I am 8 years old, and my dad tells me a story. A curse is put on a princess, turning her into a swan. She is banished to a lake with 12 swan maidens.
The princess can only appear to the man she loves in dreams, but even then she is terribly shy and never speaks. Instead she plays the harp. She makes the most beautiful music, more beautiful than Debussy and Arcade Fire put together.
The man falls in love with her. When he finds out about the curse, he doesn't give a damn. He makes his wizard turn him into a swan too.
After the wedding, the 12 swan maidens turn back into humans. The cursed princess and the self-cursed prince stay in the lake as swans.
This is the story in my head as, twelve years later, the swan follows me around the lake. I don't know why he's following me. I don't have bread. When I try taking his picture, he buries his head in his feathers, like one of those boys who look down in Facebook pictures.
The park is beautiful.
That night i work on my comic book. My drawing is okay, but my pacing is slow. Comic books are like movies. If you don't edit the panels, the reader gets bored.
i want to finish the comic before i come home for spring break. Since arriving Cardiff, i have been remarkably productive. Every day is another drawing or poem.
Next weekend i'm visiting Carolyn in Sheffield. The last time i rode a train across Wales, I sat next to an a man with giant thumbs, which he licked generously before turning the pages of his sheet music. That's the thing with Wales. Everyone has sheet music, a cello on their back.
The man on the train was a concert organist.
May we meet again, Big Thumbs. I raise my Mug to you.