the wrong place. It's not the mountain peek that will satisfy you, but something within you. The answer is inside you and that requires you to go inside yourself to find it. If it helps to be around beauty to come to terms with it, so be it. But now you know where to look--inside. I can't help you more than that. Only you can find the way to satisfy that void."

....excerpt end....

Give thanks to Allah

I would like to begin in the name of Allah and by giving my thanks to Him, that He gave me a chance to write about Him and His blessings..

At the time of dawn, when the sun begins to rise, the beautiful blend of orange, yellow and red spreads across the sky in a painting that no artist can capture. And birds start their journey with their busy chirping, flowers open themselves, fresh for a new day, adding wonder to our garden with their colours and different shades. Allah is the Artist, who has painted our world in these beautiful colours and perfumed it with fragrant smells.
     Allah knows about our life affairs and gives us courage to handle them bravely. He knows about our mistakes, from the tiniest to the greatest, that we have made in our life yet He doesn't disclose our secrets. Instead He gives us respect from those around us and unconditional love. Allah expects us to face each day with a positive smile and gratitude for His blessings. But what do we do instead? We only return His infinite favours with complaints, sadness and negativity. Yet he doesnt stop showering us with blessings. Even for a second if He were to stop His blessings on us, would we survive? 

He has shown us the path of Truth with many signs...but we choose not to see. Allah is our sustainer, He is our Creator and He is the One who has power over all. When you feel all alone in this world and there is nobody to count our tears, there is One who is just waiting for us to turn to Him.

Always try to recognize Him in everything your eyes see. One day when you have recognized Him then you will be the wealthiest person in this world, for you will have everything and thats Contentment.

Imam Ali (as) has said: Contentment is the greatest treasure. 

Written by Jhakkoo

A Hen's Carpenterish Sides

Necessity is the mother of invention - very true!!

Made from a free IKEA cardboard plate & mug holder. The rods holding the threads are my retired paint brushes which have greyed too much for future use =)

i had to make this because i was very tired of always spending time untangling all my threads when i sat down to stitch. now i can jus carry my mobile thread holder wherever i sit and pull how much thread i want to use =D

bumblebee-sugarplum-honey-bunch's painting!

Hereon we shall refer to her as a bumblebee, though she sometimes remind me of Pippy Longstockings. See:

Now for her work:
I have two paintings to show today. I think she was going for abstract art type of thing. Our scanner kind of sucks, so sorry if the colours don't show up brightly enough. Anyway:

Ocean's Offering Part 1

 Ocean's Offering (Part One) 

expect part two sometime soon.

 -zebra

The rain came down in torrents the night Jobe found the washed up body. He was standing in his balcony, cigarette in mouth, the smoke twirling up. The wind was rough and the rain fell haphazardly, slapping against the roof. With the sudden blue flashes of the lightning he could spot the dark outline of the shore below. Rain. He liked it better than the sun. The way it was dark, and concealed everything, and just sort of droned on. He found it soothing.
    He waves were just as troubled as the sky, crashing into the shore, the water seemed to boil and spill, swaying back and forth viciously. He let out a ring of smoke and leaned forward, closing his eyes and letting the rain drops pierce his face. When he opened his eyes the lighting flashed and everything around him lit up dark blue, outlines and shapes came into focus. He was staring right at it. It could have been a small dinghy, a large fish, a log even, but at that moment his first instinct was that it was a body. A dead body. Jobe wasn't much for mysteries and murders and this horrified him. It was dark around him again so he couldn't see the lump of the shore, but he couldn't get it out his mind. He brought his cigarette to his lips again, contemplating on what to do. What if it was just a log and seaweed? He'd only seen it for a few seconds, there was no knowing it was a body. He'd wait for lightning to flash again he'd get another glimpse at the thing. Jobe waited for five minutes, but the lightening didn't flash again. What if the body was alive? I couldn't be alive, not in this storm. Probably drowned. Jobe's cigarette was now reduced to a small butt, and he dropped it off the balcony, watching it as it disappeared in the dark wind an rain. What if it was alive?
    He was at the beach, the sand black and muddy, and the rain unrelentingly drilling on him. Wind blew in great tufts, slapping his face. His hands were raw with cold. Now where was it? He glanced around the beach, tugging at the strings of his hood. He slushed onwards remembering that the body at being right in front of his view fom the balcony. He couldn't see properly at all, and peered intently at the ground each time he took a step. Why hadn't he brought a flash light? He cursed himself. This is it. It should be here somewhere. He softly kicked the sand around him with his foot, probing for the body. His foot hit something soft and he tripped, falling on top it. Terrified he scampered forward on all fours, cursing outrageously. He paused and took a deep breath looking back toward the body. The rain continued pouring just as unrelentingly. He was covered in mud, and this time the rain piercing his face and hands didn't bother him. He leaned forward toward the body, staring at its face. It was a boy. Probably somewhere between the age of twelve to fourteen. With a shaking hand, Jobe felt the boy's pulse. He was alive! Bringing both his hands forward Jobe preformed CPR and the boy's body shook with coughs as water water poured out from his mouth and nose. His eyes flickered, but he didn't wake up.

