County card set

(Bear in mind that there are variants from village/settlement/town/place to village/etc; thus:)

I. The Water-Doge
II. The Water-Doge
III. The Empress / The Queen
IV. The Liar
V. The Other Family
VI. West / Western River / Western Wind / Western Road / The Road
VII. East / Eastern River / Eastern Wind / Eastern Road / The Sun
VIII. The Crib
IX. The Earth / The Land
X. The Built Pond
XI. Eleven
XII. The Kingdom
XIII. The Three Caves / The Two Caves
XIV. The Gossip’s House
XV. The Emperor / The King
XVI. The False Priest / The Dead Priest
XVII. North / Northern River / Northern Wind / Northern Road / The Moon
XVIII. The True Priest
XIX. The Tree / The Hanging Tree
XX. Fair Weather
XXI. Twenty-One
XXII. South / Southern River / Southern Wind / Southern Road / The Dry Grass
XXIII. The Other Town
XXIV. The Grass
XXV. The Grasshopper / The Cricket
XXVI. The Fed Animal
XXVII. The Water Bride / The False Bride
XXVIII. The Bed
XXIX. The Chair
XXX. The River Bride
XXXI. The Family
XXXII. The Gossip / The Friend
XXXIII. The Reed
XXXIV. The Sun / The Dry Grass

Notes:

* The two Water-Doges are there because the first one is his animal shape, the second his doubled human appearance. Some regional decks feature two identical Doge cards where each shows a single human character, but such representation tends to be forbidden elsewhere.
* Eleven and Twenty-One are numbers of special significance and as such have cards without images.
* North, South, West and East double as aces in their respective suits of the playing (as opposed to this fortune-telling) deck, which is not used as “arcana minor”.
* The Dry Grass card never appears twice in a set; in some decks it is number twenty-two (where thirty-four is the Sun), and in others thirty-four, with South as twenty-two and Sun seven; the other deck/s don’t include cardinal directions.
* Some clarifications: “other family” means in-laws, “other town” means any other town or rivalling place, “bed” would correspond to our Death card, and the “built” pond + “fed” animal indicate artificially (ie. human-) created environments, as opposed (I imagine) to the “natural” ones brought on by the Water-Doge.

Now I know what you’ll say, o functioningly benosed friends. It’s not really the ship, it’s the fuel. It’s the paint, the corrosion, it’s the battle between the ship and the sea and let’s face it, the sun isn’t helping either. It’s damage and decay, okay, I can go with that, but you know what? I love it. I love how the heat and the evaporation class as olfactory sensations in my underdeveloped brain, how they mingle with salt or sealife or whatever it is, organic or inorganic, that creates this magic of scent – or stench if you’re not me – with the passage of time. I love it. It’s everything at once: the mass of water with its sounds and motion, the mass of metal resistant, sticky, the light so intense it hides everything from sight. It’s summer. It’s industrial. It smells of ship.

That’s how I know it’s summer, when I can smell ship in the air.

This was the first summer that I’ve gone without it and frankly I feel – with autumn taking over calendar pictures because seasons have no meaning up here in the north and if I look out of the window it could be anything – like I’ve come out of a long period of sickness. It wasn’t summer, it was flu. Flu of the mind, intellect, will.

It’s as if the ritual of my youth — the sixteen hours of travel from one end of the eastern Adriatic coast to the other aboard a large tourist-packed ferry decked in late 70s design, on a basic ticket which meant transport only, no bed or even a seat unless you can stake one out if you board early enough and know where to set camp, but which provided that incomparable communal experience of dozens of people strewn about the ship having to abandon modesty and eat and sleep and socialise all in each other’s spaces, with pets, with children, in dozens of languages all at the same time, from departure in midday heat to the spectacle of dawn light outlining the darkness of the islands or the coast, signalling arrival — was some sort of magic that kept me well. Extract of summer, if you will. And without it, mind flu.

One of my beloved ferries got stranded last year, got itself stuck by a tiny island halfway down the coast. I hadn’t taken the ferry that summer, I flew in. Practical, efficient, and dull as fuck. Literally dull: it was as if it hadn’t happened at all without that smell of ship and essence of summer. A festival without its opening and closing ceremonies, inconclusive, unreal. I flew back north and the ship ran aground, grabbing headlines, and it was like reading about an old friend having taken to drink. Had we both given up?

And here’s what happened this year; now, in fact. Latest headlines. Nothing to do with the ships of old but rather an idea of ships and shipyards crafted and grafted in material form. And what happened is as follows: first there came news of a fantastic project for Croatia’s display at the Venetian Architecture Biennale which would be perfectly in spirit with the overall theme of ephemeral structures: a floating pavillion named “The Ship” built entirely of welded mesh, much like what is used to reinforce concrete. The idea was for the “ship” itself to resemble cargo, be built of cargo often found in Croatian shipyards; represent, basically, the essence of Croatian maritime life. The sea married to industry: say what you will but I’m in love. I keep looking at the pictures and envying people who saw it and set foot inside it even if they didn’t care much for the experience. I wouldn’t blame them, it only stops being mundane when it is lost.

And lost it was, and not just to me: next came news of the structure succumbing to weather conditions, or sea conditions, who knows. This wasn’t quite the mass of metal of my childhood days, more of a sketch of it: a study in metal, an artist’s – or, rather, architect’s – impression. Another Ideal Ship collapsing together with the nostalgia that built it. Much had been made of “The Ship” being built in shipyards that had sustained the economy of my hometown and its region since WW2, its construction coinciding with cheer surrounding the last-minute preservation of a massive ’49 crane so ingrained in local folklore that it was named after another folklore and Partisan legend, “Joe the Giant”. Joe, bless him, managed to cheat scrapyard death and is set for infinite retirement in a dedicated museum. What of “The Ship”?

