What matters most.

J: I'm debating having a thing for the Wilson Farms dude.
A: Fat swearing manager guy?
J: Nuh. Glasses-wearing, deepvoiced guy. Clarkishly sweet. In a smells-like-Java kind of way.
A: You cannot have a crush on every man that reminds you of Clark Kent.
J: Why not? Clark's very crushable.
A: I think, by definition, he's actually very not.

A skinny Santa is bringing something to me.

More Hallmark for your holiday. Can't shake the Cutesies. While simultaneously holding fast to the notion of a Worker Drone Culture--drab, bleakeyed, scarred by the lash.

On the construction of holiday elves:

Basic recipe:
One part 1950's fashion (holdover from Hermey)
Two parts incredible attentuation (long fingers, skinny pants--for small workspaces and chimney-plumbing purposes)
Healthy dash of Dick Van Dyke

Flavor according to taste--
-High class toymakers--prim, tidy, classic reds and greens
-Shackled elf--nervous and lined from life under perpetual deadline
-Jack Frost--smirking, weather-damaged skin, cracked and bleeding fingers

Won't let the nervous bury me.

Not the kind of glen for stumbling on ungirt. Even in the daylight.
Especially in the daylight.

It's the bright places of terror that are the worst. Those populated by the pale, lidless things without shame or sense of dark propriety. Of dawn crimes performed with incurious fingers and mouths. Of words muttered around noon-bleached bones. Of suffering beyond screaming in a green world of singing birds. All observed by an approving sun.

Most wonderful time.

Time once again to own up to that nearest and dearest passion.

Mush.

We are tree-purchasing masters. In the hard-handed, frosty bearded, thin lipped sense of the word. It's really the season's Great Race and there's no place for frivolity. We yoke the Yule and run him ragged. With results. This year came in a decade winner at thirty-seven minutes. That's including drivetime, selection, payment, setup, and a mild fracas concerning exits and entranceways at Home Depot.

There's no real art to it. More of a grab 'n go. No measuring or trunk trimming. No unwrapping for the twenty digit count. Just whatever's taller than us and small enough to shove inside the trunk of a midsized Nissan--twine takes time. Then the sprint to the house. An unceremonious dressing-down with the kitchen scissors. A shake, a spin, and a shove to the stand with a nasty injunction not to fall like 2004's defiant Douglass.

And back to our preferred screens. Leaving the holiday spirit panting and anemic and pinned somewhere between the bookcase and the wall.

Songcraft.

Tired of hearing those same two Portishead songs on the Rhap's Downtempo radio? Check this out. It's a weird taste sensation, but worth it.

(An A.B.L. find.)

Untitled.

Such lofty plans for this one. I had blueprints for Peas and Pixies. Peas and Pucks. Peas Amano style. Notions of something called The Dance of the Littlest Pea. Or Mendel's Multitudes. Or maybe The Plight of the Pod on the Gardener's Block.

But after two days of family haggling, five hours on the phone, and the official start of the venomous holiday tide, I've settled for simply peas. Peas and Quiet.

And the footprint of a tiny Jack o' the Pod in the upper left corner.

I am NOT your honey.

Piece #97 in the series of irrecognizable, vaguely referenced scenes from The Greats.

The Princess and the Pea. Not that one would know.

But something went down outside of those castle walls. Something much more interesting than the mean-spirited plot to test bluebloods being hatched inside. Just how long did it take her to get past that guard? How much coaxing of a couple of well-fed ornamentals pampered and buffed into total intransigence?
There would have been a scuffle. Foot-stomping and bared teeth. A helping of "Don't call me sweetheart"s, peppered with a few "I AM calm"s. And then the flood of barracks language (no doubt pocketed over years spent spying on her father's men at arms) that would have cast further suspicion on her claims.

All much more entertaining than a roll in the blankets with a legume. Or a victorious set of bruises. Or the marriage that came of them. Or the happily ever after with her brood of delicate, well-bred hemophiliacs.

While not quite as I remembered...

There you are, you sneaky little bastard.

Time was...

The first three Googles for bridge troll have to do with some funnybusiness out west. A couple of homeless guys decided it would be good fun to camp below overpasses and harass pedestrians. Not that I don't applaud a vigorous return to traditions, but there's not a billy goat or gold piece to be seen--just plain Colorado hippietrash.

The rest of the pickings are slim: A handful of horrible watercolors that have no right popping up on the first page of a search. An overly sentimental piece by Terry Pratchett which I won't recommend. The short story by Neil Gaiman that I will.

Maybe I'm missing a point.

In a perfect world.

Seen the new commercial?

Electric Sheep, meet Mighty Taco.

Menchika boola.

An ode to the rocky relationships with godmothers. My own is my mother's half-sister. Near enough in relation for some really effective spellery to go down, but not so close that a magical misstep would end in any weighty guilt for her. Not that she's one to take care. So, she ran off at the mouth a bit during my baptismal ceremony. Rained down some rubbish on a forhead still damp from the font. Made a young mother cry. All the good stuff was there. Everything except the convenient mitigation in the corner, shivering behind the curtains, waiting its turn.

What was it she said? Not telling. Did it work? Dunno. Probably. It's possible she just gave me a serious case of blocksey when it comes to babas of any sort. Fairy or no. That, or there was no curse at all and she instead opted for a more direct route to vengeance.