..

“You want some more coffee?” Jobe asked as he poured himself another cup. Coffee and cigarettes, his biggest weakness.  He lit another cigarette. Together they made the perfect combination for him. He puffed at his cigarette after each sip of coffee.

“Smoking's bad for your lungs,” the boy said, looking up from his cereal bowl.

“So's drowning.”

The boy looked back into his bowl and mumbled, “I didn't drown.”

“You almost did.” Jobe sighed and pulled his chair forward toward the boy, “Now it's time you tell me the full story. And the truth.”

“I told you I don't remember. I just remember swimming like mad, and then reaching the shore here, and then I think I passed out.”

“And before that?”

“I don't remember!”

Jobe narrowed his eyes, “You swam to shore in that storm. Kid no one can swim in that water. Now you tell me who you are and where you're from and we can get you home.”

“I told you I'm Rudy Walkins.”

“How do I know you're not making that name up?”

The boy shrugged, taking a spoonful of his cereal. “I'm going to have to take you the police if you don't help me out.We've got to get you identified and sent home.Your folks must be looking for you. ”

“I'm an orphan.”

“Right.”

“I am!”

Jobe rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in his chair, tapping the cigarette in a saucer. The kid continued eating his cereal. Dark blond hair, brown eyes, an abundance of freckles dotted his hands and face.

“How old are you kid?”

“Sixteen.” Jobe didn't believe him.

“Where do you live?”

“I don't know.”

“You mean you don't remember?”

“Yea.”

“But you remember you're an orphan.”

“Stop with the questions old man. I'll leave and you don't have to worry about this shit.”

“Fine with me. But where are you going to go?”

“That's my business.”

“Listen kid it wasn't any of my business hauling you up from the beach and taking care of you. So maybe you should be a little more grateful.”

“You should have left me there then.”

“You would have died.”

“Whatever,” the boy mumbled, clearly upset.

“Did you run away kid?” Jobe pressed on.

“No!”

“Look kid I'm going to rat on you. I understand if you got mean folks back home--”

“I don't have a home.”

“Or at the orphanage, or streets or wherever you're from. I won't send you back if you tell me what happened or what's wrong. Did you commit a crime? Just tell me so I can help you.” The boy looked up at Jobe, his face expressionless. He stared at him for a while, as if contemplating. The boy puzzled Jobe. At first Jobe thought he'd fallen over board from a ship and luckily washed up on shore while he was still alive. But it didn't all add up. The boy wouldn't tell him exactly what had happened, and seemed especially secretive about his family. Jobe wasn't nosey, he wouldn't have cared if the boy had run away, but the way he'd washed up during the storm was eerie. It just didn't seem right. He half wanted to go the police and get him identified, or see if there was any missing posters of him. But  he felt just as uncomfortable going to the police. Jobe ran his eyes over the boy, who stared back at him coolly. The boy put an assured air, a tough, uncooperative demeanour, impenetrable, but Jobe knew what it mean when people shielded themselves like this. He knew just how vulnerable this kid was. Don't get too involved in him, Jobe, he warned himself, better not stick your nose where it doesn't belong. 