In tribute and true mirror to its material condition, disarray on all levels. Architects involved say it’ll be fixed: the project, after all, had the backing of the Ministry of Culture and it cannot afford a massive waste of money when the whole country is in a financial crisis. Architects uninvolved pipe up claiming to represent the institutions protecting the discipline and issue a list of irregularities they object to, referencing protests on behalf of the very organisers of the Biennale. Their issue is as far from artistic egos as can be: a sloppy project representing the country reflects terribly on all its relevant industries.

I want to believe their sincerity, I do, since the complaint is concrete and level-headed and to the point: finally! Never mind my love for this ethereal structure of thirty tons, I’d give it up for a point, a clear decision, a clear mind that retires a respectable old giant instead of crashing it ashore. But if I did, I might as well retire my mind together with my memories. Where was this statement when the project was new? Why does it read like bad old hrvatski jal between the lines of carefully, professionally construed righteous concern?

And then I wonder: should I even care? I left. Temporarily, I tell myself, but life and nostalgia battle with more bite than what the sea and old ferries can throw at each other. And there’s that one thing about the pavillion that I know won’t let me be: did it smell of ship?

Two, I went to see The Expendables last night with the spouse. He expected a steaming plate of turds and got just a turd so he was happy, while I was disappointed because I expected… well, I don’t exactly know, to be honest. I had to sit and think about this when we got back home.

See, when I was a kidlet I used to watch a billion action and thriller and horror and SF&F B-movies with my dad, on pirated VHS because that’s what video rentals gave you and were charging money for: god bless you, 80s Yugoslavia. Anyway, these films and their explosions and rubber sharks have a special place in my heart and I think I was too caught up in nostalgia to notice that most 80s action stars couldn’t or wouldn’t take part in this film and I only realised, Dolph Lundgren notwithstanding, it was only really going to be quintessential bruiser good guy Stallone vs quintessential oiled-hair bad guy Roberts once the film got going.

Which is good enough, fair enough, but it also meant I was going to be irritated by everyone else because while I enjoy the work of Jet Li, Jason Statham, and the rest in their own films, the fact that this wasn’t an aged 80s action stars reunion got in the way of me perceiving the “Expendables” gang as having any chemistry or backstory needed to create a convincing sense of camaderie, so all the banter fell flat. The little we did get of the likes of Schwarzenegger or Willis was so little that it was rote as fuck, like an honest-to-god cured-of-all-irony version of the “hey kids, it’s Mark Hamill!” scene from Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back.

I don’t know what I expected. I though, having had something of a lull in this genre as far as blockbusters were concerned, the pause would have given the writers time to make something that would be soaked in goofy machismo, as required, but would also be clever. And instead of clever it was lazy and so it was boring.

I don’t know of a good way to put this so I’ll give you the best I can: somewhere, long ago enough that I can no longer attribute the source, I read that all art is a product of its time, so when you make something that looks like stuff that was made ten or a hundred years ago it will still have been informed by all that happened in the meantime, making it essentially impossible to create something truly retro. And this film has made me doubt that because it felt like nothing had changed for – or was learned by – its makers since its predecessors’ heyday, which is something I find hard to accept. Given the potential, what I wanted and expected was more than an assembly line product.

I must add here that by “nothing was learned” I am not implying that I wish the film was rid of its daft clichés, including the ones where women exist solely to be punched about so that men could be a) motivated, b) placed along a morality scale. If I complained about that in a film like this I would achieve nothing besides looking stupid. I can make myself look stupid in more original ways than that, tyvm. Although this is a good place to note that I lost track of what was going on some three quarters in because I got lost in fantasies of how much actual ass this film would have kicked if it had had Grace Jones, Brigitte Nielsen, Sigourney Weaver, Linda Hamilton and Maggie Cheung on its ass-kicking roster instead. And perhaps Demi Moore in lieu of Eric Roberts.

Brb gonna enjoy my brain film some more.

So, yeah. Oh and there was a scene somewhere in the middle where Mickey Rourke’s character has a Defining Plot & Character Development Monologue that I laughed out loud at and got bad looks from guys in the audience. Oops.

Ah well!

iPad is thin. iPad is beautiful. iPad goes anywhere and lasts all day. There’s no right way or wrong way. It’s amazingly powerful. It’s magical. You already know how to use it.

So in other words, iPad is a bicycle. Or a pencil.

Okay, okay. It goes on to say that it has over nine thousand apps and counting, websites, books, video, that it’s a revolution and it’s only just begun. So the only actual answer to “what is iPad” in the whole advert is “it’s a revolution”. Well **** me, I didn’t think people liked those very much. Is there a “first against the wall” app? I know who I’d nominate.

[Pentel brush pen for ink; Cotman brush + cheap but trusty watercolours I bought in a supermarket ten years ago. No pencil prelim because that's for wusses.]

Brain Half #1: Yay I drew something! Look, I’m scanning it too! TRIUMPH.
Brain Half #2: It’s not a very exciting picture of a cactus.
Brain Half #1: It’s a picture OF A CACTUS.

Am I helping myself at all? Fuck knows.

I whipped this up from scratch using only ArtRage3′s watercolour and spatula tools. Me likes! Now to think what to use this as background for… probably some crappy building-onna-cliff of something. (Have mercy, I haven’t drawn shit in months.) But, yeah, this is just to say that ArtRage is the stuff. (I have the Pro version, but even if you don’t feel like paying what is more than a reasonable price for a wonderful real media emulator, the free version delivers as well. I effing love this program. Why don’t I know anyone else who uses it?)

So, yeah:

And finally, some flags for no reason other than colourfulness:

This is the basis for a chapter header of the comic I’m working on in my spare time. How do you sum up 60+ pages in a single image?