Well, shit.

Would anyone believe me if I said the perspectives on this piece were accurate?

Well, they are.

Would anyone believe me if I said it lost a certain something during scanning?

Well, you'd be a chump.

God dammit.

I'd like to produce its stunning mate from my apron-folds and <poof> transformation, but all I've got are some glass shards and a suffocated rat.

The Courtship of Henrietta Pink and the Viscount du Pac

From Her Lady's journals:

I cannot tell precisely when it was that we met. Undoubtedly at some crowded event--I was always surrounded by people in those days. Surely we crossed paths at more than one party. We must have danced, though I don't recall it.

But the parties changed to lunches and the lunches to morning walks--strange that the early hours of the day are the most intimate. Perhaps it was the quiet, for we rarely talked unless it was to the birds. He would say something, laugh, and turn to confer with the long-lived crows that watched the grounds. Eventually I learned enough of their language to hear bits, but I've never taken to twittering on my own.

He was shy but dressed himself in yellows. Large, but graceful. His hands were stained the color of cherries, and he whistled faultlessly, if tunelessly. He smelled of dirt and water and of days in the sun and his skin was waxen in the way of very fat men. But if his waistcoats were wide, so were his orchards, and we married after a year. I wore a pink bow in my hair that day and ever after.

And after two years of marriage, I found the hedgemaze.

Hungry Jack.

From the story Clever Jack, which I'm beginning to think I've conjured from the airs. But the bumbling adolescent is archetypal enough--so he's bound to attach himself to something.

Pass the salt.

Did I mention that I want to see Happy Feet?

God help me, but I want to see Happy Feet.

Clean-up.

Nothing doin'. Catching up on things. A couple emails here to a long-lost aquaintance. A half-dozen oblique apologies there for all the attempts at drunkhuggery this weekend.
Nothing too extraordinary.

Except the neighborhood finished its tree-felling yesterday of all days. Pried open the rooftop strangleholds, loosed the powerline nooses. Committed all from air to earth. I can't help but watch them desperately oozing into the mud and think we've got some quiet retribution coming our way.

For. a. reason.

Week, made.

Demons despise the sound of shaking paper.

Was aiming for bohemian, but can't help feeling I just drew a bunch of dirty hippies on the road to either a remote Fourth of July celebration or their next Boss concert. I'm guessing it's the red stripes. Next time less fire(works) and more brimstone.

Folklore is rife with this one. Devil agrees to build a bridge for some dude but demands possession of the first soul to cross. The dude plays along, but at the last minute frustrates all plans by sending across an animal--usually a dog or a rooster. The devil is left with a canine soul and the dog is left (presumably) howling eternal rage at doublecrossing masters from a frosty nest in the ninth circle. No one comes out of this smelling sweet.

My own small golden scepter.

I love my Hyatt's Saturdays for many reasons. For the high holy ceilings and churchmouse atmosphere. For the dirty curbs and completely urban experience. And, above all, for the terrifying store manager. Grizzled and sharpeyed in the manner of English wolfhounds and high school physics teachers, he passes judgement on customers and offers help but rarely. The Little Sniffing Tyrant, I call him. We enjoy a relationship consisting of the barest acknowlegdgement that I find to be utterly satisfying.

This all ended a few weekends ago when, immediately after I'd entered, he leapt from his perch and dragged me to face another customer--demanding didn't we look exactly alike? She and I glowered mutual disagreement before I fled and took refuge in Graphites. But it wasn't enough. He followed me. Wasn't it uncanny, he asked, to have two such similar looking girls enter at once? I muttered a quick "Doppelgangers abound", hoping he'd catch the offended tone, but it served only to goad. He exclaimed that he'd just read a piece on doppelgangers and launched us into a (largely one-sided) discussion of turn of the century literature. He jabbed his fingers up at me and twittered of magic and religion and secret societies. He sang of Williams, and MacDonald, and Tolkien which of course made me love him once more. And then he was off, disappearing between the watercolors. And back again with, of all things, a reading list, and then pushing me out the door.

Don't think that I didn't love every moment. That I didn't imagine this to be my initiation into some cult of wild-eyed romantics. The beginning of gatherings in dark corners with tea stained tablecloths and inky hands and quiet mutterings about mythopoesis. The start of my tenure as Jess, High Preistess of the Theurgists.

But, christ. My erasers are all nubs and my brushes are shedding more horsehair than paint at this point, and I'm only five pages into Williams' The Place of the Lion. And there's clearly no way I can go back for supplies before I've finished what was assigned.

Goes to eleven.

this is the most recent heartbreaker. Silly. But I've been careless lately and am a sucker for a good cross-country drive.

All the rage in Prague.

"What do you think of the lipstick? It's called Peaches and Dream."
"Disturbingly lifelike."
"And the bats? Too much?"
"Not at all. Artful and plump."

Onwards.

Glad to find the troops fresh and ready and waggling their tongues at little things like weather.

It's you and me, moth.

We're a pair without a land. Power-less. We've been keeping pace with those dispossesed crows that've been making the rounds, post-storm. Poking among the broken branches and moving on to the next ill-fitting treetop.

