We've had to halt the beloved Dr Hagenstein series for a while, due to some fairly severe and possibly deranged reviews that have frankly cut me to the quick, at an emotional level that I don't know if I will ever get over. This series meant a lot to me and you people have killed it, and even if you beg and plead for an encore I don't think it will ever be the same as that first time in the full bloom of summer and everyone was young and beautiful and full of that nauseatingly egotistical hope for the future that older people think they've lost because no one likes them as much as they thought everyone would.
So I need a new backstory for the set of illustrations that I created whilst traveling, and I feel compelled to explain again why I don't want to just describe the trip as it occurred, and just record the events as accurately as I can, to strain with words to hold a mirror to nature as Shakespeare himself said, and let the truth create its own art, and with that art to find truth, and let the truth come back to art again, in this ecstatic embrace of mirror images flipping back and forth at each other and sending we mortals into a delirium of experience-ness and awe with nature and the universe. I just read what I just wrote, and in the spirit of total honesty that has not characterized any of my previous writing on this blog I now feel compelled to admit that I have changed my mind completely and I will now strain with words to do exactly all that.
So chapter 1: the adventures of the true to life Hagen magical wizard family in Angle-Stan, or Angle-Reich as they would say over the water. Let the truth flow! I drew this picture with aid of a draw-spell. Renderanis! I shouted, waving my elf-spine wand in devious retrograde motion. The tiny witch coven in the picture had gathered in a little group on the floor of the magically moving painting museum in London. The paintings moved so vigorously that I didn't get a good render of any of them, and my wizard offspring kept grabbing at my wizard cloak and demanding treats and water and bathroom breaks so I never even had a moment to think! And every time I found a really beautiful painting with amazing masterful brushstrokes that I wanted to copy by painstaking hand to appreciate and learn from and I would whip out my elf-spine wand that had been fermented in virgin troll tears and sprinkled with finely ground fairie by a dimuitive master wizard of indeterminate age and sex and ethnicity who told me they preferred to kill the adolescent griffins by hand in the back of the magicke shop to verify perfect freshness of the feathers, then tiny hands would pull insistently at my wizard jacket and even grab at the magic wand as I tried to wave it and whiny voices would ask if they could have it and then in the spirit of demented competition both of my wizard offspring would demand to get to wave the wand while I tried to swat them away and say very loudly in the middle of the museum that it was my elf-spine wand and only I get to use it and my wife would berate me with her disgusted eyes that would shoot magical flames at me and singe my feelings and I would pull away from them and try to aim at the closest masterpiece and shout Renderanis! but I'm also swatting at my kids with the elf spine wand which emits sparkling dust and misses the masterpiece and humorously renders a group of kids with their parents who are gathered on the floor like it's a park or something and a grown woman in silly clothes is telling a pointless fairy tail in the exaggerated voice you make to morons in the seriously mistaken belief that old times storytelling is so neat that it can convince kids that paintings done to impress grown ups are more interesting than video games, as if by magic
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