“I'm leaving today so you don't have to worry about it,” the boy said quietly, looking down at his cereal again.

The sun poured from the kitchen windows, on the arms and hands of the boy and the man. The room was spacious, a bright white with blue-grey borders. The sun illuminated the fine grains of the wooden furniture. The kitchen table, a dark oak table, upon which the boy was having his cereal, and the man his cigarette and coffee was a small table located to the east of the room, under a small window. The sea was not visible from this window, but the sound of it could be heard from all corners of the house. The house was not neat, but casually messy, the furniture and décor simple; it was evident the man lived by himself.

“I once ran away too you know.”

“What happened?” The boy said, trying not to show any interest. He didn't look up, but scraped his spoon against the insides of the bowl. He waited for Jobe to speak.

“I think all kids run away sometime in their lives. At least they try to. Most of them come back, some don't,” he shrugged, “I was one of those kids who went back. My parents didn't even realize I'd run away. It was all in the middle of the night.” He traced the rim of the coffee mug with his fingers. “My mother and father—there was all this fighting and yelling, and I just had to get away from it all. And I guess I kind of wanted them to notice me gone. I didn't exactly want to run away and never see them again. I just wanted them to feel bad. Kind of punish them, you know?” He nodded to himself, “I just wanted them to come find me, and maybe make them realize how selfish they were being.” He laughed. “That was boyhood, kid. I understand if you ran away. I hope you'll come to your senses and go home when you're ready.”

“I told you I'm an orphan.”

“Somehow I don't believe that.”

“How come?”

“You seem well brought up. You have neat manners, clean habits. Even if you're an orphan, you have a home. You're not from the streets, kid,” he lowered his voice, “What is it? Foster family not nice?”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“You're living in my house. What if you're a criminal. I deserve to know if I'm sheltering a criminal.”

“What—you're going to tun me in to the police?”

“What if I did?”

“I'm not a criminal, alright!”

“I thought you didn't remember your past,” Jobe smirked.

“Screw you, Jobe.”

“Listen kid, you can't leave tonight. Fever might come back again. Go back to bed and get some sleep.”

“Why do you care?”

“Rudy,” Jobe stretched his hand out, but Rudy flinched and jumped back.

“Don't touch me, you perv!”

Jobe threw up his hand, backing down. “Alright, I won't. Sorry.” Neither said anything for a while.     They could hear the sound of people on the beach. The sounds were like echoes, shadows of people. Muffled laughs and shouts as tourists and beach goers took to the waves were usually a cheerful sound, but sometimes they made Jobe feel empty and hollow inside. As if they echoed what was missing. But the screeching of gulls, and the sound of the waves crashing was soothing. They were like him. Alone in their world, quiet and resilient. 
    Jobe go up and put his coffee mug in the sink. As he washed the mug, he wondered what he was going to do about the kid. His moody and defiant nature irked Jobe. He was a headache, but Jobe didn't feel right turning him out just yet. Maybe when he's better he thought to himself.

“When you're feeling better, you're welcome to join me a the corner store down the road. I could use some help.”

Rudy nodded, passing his bowl to him. “I'm going to sleep for a while,” he said, then disappeared toward the guest room.

Jobe decided he'd order pizza that night. Kids liked pizza.

Another Jhakko attack

Watercolour and Pencil 

A very generous (though late) dropping this time!

I've very, very sorry about the tardiness of the submission, but I hope you enjoy it! 