I'm a sad creature of habit. I like my Baking Soda Mentadent and my mugs. My mindless but meaningful ticks. We came home briefly this afternoon and my first act was to sit in front of the cold screen. It took more than a few minutes for me to realize that I'd been clicking on an unresponsive mouse, and a few guilty seconds to admit that it was oddly, reflexively blissful.

Maybe a little shake-up was in order.

Good eats.

Oh, yes.

This is me. This is crow.

Worst. Brat.

Oktoberfest. Munich 1983, I think.

Also today's the anniversary of Ludwig I's (not The Mad's) wedding which kicked off the original. I'll be baking pumpkin bread for no definable reason.

Fee Fie Fo Fum.

The dog's being stalked.
I'd left the main door open and locked the glass to let him look out. He likes looking out and I like him diverted and neither of us likes the other. So he cozied up with his sunshine and I went about making tea.

Mid-steep, I heard it. The scree of nails on glass. Then the smack of flesh on wood and a voice like a broken drum lowered in a chant: "Dooo-leeee. Doooooo-leee." I crept out of the kitchen and into the hiding spot reserved for surveillance and saw her. Big-Boned Blond Neighbor. She'd taken this opportunity to cross over the street and into the realm of insanity.

She stood in the doorway with her calves bulging and her nostrils flaring and her titan braid sticking out like spear, and the sunlight shot through the spaces between her cigar sized fingers and made patterns on the all-purpose carpeting. She swayed and the dog swayed back. She pounded and implored and he whined and threw himself against the panes. I pressed myself against the wall and breathed hard. She rang the bell. Pounded again. Tried the handle and cooed and the dog went crazy from the whistles and her barbeque stench. I sweat coldly and whispered a desperate fuck. And the world creaked.

But the trusty door held! Big-Boned gave a short snarl and leapt over the mums and into the brush. And I crawled out and gathered in the puppy and fed him cheese and in time will work myself up to getting the mail.

Pokey.

R.I.P.

William "Clyde" Llywelyn

1828-1872

Unknown

Speedy.

R.I.P.

Amelia "Pinky" Lott

1848-1872

Laudanum Overdose

Bashful.

R.I.P.

Arthur "Inky" Penderson

1850-1872

Consumption

Shadow.

R.I.P.
Seamus "Blinky" McCallister

1811-1872

Dropsy

Look so pretty...

October was dutifully (w)rung in with lots of red wine, two loaves of irish soda bread, and a trek home in a downpour set to a warbled version of "It's a long, long way to Ba Sing Se."

If you're not walking in the door at three a.m. with shoes full of rainwater you're doing something wrong.

Scared of the spotlight.

And the streets choked on their vapors,
and the moon spread its thin smile,
and the trafficked upper airs whistled with the strain,
and the trees blossomed black,
and the small rats talked in whispers and the cabbages grew pale,
and all bowed before Him--sightless, soundless, an orange flame in His hand.

Thus began the reign of Creepy Bunny.

Primed.

God forgive my sigh of contentment at the start of tv season. Time to give off annoying attempts at self improvement. I've scrubbed the tea rings from the coffee table--laid out the remotes according to size and bookended them with kleenex and candy corns. All in preparation. Gilmore tonight. And Boston Legal. And I rented The Lake House because I'm a sucker for the tepid chemistry of the Reeves-Bullock duo.

At least Heroes sucked. I'll cling to that reprieve.

Of toadstool salt and pepper shakers.

As requested, though (as ever) not strictly to specifications.

I look at it and think 'kitchen god's wife'--not in the Amy Tan sense (but what a title!). I was going for citrus and ended up with vintage rust. I wanted energy and instead was left with the smell of stale nutmeg. With colors that are just begging to ransack the walls around my great grandmother's green fridge and burrow behind her black lacquered cookie jars.

Maybe I've mislabled my Woman Sitting and Staring. But maybe not. For what else is the bride of a hearthgod to do with her days? Nothing. Nothing but wind ribbons in her hair and rub the spines of old cookbooks and tiptoe around those piles of soot he leaves for her as small stabs at affection. So she stays named.

And next time I'll settle with a cryptic shade of green.

Sweet baby Mab.

Her chariot is the empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night...

I wasn't sure if I should send this out of the dining room and into the nursery considering the outcry received by Baa Baa Black Sheep and the Mask of Death. And now that I re-read the Shakespeare, I'm near-convinced that it's the last thing you'd want hovering over a baby's crib, with its talk of elflocks and dreams of Spanish blades. But I figured that, despite those oversized leg spines and dangerous beaks, bumblebees and hummingbirds are about as safe as things get. Incorruptable from even my impertinent pens.

And well, shit. In all the excitement, I forgot about the "grey-coated gnat" wagoner. (Always arm yourself with the passage!). Though since it's been done I've been going around beating the word "atomie" into exhaustion like any fool. But really, only to myself and the lil' 'uns hiding in the crabgrass out front.

Garlic don't work, boys.

In addition to the Mabinogian, I've included one more on my fall reading list. Discovered in the all-ages section of a Burlington VT BordersExpress. Next to the new Barbie Mermaid Adventures. The cover is what sells it. I was hopelessly snared by the blood red seas.

And of course the conversation that followed:

"Can't wait for what are sure to be the sequels--Vampolicemen and Vampediatricians."
"You mean Vamparatroopers?"
"No, Vampirouettists."
"Vampirhanas!"

Toll Taking..

Good news.

