The Transpotated Joy of Being Cessinated

(Warning: Rambling post ahead)

Did you know that English is a language of relatively few words?

Yes, hard to believe isn't it?

If you are a native English speaker, your personal vocabulary is only about 20,000 words. And, of these words, you probably only use 2,000 on a regular basis.

Two thousand? It's not much really, especially if you spend a lot of time talking, or blogging, or even commenting on art work. Using myself as an example, just listen out for my use of  nice, wonderful, gorgeous, colourful, super, beautiful, excellent, congratulations - these and serviceable words like them come up over and over when I comment. And over. 

Not that there is anything wrong with them. On the contrary, they are all positive words that make us feel good and should be used more often. But they are just prime examples of the chosen few - some of the 2000 old faithfuls that I rely on in our communications with fellow beings.

Hola gente maravillosa, siento que no hay traducción al español. Voy a tener que traductor Google buton dispuesto lo antes posible. Pero este mensaje tiene un montón de palabras que (I made up the words!) he aprendido de memoria - por lo que no tendrá sentido. No tiene sentido que los hablantes de Inglés - pero no se lo digas a nadie. Feliz hacer arte! (be Happy in your art making)

Okay, well that's the one sided story. Admittedly, as English speakers we have a whole lot more than 2,000 (or even 20,000) words to choose from.

In fact, according to The Global Language Monitor, at this present second, there are exactly 1,007,711 words in the English language. But wait! By the time you finish reading this post there will be 1,007,711.5 words in the English language - depending on how slowly you read. (Of course you may not read the whole post and that means your vocabularly will be sadly depleted - because I have a surprise at the end, and it's not just that Eves' palm in the next image is missing.)

Well, 1,007,711.5 words seems a real lot doesn't it? But hold on to your horses, don't let the clappers go, nor spill your milk before she is counted.

Given that there are 508 million people who speak English as a first or second language, simple mathematics tells us that we have only 0.001968th of a word each to call our own. That's not even a single letter each in the longest word in the English language which, as you probably guessed is something like Lopadotemachoselachogaleokranioleipsano...pterygon at 183 letters (it means a long legged crustacean who eats Chinese takeway every third Sunday of the month).

Well how can we fix this problem?

Obviously we need to invent new words. We need more words to share around. At the moment a new English word is magicked up out of thin space every 98 mins.

One every 98 minutes? Not much isn't it? Considering those 508 million people, I reckon that that is a poor effort. While some of us are inventing new words, what are the other 507,000,956 people doing?

But the theory that a new word is magicked up every 98 minutes is merely a theory - just as it says.

And like every theory, it has its faults. And not surprisingly a  brief analysis shows up its faults quite quickly.

The most obvious fault that I can see is that the theoreticians over at The Global Language Monitor didn't figure on me.

Yes me. (I'm the guy hugging the tree on the left at the back in the next image)

Poor humble me. I mean it's obvious to me that if there were more people like me in the world that the gross rate of new words being magicked up (the NWBMU rate) would suddenly inflate to a massive three words an hour - which, by amazing coincidence, is exactly the speed that I type at.

So, with this in mind I had a walk on the beach today. And while I was dodging the tentacle blessed Bluebottles and the scurvy scum cusking bottom creatures' dehydrated washed-up bodies that littered the hide tigh mark I came up with several new words - the most magick of them being "transpotated."

Now 'transpotated' by another amazing coincidence, isn't the Illustration Friday prompt this week.

The word for IF is, in fact, "Transportation".

Transportation? Yes, I kid you not. Transportation - a particularly weak, assidious and denostrating word. 

Where is the assonance? The consonance? The sybillence? (okay I admit it has some assonance and consonance - but only a twiggle of each).  Where is the kink in its armour that will allow people like myself to easily mispell it?

It's all too easy a word. "Trans' the preffix meaning 'across'. "Port' meaning 'to carry'. The suffix 'ion' indicating that it is a noun. And so we have from 'trans' and 'port' the words 'transported', 'transposed', 'transporation' etc. All bland, billious and beltany. Not much is it?

But as I said, the the theoreticians who came up with the NWBMU rate didn't figure on me.

And so, after my walk this morning I would like to proudly announce that English has four new words. Yes! Not one, not two nor three but four!

Since this morning English has the new words 'transpotated', 'transpotatederd', 'transportater' and last but not least:  'transportadeness' - which is the art of being ready to be 'transportated."

And so finally, at last, and not without time - to the guist of the matter.