Paint Me the Sky

Exactly where this story starts, I don’t know. It may have started during the days when grandmother was with us, when she sang songs from her golden harp. Or it may have started before that, when the Concotians took over Enora, when my mother married my father, or even before that when Enora was suffering the Depression. History never ends, it’s just a chain of ends leading to the next. We just happen to get caught in one of the links; what we make of it, how we change is up to us. I don’t believe in destiny. Whatever decisions I made, whatever things I did, it was not as if some star had destined for it all to happen. Though I’ve heard a seer in Alavanne claims that he had predicted the revolution, saying he could “sense the winds were changing.” I am sitting on the roof of a tower, glancing down toward a garden bursting with spring, and I can very assuredly say that winds are definitely changing, but it doesn’t take a seer to tell that. They will always change. Perhaps they will change again so drastically that all I—we—have done and accomplished may just be forgotten shadow in the books of history. I hope not. Much blood has been shed. I am a little tired, and relieved and just beginning to catch my breath. Age has crept into my hair and on my forehead and the backs of my hands, and I want it to mean something.

I think I shall start this story from Mother’s death. Many other people play a part in this, but I only started to become aware after her death. We all knew she was going to die. We were all aware. It's hard to cling to hope when a fact faces you so menacingly. The palace—the country in fact—had accustomed to running without Mother. Six months it must have been since she took to the bed. Leah, my five year old sister and I grew closer as we silently acknowledged the dark uncertainty we shared. Leah knew something was very wrong, and while we never put it to words in front of her, it became quite clear to her that something was very wrong with Mother it was indeed a change to be worried. I think Concotians had mixed feelings about mother, because many held prayer meetings and priests did long elaborate rituals which were supposed to quicken her healing. The physician said he had no hope for Mother. During her last days when he condition had taken for the worse, everything at the palace seemed to slow down, people lingered outside her chamber, and there was a heavy tension prevalent. We were all worried. We must all have had different reasons to worry, though. The Queen was a different person to all of us. For Leah and me it meant losing a mother, or finally being forced to grow up. For many it meant losing a sensible monarch. Father wasn’t much of a king. He was a gambler, liked to be entertained. There had been a plague in eastern Concota and people were rightfully worried what would become of things when Mother left. For Father, Mother was…she was—to this day I still do not understand their relationship. I know love did not exist in the last few years of their marriage? But before? I’ve always desperately hoped that Mother was at least in love at some point in her marriage, or even in her life. The last two years, especially were very difficult on their marriage.

I think they hated each other. They dined separately, slept separately, appeared at courts on separate dates. Only at dinner did they sit together, but that was only so could put up the act in front the court, of a united throne. Though I’m sure much of the court already knew.

The day before my Mother’s death I was sitting dining with the court, seated with father and the Aramintian ambassador, Vermudo, whom my father had taken a great liking to. For the fast few years they had bonded well, and my father thought highly of Vermudo, perhaps only because Vermudo made a whole show of thinking highly of Father. Oh,father, your vanity! It ruined you, and could very much have ruined all of us. Much could have been avoided had you not been so vain.

Dining in front of the whole court was always a challenge. Saying the right thing, eating the right amount of food, dressing, acting, sitting, standing just the right way, just trying to remember all the little rules kept me confused and paranoid through out the whole dinner. I’d say little for fear I’d the wrong thing, and eat little for fear that I eat too much. I was so tense, I’d drop my fork, and fumble with embarrassment dropping even more things, and inwardly frowning upon myself for being such a mess. Ever since Mother had stopped dining publicly, I had taken her spot, and I hated it. I was so horrible at it.

“Crown Princess, I hope your studies are going well,” Vermudo said.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

Father spoke up, his cheeks large and pink gathering at the corners as he beamed, “She’s a bright one, Vermudo. Why clever as a fox. Last night she told me how she thought in the Battle of 1784, the Concotians could have attacked using the river. And I said to her, said I, “Well you’re right Erinara”, because by golly she was right Vermudo. If we had crept up the river, rather than through the mountains, we surely would have gotten to the fort.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s all and well, but the Concotians probably also had to take weather into account. There must have been a reason why they didn’t use the river. Surely though wouldn’t overlook a whole river!”