It appears that The Incident With The Worm has not, as feared, turned me off of raw cookie dough.

That time of year.

A sudden mood came on me yesterday--on the whole street, really--that was unlike my usual contrived madnesses. Rather, I stood on the sidewalk, fouled in the leash and wet socks, without a tantrum in sight. The dogs were still--and the squirrels, and the sky had turned that brief tangerine particular to evenings after rain. And we waited and then watched as a flock of geese and a handful of crows passed directly--almost deliberately--over each other on crisscrossing paths. No fuss. No frantics. Not a squawk. Just a silent, pointed changing of the guard that seems to have been staged for and by that one swift moment. And we all necessary participants.

So I wasn't suprised to find this in the mailbox on coming in. And if its pages happened to have a tangerine tint, I didn't question it. And if the first paragraphs chronicled the flight of a strange black bird over a sleepy city, they went by unremarked.

National Jousting Association

The idea was all Alex's, but I wann'un.

Six-foot four: optional.

Well.
It's happened again. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised--been a while since my last anime crush. I should thank luck that I'm bound by a passion for two-dimensional men. Better for me. Better for Alex. And the subjects themselves are safe from my grins and my sighs and my eternally ungovernable blushes.

Howl. Despite his theatrics. The latest, not the last.

And, of course, nothing would satisfy until I'd listed them all:

Sven. Voltron. Of pre-Allura blue lion fame.
Roger Smith. Big O. Don't ask me about the show--I haven't the foggiest.
Prince Zuko. Avatar. Is anyone surprised by this? Now that he's started growing his hair he's adorable--and sure to be slotted as Katara's love interest. Any money.
Bruce Wayne. Der.
Roy Mustang. Full Metal Alchemist. Fleeting. Proving that half the quality is the voice acting.
Haku. Spirited Away. My fave--probably due to a dragon alter ego. But he's also voiced by James Marsden which leaves him only a whisper away from...

...the one clearly responsible for this whole embarassing mess.

Rough in-betweeners.

Scifi.com is airing Battlestar Galactica webisodes Monday and Wednesday nights at midnight. They're not great, but they're something to nibble on.

Ode to a pen.

I recently traded up these bad boys for this pretty little thing. Figured it was time to stop clinging to my 0.3 millimeter lines and branch out.

I love the look, which is arguably more authentic than plastic caps and tight letters proclaiming "Document Proof!". It's archaic and affected. I'm also not one to be outdone by another's pretenses. But the act is terrifying and imprecise. The sight of a droplet of India ink grinning over the page nearly had me convulsing. And the metal prongs play a nasty game of grip-and-skip with the ridged paper that will send any line skittering into the void. Beautifully imprecise, I guess. And enough to threaten my already wobbly truce with sanity.

But I have a notion that process is as important as product, and the idea of moving from roots to treetops with one well-handled pen was just too lovely.

Something new.

Rhapsody Playlist

Another excellent Concretes album. Of course, it doesn't hurt that Electric Sheep looks a whole hell of a lot like a Target commercial.

Yar.

No one in particular, just a particular princess. The resemblance is a little too close to Katherine Hepburn, though if anyone were suited to the role, it would be her: everything jutting--jaw and bones and attitude. Despicable in the details, but spiny and controlled and all I've ever wanted in my heroines. Un-women. "A body that does what you tell it."

Though I find that my lines are getting more forgiving with time. I've been lately lingering in the double chins. Softening all edges. Expanding my waistlines along with my horizons. A change in taste, perhaps. But it seems the concepts of beauty become less rigorous the harder it is to maintain.

Twenty-five.

Picked this up over at The Fourth Row. Fun.

Top 25 Favorite TV characters:

1. James T. Kirk (Star Trek)
2. Heathcliff Huxtable (The Cosby Show)
3. Gaius Baltar (SciFi's Battlestar Galactica)
4. Samantha Stevens (Bewitched)
5. Lt. Worf (ST:TNG)
6. Alex Krycek (The X Files)
7. Alistair Deacon (As Time Goes By)
8. Lex Luthor (Smallville)
9. Malcolm Reynolds (Firefly)
10. Gareth (The Office --GBR)
11. Jack Arnold (The Wonder Years)
12. Q (ST:TNG)
13. Hannibal Smith (The A Team)
14. Buster Bluth (Arrested Development)
15. Uncle Iro (Avatar: The Last Airbender)
16. Julius Caesar (Rome: The Series)
17. Mum-rah (Thundercats)
18. Niles Crane (Frasier)
19. Dr. Cox (Scrubs)
20. Lodz (Carnival)
21. Denny Crane (Boston Legal)
22. Frasier Crane (Cheers/Frasier)
23. Kermit the Frog (The Muppet Show)
24. The Lone Gunmen (X-Files)
25. ALF (ALF)

Tick. Tock.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

The living room smells of old coffee grounds. It's most likely Creepy Bunny--slowly asserting himself. As predicted.

I sat and watched as a bee carried off a grasshopper three times its size. Abduction? Elopement? Medevac from a remote buggy battlefield? Six-legged heroism?

That. And I've ignored the dog long enough that his pissing on the floor is no longer just a potential.

It's nothing special.

