more is never enough
This is a drawing from my nephew Shawn. He is four. The notations are done by his grandmother. She is considerably older.
Apparently, the 'angels' in Shawn's universe are decidedly British: bad teeth, bad fashion, Dickensian socks with no toes (the haircut, too, is vaguely Malcolm McDowell). The multiple fingers are disturbing but he *seems* happy enough. And why does he live amongst snails and snakes? I thought his side won that war.
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Did I tell you about my new gloves? I have new gloves. C was going out to the suburbs to spend a million dollars on tights and corkscrews, so I asked her to pick up a pair of gloves for me. Mine had rips in the fingers (it happens, from being outdoors so much, and throwing Oona's stroller into the storage bins like the bartender manhandling Mickey Rourke in Barfly).
Anyway, she got me new gloves. Good gloves. *Really* good gloves. In fact, if I ever mount an expedition to the Pole, or take up the handling of radioactive waste, I will have the right gloves. In the meantime, however, I can't bend my fingers. Or hold things. I feel like Oona must feel when I put socks over her hands when she's acting up at the dinner table. Yes my hands are warm. In fact, they're sweating.
I don't know why C has this button in her head. I don't know where it comes from. If I asked her for a barbecue lighter, she'd come back with a flamethrower mounted on a helicopter.