“I suppose you’re right,” my Father said, loosing interested in the conversation as he knifed his chicken.

Father was wrong, for I had never said we should have used the river for the 1784, rather I had asked why we hadn’t used the river. There was a clear difference, and my father was only making me—rather both of us—look very silly in front of our whole table. But I didn’t say anything. Forming my words, phrasing them, explaining it all, seemed too pointless a task so I quickly continued consuming my rice.

“What about the Queen, how is she faring? I hope I can greet her.”

“Ah, she’s a sickly woman, she is,”

I’m sure my father hadn’t meant to word that so, but both Vermudo and I flinched; Father continued as he picked at the chicken leg in his plate, “I mean the doctor’s haven’t got much hope,” he opened his mouth as he took a bite, chewing it quickly and drinking it down before continuing, “It’s all quite sad really.”

The worst and embarrassing part was that he didn’t even look sad when he said that. He only looked completely engrossed in his food, the topic of his wife life or death situation like mere gossip.

Chapter 2

Mother’s last night was the root of all this change. I wonder to this day, what if I hadn’t gone in spoken to her, or what if she had died without telling me about Kervin and Marcie. There are so many “what ifs” that I could gladly spend my time thinking how things would have turned out if they had been done differently at any small point in this whole fiasco. What if I had stayed in Concoto? What if Lielle and I would never have been friends so Mother’s information would have been meaningless. It’s quite fun to lie back and pick a the web of interconnected events. I do understand why people would believe in destiny.

Mother was very much in her senses on her last night. She had spoken for long with my sister, which was a rare thing as Mother was hardly ever in the state to talk.

Lielle came to my bedroom to escort to my Mother’s chamber. Mother had called for me. Another rare thing, for I Mother was hardly ever in her senses to call for me. So there I appeared at her chamber door. Leslie ever present, her cold grey eyes staring at my every move.

“Please keep it quiet inside, Crown Princess. Her Majesty, the Queen is not feeling well.”

I nodded. Inwardly, of course, I stuck my tongue out, or perhaps I sneered at her, or even gave her a swift kick. I hate how Leslie patronized me. It was humiliating and embarrassing, worse that I was not as good at her games as she was. Actually, I always saw through her acts, her games. Was it confidence that I lacked in shooting back? Perhaps I saw no point?

Entering Mother’s look was like stepping into whole other world. It was so disconnected. The curtains were drawn, the air stuffy with the prevalent smell of medicine and illness. Life was drained out of that room. One wouldn’t be surprised if they we were informed this was the room of the deceased. Deceased in the past tense. I shivered thinking that. This dark creepiness was Leslie’s touch, of course. Had Mother been in her senses, the windows would have been wide open, sunlight dappling the room; fresh new flowers would be by her side. Flowers. I felt a pang of guilt. I should have brought flowers.

I went to the curtain, parting them, letting the sunlight flood in. Leslie scowled.

“Crown Princess, I have been trying to keep it dark in here.”

“I’ve noticed Leslie. I just thought the room could do with some cheer.”

“It’s hard to sleep in the sunlight. Surely you know that she needs her rest.”

“No,” Mother said, simply, finally speaking up, “Keep them open. Thanks for your concern Leslie.” Mother said politely—rather diplomatically. I knew she didn’t want Leslie to feel contradicted.

It was like this with Leslie. Every little thing became a matter of pride, of ego and proving to the other who had the upper hand. I tried sometimes to keep this duel up with her. But it would get so infuriating and pointless, I’d just settle for what she wanted. I didn’t understand why Mother kept her as her Lady in Waiting. Leslie had been with us for a year now. Mother’s previous Lady in Waiting, Lady Roup had been caught stealing and now sat in the dungeons. Her whole family and manor of course degraded and pushed down to lower society. It was a sad story. But Mother had a firm hand. She wouldn’t have stood for burglary.