Some random Hans Christian Anderson. I was looking for a story on mud--a nod to the "your mind gets dirty as you get closer to thirty" that's been doing laps in my head--and came up with a handful of shit. Lots of boots and dusty saddlebags. Maybe a goat or two. Ugly, big-nosed rustics getting the girl based on spunk. Hate it.

But it can't all be selkies and blackbird pies. A person's got to commit to his time in the trenches. That copy of "Bremer Town Musicians" isn't going to illustrate itself.

And you smell like one too.

Best thirtieth birthday presents ever.

From my grandmother: an (opened) "OmniHotels" box with shower cap.

Runner-up (also grandma): a blue envelope with a "Happy Belated" written on the front in colored pencil. Licked and sealed. No card.

...gone apey.

Rhapsody Playlist

Here's the artist I was losing my wits and words over the other day.

Little goose, who made thee?

Feelin' barnyardish lately.

The Goosegirl. It's a fave. Perhaps because it reminds me of my sister in law (has a thing for headkerchiefs). Or because there's a talking horsehead. Or because in the end they roll the fraudulent princess down a hill in a barrelful of nails until she's dead.

There was one small, horrifying moment when I thought I'd got it all wrong. That it was goats instead of geese and I'd made some terrible mistake and how the hell was I going to explain a gooseherder? I mean, if it had been the other way around, no problem. There's Bo Peep, and Mary's Little Lamb, a handful of Aesop's, maybe even some Blake that I could have fudged. But geese? Nuh.

But it's all good. No worries. Except for the missing gooseboy Conrad that I sliced out and am fairly sure is harboring a grudge over being deprived his fifteen minutes.

Seriously.

A curse on blogger.

The Rhapsody links aren't working, but I'm going to suggest an extra bit of fingerwork to check out Jeremy Enigk's one solo release. I'm about ten years late on this one, which doesn't really matter as he sounds thirty years out of place. Missed a couple of grooves on the generational circuit that all music travels.

But so worth the lag. Tull-esque. Drake-y.

With undertones of Lewis Carroll. Complete with what sounds to be an orchestra of tiny grass dwellers. Playing on instruments of reeds. Amplifying the sound with webbed hands and feet. Raising voices in sweet unrestraint.

Compass.

It was only a matter of time.

It'll be interesting to see how a children's movie deals with an issue Potter only hinted at--that mean business of soul-cutting.

Wah, wah.

Opinion seems to be unanimous. And while I've flat-out refused to do a second installment of the bothersome Baa, I will admit to a change of heart. From here out, it's all flower petals and large, blinking eyes. Ankle socks and ribbons and small, shy things peeking out from under their mothers' skirts.

Feels good, dammit.

Locking horns.

Alex commissioned a pic for a work friend's baby shower. He gave me a curt "She likes sheep" and left me to my devices. I paged through our Mother Goose, double checked the appropriateness factor, and opted for Baa Baa Black Sheep.

On giving him the piece, he refused to bring it in.

"There's no way I'm giving this to her in front of an office of women. It looks like a demon goat."

"Why on earth not? And it's a long-horned ram. Technically a sheep."

"It's the devil and it's roaring damnation down on your audience."

"It's bleating. It's just been sheared, for chrissakes. He's a little testy."

"No one is going to hang this in a nursery. It's the sort of thing that scars children. And grandparents."

"It's the sort of thing that kids appreciate later on."

"It looks like the cover of a Tenacious D album. No."

Ever on and on.

Took to sorting through and sifting out my drawerfuls of illustrations the other day. It's an excercize in humility that leaves me more deflated than inspired, despite the headiness of a good cleaning, but it's hard to stop once begun.

I came across this one, which I consider the first of its kind-- slick with age and from a thousand adventures in bookbags. It's at once a detailed testament to a cramped, unrelenting seventeen-year-old hand and a model of my complete (and completely irresponsible) textual disregard. (Bilbo Baggins in Persian pantalones? Gracious no!).

But I love it. Thundercat influences and all. And it remains in the "Keep" pile. On top of The Owl and the Pussycat, between the parades of pen and ink dwarves.

Fighting in the shade.

I grew tired and halfhearted in the middle of a particular snit yesterday and decided to change subjects.


Fairly characteristic, but the segue was ill-timed:

J: "Do you realize what today is the anniversary of?"

A: (stammering) "What? Well...uh...just give me...lemme...Maybe it's...?"

J: "You know this one."

A: "I really...er...well..."

J: (suddenly aware that it all sounded like a nasty trap) "Oh, good christ no! What do you think of me?"
"Thermopylae, dude. Thermopylae."

Happy August 11th.

Cornflower Blue Crayon on Canvas.

In case Alex forgets. There are more at the 1988 site (including a great Princess Toadstool) if you're up to a little digging.

Are we having a party?

I passed by a house on my walk today that gave me pause. Underneath the low wall was an empty forty, a bottle of bubbles, an open package of stick-on tattoos, and a suspiciously skittish flock of small brown birds.

The chaff.

A little Rumple for your weekend.

A classic. If only for holding to true Grimm form by offering up a cast of horrible characters.
They're all detestable, through and through:

The girl who wails without reason. Just shut up already.
The father who claims falsely that his crying daughter can spin gold from flax.
The king who not only carts off the miserable kid, but locks her away with an injunction to spin and marry his son, or keep weeping and die after three days.
The son who--let's face it--has no better prospect than to be married off to some semi-attractive street urchin.
And the bargaining Rumple himself. Though what the offspring of two such ill-favored parents could have to offer the linseed alchemist, I'll never know. Perhaps doughy half-royals are an essential ingredient in the whole conversion process.

