Psychedelia Gothique

1)    Hans and his Delusions of Grandeur .       Hans stared out through the glass door of the liquor cabinet where he lived.   A white-haired, jolly faced, mustachioed Aryan in lederhosen.   He was the largest and most talented knick-knack in the house.   Touch his switch and Hans would mechanically raise his arm, lift a shot glass to his lips and tilt it back.   Then his nose would light up and smoke would issue comically from his red ears.   Hans liked to think of himself as the God of Alcohol.    On the cupboard beside him stood Santa and Rudolph.   Elf and reindeer.   Maybe they had the power of myth, but Hans towered over them nonetheless.   If they got uppity, he'd start smoking. "Yes, Hans.   You are the God of Alcohol," Santa would quickly agree. Rudolph didn't say much.   But then, he was about as smart as your average dairy cow.   His nose wouldn't even light up....

Rapunzel and the Tower of Song Original Fiction by Dale L. Sproule  (Inspired by the ghost of Leonard Cohen echoing still through the hundreds of floors in the Tower of Song) “Yeah your hair is long and your friends are gold You’ll party together till you all grow old And you’re crazy for love and you’re in the world’s eye They’ll raise their gazes to you in the Tower of Song”  You wouldn’t think that autographing 1,000 naked torsos would be such a chore. The first few dozen were cool, but after awhile Godiva was fighting a writer’s cramp that ran up her arm and over her shoulder. The pain was monumental, but she was a trouper. The event was streaming live, so she fought hard to conceal her anguish from the cameras. Resting at home after the Man-a-thon as her manager had called it, Godiva reflected back on her life: 2000: Godiva’s mom, Evelyn Ghoshi-Smythe, had bagged Johnny Depp outside the set of 21 Jump Street and subsequently raised his lovechil...

Book Covers - the sequel... After scoring the cover of Northern Frights 5 - I did several more with the same figure... I think my motivation was to sell the paintings, since I had gained a bit of notoriety with the original image. They're still for sale if anyone's interested. I did managed to sell a few more covers over the next while, most notably to a now defunct and very interesting Toronto magazine called NFG. I disagree, BTW. I think the magazine and my cover images were both pretty fucking good. At any rate, I don't think they lasted long after publishing my work. Cross my fingers that my covers didn't play any part in driving people away.

For years, my Facebook friends could check out my sculptures through my profile. Last year I started posting a few sculptures on this blog, which is nice because it lends an attractive graphic element to these pages in lieu of book covers - those are coming! They just - in the words of Bjork - haven't happened yet. I do have some book covers I've illustrated (as opposed to covers for my own books) that I could post - in fact, here are a few right now... But I've gotten away from  the main point of this blog entry - which is to talk about the new sculpture page I've just started with my business associate, Jill Lum and my life-partner, Laura Belford. It's called Sculptor's Touch and I think there's a need for it - since there are very few sites where sculptors and hobbyists can get together to talk about the tricks of the trade, tell each other where to find the best tools, recommend different tools, techniques, workshops, shows - and display th...

A Short Story by DLSproule Dad and I were in the upper garden, on the grounds of the great house that had once claimed the best view of the harbour. Course, the house was gone – one of the ones we burned down after the coons got Aunt Sally. Our mountain’s shadow loomed out over the water of the bay, the sky above us tinting such a rich blue, that it seemed to have extracted all the colour from the sea. The horizon behind us burned red. “Sailor’s delight,” Dad said, as I hefted another bag of carrots onto the wheelbarrow. “Hey, John Lennon,” Dad told me. “Go fire up Yoko.” Our Honda generator howled like Yoko Ono when she ran. Least that’s what Dad said. I once asked why anyone would listen to her and he told me, “Nobody did, ‘cept Lennon.” I looked at the sacks of root vegetables we’d amassed, and then down at the roof of our house. “It’s early yet. And there’s too much for you to take in by yourself.” “We can’t risk missing the broadcast.” ...