These four new words  ('transpotated', 'transpotatederd', 'transportater' and 'transportadeness')  I would like to dedicate to my friend Ces, who, with her generous gift of a nut, has recently 'transpotated' me from my usual state of 'untransportadeness' into a world of otherworldly Cessinatedness.

It will be of no surprise to you that Ces's gift of a nut was not just any nut. As you can see in the leading image of this post it was a nut, not only worthy of the invention of four new words, but a nut ideally suited to be the new Goddess figure of the inaugral Ces Nut Dwarven Appreciation Society of New South wales and the Southern Highlands - of which I am the newest founding member....



Do you know Ces' work?

If not I would highly recommend a trip.

Ces is inspiring, brilliant, concaphanous, a great artist, generous and just a little nutty.

She has also just founded (with others) the BBB society - which a little bird informs me is short for The Big Breasted Budgerigar Society.

Her artwork rips. Which is good.

Is any one still reading? If you are still here I would like to thank you for your time. You are very kind.

Below and above you will find some of my weeks work. Cinderella's Chariot,  renditions of a Cramer induced Adam and Eve, and also something for Creative Cup, which has just announced it's first challenge. If you look closely you will find that the apple in one scene transports Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden, that the Pumplin Carriage transports Cinderella to her father's home, and that the tea pot in the Creative Cup transports me into a world where tea tastes nice, and the surf is great every day.

Thankyou for reading. I enjoy typing and I must get a spell chicker one day....

And thank you SO MUCH for all those people who commented on my last post. I'm off to visit your blogs when I get back from the studio and thank you personally. Watch out, I have some new words in my armoury!



Illustration Friday: Satellite

Robert Jordan Junior was eleven years old when he first read about Laika.

Laika, a stray dog plucked from obscurity by Russian Scientists, had been propelled into space on Sputnik 2 in 1957.

Most people thought that for Laika it was a one way trip.

But Robert Jordan knew better. 

Even though the Russians had claimed that Laika had either suffocated or died a painful overheated death in her small metal container, Robert Jordan knew the truth.

You see, the very night Robert Jordan first read about Laika, he had a dream.

In that dream he was an astronaut sent by Nasa to rescue Laika.

As so often happens in dreams, the details were hazy; but in his dream Robert found himself suddenly surrounded by light, tugged from his bed by invisible hands, then catapulted through the earth's atmosphere on a beam of light.

In seconds, and with a great sucking sound as the beam of light vanished, he came to a sudden halt, suspended in space, three feet from the rusting hulk of Sputnik 2.

And there she was, the   dog Laika,  staring at him through a porthole, grinning and panting with happiness, her breath fogging the glass. She was still alive after all these years, suspended Robert knew, by the Russian's  super secret  hyperchromatic barium refrigeration. She'd been left to circle the world for ever and ever, as one of mankind's first satellites. 

But did Robert rescue her?

I'm afraid that's still classified ---- but I can say that I saw young Robert the other day playing ball in the park with a dog that looked like a part-Samoyed terrier.

One thing I did notice though: the dog barked an awful lot.

Of course Laika, in Russian, means "barker."

But it's probably just a coincidence. 

What follows is a few variations on Robert's dream. Thanks for looking! Please pardon the layout... I'll get it right one day!

Little Red Riding Hood

The wolf's eyes widened. "My! What beautiful flowers!" he said.

Red Riding Hood, looked down at her feet and stepped back in surprise.

She hadn't realized there were so many flowers. But they were just everywhere. Everywhere there were splashes of pink and purple and red.  Even in the dark shadows were scattered clumps of Salvia and Pansies, Bluebells and Harebells and Hyacinth.

They were deep in the woods. She'd been on her way to grandma's place when this strange creature had jumped out from the trees and sauntered over to the path.

He'd given her such a fright that she dropped her basket -  full of bread and milk and honey  and a small bottle of sherry.

The wolf was like none she had ever seen. He wore fine clothes; his coat was linen, his shirt of the finest lace. And he smelt faintly sweet - of  jasmine.

"Why not take the old lady some flowers?" said the wolf.

"She's not an old lady," said Red Riding Hood, wishing she'd never told the wolf about her grandmother.

The wolf guffawed. He held his lace handkerchief to his mouth, but Red Riding Hood could still see his teeth. They were pointy and sharp and glistening.

"Well, let me rephrase that," growled the wolf. "Your dear old grandmother will adore you when you take her flowers." He paused and nodded to the purple flowers near red Riding Hood's left foot. " I'll wager sixpence she  loves pansies the best."