That or they make for good sport.

Chill.

Nothing doing beyond sweltering. Listening to Alison Goldfrapp's icy vocals--this in particular.

Pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.

On my honor, I saw a mini tumbleweed dart past this afternoon. The baba a few houses down has been preparing for this day. Her garden is all shale and sage and spikey drab things that smell lovely when crushed under your sneaker--and I swear I heard the snapping of blistered fingers as it butted up against her porch.

That and the clouds have been burning for days. No substance or wet. Just grey breath on a clear sky and always the smell of smoke.

Great times...

...but what kind of people refuse to get up and dance to Come On Eileen?

Wouldn't mama be proud.

Looks like someone is a chip off the old block.

So, he may not have completely lost his shit on HempNecklaceGuy, but the disapproval was palpable.

To tell the truth...

If Alex can bandy about rumors, so can I. Appropriate, considering that Joss Whedon has been tapped for the screenplay, but I wish he had cast his sights a little higher to the much more Amazonian Zoe.

"Your footsteps give you away."

It doesn't take much to propel me out of bed at 2:27 AM. My brain is usually dying for a stab at paranoia at that hour and my reflexes are unswerving yes-men in the dark. Last night it was a creak--or maybe a snick--that sent me up and about, exploring the undersides of beds, standing still and snuffling for long moments at doorways, coming eerily close to looking like some kind of barefoot invader myself. Probing corners, breath held.

And creeping to the window for the final check.

I never know what to expect when I look out. A flapping dog leash in the form of a noose. A ring of dancing jackrabbits (sinister animals). Maybe an eye peering back. But I was not prepared, in bending back the blind, for it to make the same noise that woke me. At that hour strange logic asserts itself and I felt sure that it could have only been me that I had heard minutes ago--standing there, dreaming myself back in bed and waking myself in turn. Or maybe I'd been late for my nightly appointment at the window and some ghostly impulse had given the blinds a sympathetic flick. Anyway, I was comforted where I probably should not have been, and followed my previous and future shades back to sleep.

Back in your crate.

It occurred to me last week as I blew past the open windows, shrieking inanities at the pup, that I should try being more selective with my invectives. Who is it exactly that the luckless passerby thinks I'm entertaining? What is the neighborhood left guessing as choruses of whosabadboy?s and nobiting!s and shameless cackles float out past the curtains into the early afternoon? Perhaps something a little less innocent than the game of tag with a tiny bulldog who's just pissed on my foot.

Idiot, slow down.

Thom Yorke's The Eraser released yesterday. Rhapsody's withholding it and I had to fight the impulse to trot down Elmwood and buy it sight unseen. I've since heard a few tracks and meh. But a well-written review always makes a shitty album seem worthwhile.

Doin' it for themselves.

I suppose it's only fitting that I offset a weekend spent marvelling (as an outsider) at the bonds of sisterhood with an ode to the two worst sisters in literature. Balance things out a little, as I'm sure it's not all mohitos and chocolate ice cream and shared sparkly shirts. Though I could be wrong.

Aside from a scheming duo in Arabian Nights that would switch out their sister's newborns for puppies, these two are the worst of the lot. Not to mention successful, having managed spots in the biggies of both mythology and fairytale. All despite the obstacles of merchant class mediocrity, and pinching corsets, and sub-par husbands. You've got to admire their persistence.

More of the same.

Me likey. From their upcoming album.

Season of the Shark.

Went to see this last night. Great stuff, if you like arthropodal makeout scenes and fuzzed-out guitars. The crowd was an improbable mix, the music was terrifying and beautiful and precise, and the ushers were appropriately ogreish.
Oh, and the band was selling t-shirts in the Shea's lobby before the show--next to the bar, under the painting of Lucille Ball, largely ignored. It was all pretty perfect.

Oh-joh-boh.

Or whatever cutesy noises you prefer.

Puppywatch 2006 has begun. This is Dooley. Or Duel-y. Or Duly. I'm not certain on the spelling, but considering we only get him for one shift a day, it doesn't really matter.

Magically delicious.

Purple sky. Orange moon. Something real cool is happening somewhere close.

Nods.

A hearty hurrah to the Garveys. We tipped our barbeque beefs to you at lunchtime. In all seriousness.

Congrats also go out to UltraViolet for unseating Daredevil as Shittiest Movie. Affleck had a good long run, but he fell to flaming swords, sharp one-liners, and the omnipresent pelvic area of Milla Jovovich.

Never enough.

My parents returned from the wastes of El Paso this past week.

They came bearing gifts, among which were spices, hot sauce, handmade Indian kitzch (the New Mexican natives have this crazy knack for nitelights), a set of godawful monogrammed coasters that by week's end will have been tucked away, and this:


It's an actual paper with actual articles and we're actually planning on framing and hanging it. So, feel free to either covet or condemn, according to your inclination.

Feed me banks of light.

God damn, I love being an American.

Snubbed a porchly Fourth in favor of rockers and fireflies. Ate some mean brats. Hounded other peoples' dogs. Followed a glittering line of connect-the-dots back into the city on a well-timed drive home. Listened to music that filled the dark corners perfectly. Sat under a flag.