Mother had taken a liking to Leslie. Her organized and prompt manner suited Mother, much more than the gossipy Lady Roup.

“Good evening, Mother,” I said taking a seat on the chair by her bed. She was seated up, her back cushioned by pillows. She looked frail and haggard, her eyes sunken, her cheeks sallow and yellow. She was dying very ungracefully.

“Good Evening Erin. I have called you today to talk of a most pressing matter,” she looked up and saw Leslie quietly standing in the corner, “Leslie could I please have a moment.” Leslie nodded and left. Mother let out a series of rough throaty cough, fumbling around for her handkerchief.

“When I’m gone, Erin,” She began as she recovered from her coughs, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief, “I want you to find Marcie and Kervin Faraeca.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Find them and tell them to take back what is rightfully theirs,” She looked at me for a moment, carefully, her eyes thoughtful, with a hit of regret. “You’ll find out more when you see them.”

“Why do you want me to find them?”

“To right a wrong, Erin. When death approaches, it’s hard to keep on being stubborn with your conscience. If you could do me just one favour it would be that you do not ask me to tell you what it is that I have done wrong. Take this burden off my shoulders and tell me that you’ll find them and tell them that I ask them to forgive me.”

“Yes, but how am I supposed to find them?”

“I don’t know, " she sighed, "I don’t know where they are but it is—it is very important that you find them.”

“Yes Mother,” I said. I wasn’t sure what to make of this information. On one hand there was the queer sensation I had gotten when she’d said, “When I’m dead”. The importance and urgency of her request. Her request. That she had selected me from all her messengers, and assistants, me to carry on this task. I felt a little closer to Mother. Not enough that I would lean over and squeeze her hand, or touch her face, of even plant her a kiss. But both of us were in on something. Just the two of us. And then the matter itself: Kervin and Marcie. It boggled me, why Mother wanted me to find them.

We spoke for a while longer. She continually reminded me of my palace duties of when she passed away. She spoke with such surety of her death, that I believed her. It was coming fast. I didn’t cry. It was not real enough. Just a haunting realization that kept sinking deeper and deeper very slowly, but hadn’t come to terms with fully. I knew when she was gone, she’d be gone and I would never see her again. It was rather surreal. A painstakingly real reality staring me in the face, and I seemed to be looking back at it blankly, nodding, eyes wide, understanding that I hadn’t comprehended the whole of it properly. I was scared of it, yes. But I never cried. I just went on nodding and accepting. Sometimes when it sunk deeper, I’d cling to hope, but even that hope was thin.

When I stood up to leave, Mother called out, “wait.”

“Yes,” I said looking at her hopefully. It was a little dramatic. Me leaving, after she’d made it clear to me that she was dying, our conversation having ended and when I’m at the door, she suddenly stops me for a final word. Was she going to tell me how much she loved me, and how much she’d miss me, or to be strong?

“Until I die, I do not want you to speak of Marcie and Kervin again,” she paused, “and forgive me.”

I paused at the door, my heart beating, eyes smarting. I nodded and left. I thought she was sorry for us never having gotten close, or if I had grievances against her to do with her parenting, I was to forgive her. Thinking along those lines, I felt a burst of love for her, walking out of the room. I forgive you mother, I forgive you. I’ll be alright.

But I had it all wrong. That was not what she was asking forgiveness for. Not by a long shot. She had much more to be repentant about, and I wouldn’t find it so easy to forgive her.

A Dragonfly in my coop!

Thanks to mongolian for these bright and cheery shots :@

This is chain stitch on thick and wonderfoool IKEA Fabric. Its made for the stall ill have one day displaying all my handmade stuff :)

chimpanzees have flashy smiles--pun fully intended.