Red Riding Hood looked up quizzically. How had the wolf known? Her Grandma loved pansies almost as much as loved a bottle of Sherry.

Perhaps the wolf was right?

"There's plenty of room on your basket," said the wolf, pressing his point .

"But I promised my mother .....," said Red Riding Hood.

The wolf held his paw out and mimicked her voice. "That you wouldn't stop? My, my! I bet she said not to stray from the path?"

"She did," admitted red Riding Hood.

The wolf grinned slyly behind his paw and peered  up through the leaves of the trees, to the bright blue sky. "You've got hours," he said. "There's plenty of time to visit your grandmother and get back home before dark."

Red Riding Hood thought about the pansies. The pansies were very beautiful. Picking them would only take moments.

And as the wolf had said, she had 'plenty of time'.

What possible harm could she do by taking her granny flowers?

(Thanks for looking. :) Clicking for big gives you Hyacinth and Harebells.)

Monday Artday: Favourite Food

The Adventures of Pinocchio and His wooden Cat

Well, I been tinkin' about The Adventures of Pinocchio for a while, as we say in Ireland, and I got to t'inking the other day, what kind of pets did Pinocchio have?

Well the obvious answer was a wooden cat. But, in keeping with the idea of "Favourite Food", I had to ask 'what do wooden cats eat? "

Hmm. Now that would have to be wooden mice.

But what do wooden mice eat?

Clicking for big gives you splinters :)  Thank you for looking.

Three Good Witches

Well, where did the inspiration come for this? It wasn't the quote below, that's for sure! But you get three guesses, if not wishes,  as to the real inspiration. Clues at the end of the post.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

from Macbeth (a short excerpt)



A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.


2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg'd i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

 Clicking for big gives you a bowl of brew - yuck! :)

The possible nominees for the three witches' identities, in no particular order, are:

Bella, Susan, Krista, Amariah, Lolo, Kinga, Theresa, Cyn,

Wanda, Ces, Amalia, Janne, Justin, Ginger, Elizabeth,

Vanessa, Mita, Pat, Karen

Of course each of these people are all marvellous artists. The clues are on their sites.

The first correct guessee for all three witches wins a weekend for two at either 1) one of Ces' water side luxury apartments or 2) At Saint Enrico the Dwarven Acrobat and Chicken Sexer's apartment in Paris, Tasmania. Or eight free lessons at Maria's Exotic Dance Academy for Young Ladies (PG recommended)*

thanks for looking :)

PS thanks to everyone who remarked on the new banner :)

And to set the record straight: All three young witches are appropriately dressed, and it is lolly water in the bottles.

Footnote * Prizes subject to availability

A Quick Defence of The Innocent

Now how much of my tax did I get done today?

Not much. :)

I kept hearing this little girl's voice in my head. 

For some reason she was quite upset.

Her name is Griselda.

Just look at her! She is obviously innocent of any wrong-doing (see previous post).

Except making my tax return late.

(Mind you, I have to have a word with her hairdresser.)

Thanks for looking. Clicking for big gives you a halo.

Illustration Friday: Cocoon.

Why Butterflies Have Feathers.

Aha. Well I couldn't think of how to scare kids with this week's IF topic.

Hmm. I was thinking of a coffin, inhabited by a very pale

caucasian man with some long teeth.

But I thought I shouldn't give myself nightmares this week.

So I went for child friendly and ethereal.

I feel like such a traitor. :)

Thankyou for looking.

Did you know that butterflies have feathers like birds? (Well not so big.)

And I suppose I should admit that the boy in the Cocoon (Tim) has no legs.

That's why he fits in it so well.

I put a frog in the bottom one for fun, after seeing Martine Alison's spider in "Shéhérazade". Martine's work just glows.  If you get a chance have a look  her site.  It's well worth the visit to see what you can do with oils.

Plus you get to practice your Francais. :)

PS: Don't worry about Tim.
He is growing new legs and, if you click for big, they will be ready for next week's IF.

And why do butterflies have feathers?
I think it's so they look pretty.

(Addendum: Trust me, the little girl does have underwear. It's just a bad angle that's all. I hope no-one finds it offensive.)

"The Odyssey Of Captain Limphook."

Well, you know, when things are crappy in our lives, I like to remember the story of Captain "Big Bad" Limphook, who, for eighteen years during the late 1700's, was the Seven Seas most deadly pirate.

Badder than Bluebeard, more rascally then Rottenbreath Mackenzie, and a bigger fibber than "Tall Tales" Long John Silver, Captain "Big Bad" Limphook died from an unfortunate accident in 1797 while shaving in rough seas somewhere south of Tasmania.

