Captured in the Cabin (First draft)

This is the first draft of an illustration for my Children's novel,
Frog Haven. I made it in the car today while we were going to pick up
Graham from his aunt, but I had nothing to look at. Now that I have
made it, I can see that it needs to be redone.

Unfinished painting

I started this painting yesterday morning (after a sleepless night!
[terrible insomnia!]). I worked on it briefly in the morning and then
for a while in the evening. This is as far as I got last night--it's
not done yet. Every time I paint a picture with real paint, I live in
fear of ruining it--it's not like painting in photoshop where there's
an undo button if you make a mistake. So before I start working on
it again, I thought I'd take a picture of it. LOL! So here it is, in
all its unfinished glory. (You can stop laughing now!)

False Accusations and the Dire Wolf

False Accusations and the Dire Wolf

Yolanda unexpectedly tumbles. Her skirts fly. She lands akimbo
on the ground, disarrayed. Hollers "she hit me;" points at me.
Shakes her finger. I'm yards away. And innocent.
Indignant at the false accusation, I dash over to defend
myself as bystanders help her up. She leads me to a window display
of trophies, pointing to one that says "Micaelson's." "You spelled it wrong,"
she says, her voice rising with anger. "I didn't make that one," I explain.
I point to the trophies I made, hand-carved from wood, unvarnished.
The one she's pointing at is black, fancy, plastic and metal, manufactured.
"And anyway, Camp Micaelson's has no "h" even if I had
made it." I ask her to hug me, to heal this rift between us.
She wavers, withholding.

Down the road toward us, a wolf charges, huge, black, bent on attack.
Without hesitation, I step between the wolf and Yolanda. As it springs,
I tackle it, knocking it down, grabbing it by the jaw, putting a knee
on its chest. It gnaws my hand; we struggle. Breathlessly, I tell Yolanda
I am a Shaman and can subdue the wolf, but I am not so sure. The wolf
fights with power and strength. I wonder if I am I courageous
and tenacious or simply puny. I feel puny, but battle on and on
until the wolf shrinks to a small fox. "Go," I say pointing down the road.
It slinks away, tail between it's legs, then pauses, looking back.

"It wants to be my spirit guide," I tell Yolanda, "Come on," I call.
The small fox runs back. My other two wolves attack it. "Down," I say,
"play nice." The fox leaps to my shoulders, curls like a shawl
around my shoulders. Wolves on either side, fox on my shoulder,
I smile at Yolanda and say nothing more.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
080321-1416-1c

see the dream work from which the poem came here.

--
Also posted (by accident) By Mary Stebbins Taitt to Raw Word Batter at 3/21/2008 02:24:00 PM