Avatar.

Gotta run...episodes of Last Airbender are on YouTube.

Crazy Grandma.

Visited my grandmother today. I secretly enjoy what I can liken only to teatime in Wonderland. If I don't concentrate too hard it makes good sense, but after an hour it starts to unstring itself into pigbabies.

She set me to pitting fruit under the gay merman while she slippered around the yellow table. We drank tea and ate fresh cherries and peaches and scoops of cottage cheese from tiny crystal bowls. We made poor harmony chattering in our own separate senseless strains. I rumbled about orange light on sidewalks, she mused that the robins were "calling for rain". Sometimes there'd be a chorus of comprehension. More often not.

We retired to the living room, and on passing the bust of young Octavian I resisted, once again, the Pygmalian urge to kiss it. She sat in her Red Queen chair, I picked an armless lounge covered with largeprint roses. We held court with the lifesized Buddha and the ceramic frogs and the iron rabbit bookends and the two Indic goddesses. She pretended to read her New Yorker, I pooh-poohed my uncle's Basquiat, but neither of us payed much attention to anything other than the seacolored walls. And when the colors began to run and our sometime-similarities became a little too glaring for comfort, I stood up, ignored her plea for a hug, dodged the hornet gaurd on the porch, and pelted out into realtime.

"I thought it was already as heavy as can be."

I've wasted my morning. Dreaming of flying again in the half-light.

J and J. Part 3

More Jorinda and Joringel. I've got 'em riding a line of adolescence that might be pushing it. Grimm likes its heroes unfledged (read Snow White or The Snow Queen--no one peeps above twelve), but I get squeamish at the thought of too-young love. These two in particular share a lot of alone time. And, as it's obvious that 'woodland strolling' means something else entirely (blackberry picking, of course), I'd prefer everyone to at least be legal. Those thorns can get prickly for the unlicensed bumpkin.

No shit.

I read that these two are discussing lead roles for Atlas Shrugged. The wake of the news sent me into a flat spin that's most recently been marked by spoonfuls of molasses and a stubborn addiction to America's Next Top Model. My brain refuses to recover from the downward spiral.

But I suppose the casting is vaguely appropriate as the novel revolves around a woman who sleeps her way through the country's brain trust and in the end flies off in a jetplane to an intellectual utopia in the sky. (I liken it to that other great fifties epic, but with railroads rather than T-Birds, and doo-wop replaced with bright sassy odes to capitalism). The smarties are safe and cocooned and the dumbasses are left to their cotton candy and their beauty school drop-outs and their red-scare versions of WMD's.

Which led Alex to ask the burning question:
"Who cleans the shitters in a land where everyone is a supergenius?"

From a Basement on a Hill.

There was an old woman, lived under a hill.

And if she isn't gone, she lives there still.

Baked apples she sold, and cranberry pies.

And she's the old woman who never told lies.

To the nasty business of deconstructing a piece.

Stay in the shade.

Rainy-day great.

Love the one you're with.

My dad requested new artwork for his fishing boat "Mel". "Something more detailed," he said. Translation: "something bustier". Putting my objections to painting nubile naiads on the hull of the cranky, turquoise excuse-for-a-craft aside, I agreed--it being Father's Day weekend and all.

But I'm experiencing some apprehension regarding a changing of the gaurd of what is essentially the deity of the vessel. Goddesses are a touchy bunch--water goddesses notoriously so--and I can't help feeling that by supplanting the first ungainly icon with a newer, sleeker model he's begging to be on the receiving end of some well-deserved wrath. Watery wrath, that is--which makes me even more nervous. I don't know what tempers lie beneath the lids of those unruffled Pennsylvania lakes, but I'll wager they're old and unforgiving.

Besides, what new spirit is going to want to take up residence in a boat where the last inhabitant was given the boot on account of her fading appearance? My resistance to this whole thing stems not only from well-informed fear, but also from pure feminine indignation.

And she says, "Tsk."

What did I just tell myself about tinkering?

I got the remonstrative negative from The Missus S. on my latest piece. I turned it upside down and sideways, showed it under sunlight and lamplight, from a window on the porch and through the bottom of a orange juice glass. She was unbudging and I was inconsolable.

The Gathering.

I've been pushing the borders of geek lately.

There's a growing pile of novels in the shitty book bookcase that's become harder to keep from prying eyes. In it is a grade-level retelling of Tam Lin from my sister in law, a couple of Dean Koontz classics on Frankenstein's monster, and the sequel to the Jason and the Argonauts time travelling adventure that I read back in March. These were never meant to see the light of day--are really the kind of trash to be brought to bed with a blanket and a flashlight, or tucked behind a copy of Ladies Home Journal. But stacked as they are, they have a combined power that will not be ignored. And they've begun to seethe and spew from the shadows.

Seeking his own Manifest Destiny, Alex has mounted an effort to catalougue and price his Magic cards. They've set up pastel camp on the kitchen table landscape and have likely initiated talks with my bookcase by means of drum and nightlight.

As their generals, it's been difficult to not catch the fever. Which I suspect was the plan all along. Who can tell how many discussions ("Rebecca Guay or Quentin Hoover?" "Geekiest Cover of a Book You've Read?") it will take before we realize we are simply mouthpieces passing information between two armies which will no doubt merge and conquer once we're out of the way?