He was so famous for being really, really bad that, on the day of his death Lord Byron Macintosh OBE, wrote an ode to him. It was, I believe, called "The Ode To Captain Big Bad Limphook."

Unfortunately it had a few ribald lines, and as there are children present, I cannot present it in it's entirety. In fact, I can only give you the title (which, as you see, I already have.)

I do have, however, some pictures of Captain Limphook himself - with his best mate, Brian the cabin boy. (Brian was a champion boxer from an early age - luckily.)

Thankyou for looking, and be careful of getting sand in your ears if you click for big.

(Thanks for the suggestion on the closeups Justin Segal  Check out Justin's work. He rocks,)

Hansel and Gretel

"The True Story of Hansel and Gretel".

"The girl came into the kitchen carrying more timber for the oven fire. "

   

The girl stumbled on the straw. She dropped the wood.

The wood rolled across the floor and banged against the base of the oven.
"Stupid brat!" the witch said and kicked the whimpering girl in the leg.

That made the boy in the cage jump up and down. Then the raven pecked his hand.
The boy squealed. He let go the cage. He sank back and cowered into the shadows.

The witch cackled. She cackled and cackled.

And cackled once more.

She liked cackling. It terrified the brats.
They deserved to be terrified.

They'd been destroying her house.

The boy had broken off part of the eaves over the front door.
The girl had smashed one of the window panes.
They weren't innocent children. They were vandals.
And now the boy was almost fat enough.
What did he call himself.... Handsome? Hensall?
Something ethnic.
She should find out. She liked to know their names.
She cackled again, and, with great delight, held up her scythe
and rubbed her hand along the edge, feeling the lumps made
by the old, dried blood.
The children, watching her, began to whimper.

 

Huh? Well, where did this come from?

A few weeks ago I picked up an old book of Mother Goose Fairy Tales that had once belonged to my grandmother. I was looking for inspiration.

And the thing that struck me as I read the book,  more than anything else (apart from the fact that most nursery rhymes had more verses than I remembered), was how sweet and innocent this book was, especially the illustrations. Yet it was obvious that the stories this book contained were made in an age of violence, that they were crafted, not only to entertain children, but to warn them of the real dangers of the outside world.

Oddly enough, I'd always called the stories in this book fairy tales.

But they were, in fact, 'folk tales'- made by generations of people who lived off the land.

A quick glance through the book reminded me of several things. It reminded me that in "Red Riding Hood", Grandma is eaten by the wolf; that, in the "Girl with Red Dancing Shoes", the woodsman solves her problem (she is unable to stop dancing) by cutting of her feet. And in the pre-Disney version of "Snow White, Rose Red" the stepmother tries to kill Snow White three times - yet is eventually herself put to death by Snow White's new and avenging husband, the prince.

And, finally, we have "The Tale of Hansell and Gretel". As you probably know (or once knew), Hansell and his sister are abandonned, not once, but twice by their father and their stepmother in the deep dark woods. The first time Hansell cunningly leaves a trail of stones to follow back home. But the second time his deceit is foiled, because the birds eat the bread crumbs he has laid as a trail.

Though they are painted as innocent victims, Hansell and Gretal are, in fact, vandals. There are no two ways about it. Not only do they drive their young stepmother to an early grave, but, when they find the old lady's Ginger Bread house in the woods, they start to break off parts and eat them.

Now, I don't know about you, but if someone did that to my house I'd be upset, to say the least.

So the old witch, quite rightly, detains them. And who can blame her if she tries to fatten them up so she can eat them? After all, it's a witch eat child world in our fairy tale books.

And the end result?

Seizing her chance, Grettel pushes the witch into the oven fire and slams the door on her. She watches as the old lady burns to death. Satisfied that the witch is roasting (imagine the smell of burnt hair and old lady underpants) Gretel releases Hansell, and with no sign at all of post-traumatic stress, they return to their father's house - and find that their evil stepmother is dead..... and they all live happily after all.

Now.... I ask you. Happily ever after?

So with those old original folk tales in mind, today I illustrated part of: "The True Story of Hansell and Gretel".

An do you know what the worst thing is?

Though I made her myself, the witch scares the be-creepers out of me. (I'm going to lock my bedroom door tonight.)

By the way, if you click the images for 'big' you will get, amongst other things, warts. You may also get a slightly revolting skin rash that can only be cured with an ointment made with a certain kind of fat.