Her work may have been slightly slow,

but here it is, she definitely gave it a go,

judge not the lateness of the photographs,

 chimp's got a wedding to prepare and such riffraffs!

                       spring is nature's way of saying LETS PARTY

this chimpanzee felt a queer smell up in her nose and realized it was the pot,

while reading away on the site that is LAME, she had completely forgot

that her daal sat on the stove, brutally burning away, and this was what she got: 

When lazy artists spoil the broth, they spoil it this much.

Chicken Droppings (tiny and feeble compared to Zebra Droppings =( )

Surrender

I cant do it,

I admit defeat,

I bow to you Zebra,
At your stupendous feat

When I try to pen a pome,

Only nonsense flows out,

You have a gift,

Thats without a doubt!

Once I begin,
I don’t know how to end,
The middle is just a blur,
What an awful predicament!

So I lay down my pen,
With relief on my face,
And lovingly pick up a brush,
I sure know my place!

Zebra Visiting the Hen Coop

 .

water colours on printer paper  

use of oil pastels for the tornadoes

Water colour paints are not easy! But painting is so much fun, and I think I'll try my hand at it again. I was originally going to do this using oil pastels, and I'm sure the outcome would have been neater and brighter if I had used them, but I haven't touched water colour paints since long, long ago so i decided to give them a shot. Also this painting has so many different meanings and can be seen in so many different ways that even I'm hesitant of titling it. And having struggled with this painting, I have immense respect for the hen--painting is clearly your forte.

PS. Today is the panicky-spanish playwright's big day! It's worthy of a mention on LAME! Even if he has displayed a behaviour toward his art that is anything but lazy. =) 

From A Hen's Coop

dedicated to an orange loving Zebra
acrylics on watercolor paper


watercolors on cartridge paper

dedicated to a Cactus loving CHIMP!!
embroidery and fabric collage on felt

P.S. Since i've recently started painting, drawing, crafting again so wholeheartedly, I have yet to discover my own style. An artist told me yesterday that every stroke, every line of an artist's work says something. I dont feel mine says much yet. I have yet to discover what my hands will say about my heart & soul and its an adventure im really looking forward to =D

Jhakoo's Doodles

Allah Calligraphy 

Oil Pastels 

 

                                    Gollum                                    

Pencil

                                                                          

Juju beat us all!

                


The best kind of art is the kind that takes you by surprise (usually). I was reading a very readable book when Juju Mia interrupted me to show me his work on the white board. I confess I was surprised by how good it was! Of course, I may be biased, but see for yourself:

 The artist, Juju, 3 years old by his work. He told me it was a "happy face" and a "cheetah bird." Which of course, I thought was brilliant.

As I type this, a large blue marker scrawl on the wall near my bed has caught my eye. And now I just looked around the room and smiled with satisfaction as I saw the many more spots he has covered. Him and I once had a tour around the house as I pointed out to him all the places that displayed his talent, and we'd attempt at cleaning them with a sponge and as I worked hard on them, I'd scold him and make him sit by me and suffer along with me. Little did I know it was a genius at work, and that I was being excruciatingly simple minded and much too straightforward for art to flourish. Well flourish it did. I humbly step back with utmost respect, and would like to declare, "Juju, you have full reign of the walls!" Though I don't speak on behalf of my mother, of course.

Ready, set, BEGIN!

Hello Hen!

You are reading this blog post with both amusement and surprise. You would be smiling if hens smiled. It is your duty to post your work every 15 days, write a little bit about it, update me on your progress, all through this blog.

Don't you love the header? But, shouldn't 'Artists' have an apostrophe after it? I noticed my error just now, but changing it would mean redesigning the image, then saving it and uploading it again. I am after all a lazy artist so we'll have to put that off for later.

It is March 16 today.
On March 31st our work is due. I still don't know what I'll be working on for the two weeks.

Anyway, this zebra is off to get a snack.
Toodles!