Jumping levels.

A reminder to myself of yesterday's brief eureka.

Something having to do with pine. And a crow outside.

Pleasantries.

Exactly two years here and our next door neighbor finally introduced himself. Since the move, we've maintained a rigid, wary co-existence with them based on a few simple rules: no eye contact, no words, and complete indifference when we pass each other on our (very frequent) beer runs to Wilson Farms. We acknowledge the differences between us--and despise them accordingly.

But Tuesday night, "Mike" came over, asked politely for a smoke and made strained conversation. I'm not sure if he felt he needed to bum in order to converse or the other way around, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm also not sure why he made the effort with us--the hard hardcore lesbians that live on the other side are much more approachable--but I've a few theories. Perhaps he'd spent the last two years in a drug induced haze, had never noticed us, and the clouds were just beginning to clear. Or perhaps he has a secret love of MarioKart and just couldn't stand not being part of the fun. Maybe he'd heard me bitching last week about neighbors who walk naked in front of open windows, and figured that since I was on such familiar terms with his scrot, etiquette demanded that I at least know his name. Or maybe he just wanted a moment's rest from his lovely wife.

Whatever the reason, he came and the boundaries are officially down. Which makes him the bigger neighbor. And one less person I can ignore on my sprints from the car to the front door and back again.

Ley-lines.

Still making a nuisance of myself with our camera (which has in turn been proving obstinate--it's clearly a fair weather device). The great thing about Buffalo is that taking a few steps out of doors affords you with a buffet of architectural delights--and with residents that are forebearing enough to let you capture them as by the bys on film.

And there's no end in sight. A good thing, seeing as how we're woeful homebodies. As long as I can keep finding charming little angles in the doorways of Blockbuster and in the trees around the hospital garbage cans. Chapin alone is a world waiting to be populated with lanterns rather than stoplights and racing turtles in lieu of the odd Ford Taurus.

But the going has been so slow lately...

The growing pack.

It's about time!

For those who didn't know, he 'e go.

Barely contained.

It seems I need to see Da Vinci, especially considering the circling rumors that this one is in talks to play The Joker in the next Batman installment.

Also, my personal countdown has begun. Twenty two days and pre-ordered (yes?).

On a related note, we've managed to hold to our boycott of X-Men for the second week in a row. I've not quite forgiven Singer & Co. for the defection to Camp DC. But I suppose if someone asks you to direct Superman, you say YES.

Cleaning the platter.

Here was the face that only a fat man could love.

The thing started out so well. A little Spratly role-reversal, is all. And why the hell not? It makes more sense that a Sprat that 'could eat no fat' is really a fat Sprat on a diet, chafing under the thumb of his thorny wife. It was just so clever and cheeky. Him sitting at the table, stomach a-growl as he pushes around his perfect peas, while she parades the kitchen--all collarbones and grit--spooning potatoes into a frame that defies softening (she's very high strung, poor thing) and yelling a strident "Eat!" (German accent optional).

What a colorful spin, right?

But I passed it by the other night and under my drunk, unkind eyes it began to unravel. Sprat was slipping from his bench and those perfect peas were set to rolling. The flagstones blurred and the ceiling beams curled and wandered. Indeed, it seemed that every angle had decided to buck against my tinkering with convention. "Where is our Skeletal Sprat?" They asked. "Where is our Large-Bosomed Mistress?" And it keeps getting worse--so it's been posted as is, before it becomes more wreckage than rhyme.

Except for that mangled missus, whose death mask of a face will be kept in a sock drawer--stern warning against Inventiveness in Illustration.

Wowza.

It's been settled then. We've found the world's perfect dress.

"'Cuz on Tuesdays they all like to catch them unawares."

"I'll steal that banana from you."

Three screens and a dozen cryptic discussions ranging from fruit to flowers. Set to playoff commercials and punctuated by the odd yowl of disappointment.

Makes for some strange nighttime drawing and the powerful compulsion to sneak around with a pen.

memorialized

Weekend recommendations:

chipped pork under tents
stale Twizzlers for breakfast
listening to the game-clamor from the porch
painting in the shade
new summer shirts
drunken pilates

Going native.

The risks of obscure reference-making:

A: "You've been drinking a lot of water lately."
J: "I've been in the sun a lot lately."
A: "My little sihaya."
J: "Oh hells no. Did you just call me 'water fat'???"
A: "No, no! I called you 'desert flower'."
J: "...well, my Fremen isn't what it once was."

What a time to be alive.

If they stick with the original Whelan artistic blueprints this should be passable. I'm not holding my breath or anything. (Should I downplay my cool by mentioning that I'm spinning in my chair at the prospect? Or that McCaffrey looks a hell of a lot like my great aunt and I once entertained notions of us being related? Or that fourteen year old me was guilty of...(gasp)...fan art?).

Considering the systematic way the film industry seems to be munching through the sci-fi/fantasy classics (library cards out, list of Hugo winners in hand), they should get to L'Engle in no time. That's where the real fun begins.

Four

Four jobs I've had:
1. Can I say artist four times?
2. Something offloading trucks
3. Something with tacos
4. Something with a headset

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. The Last Unicorn
2. Any X-Men
3. Sense and Sensibility
4. Superman (the original, fingers crossed for the upcoming)

Four places I have lived:
1. El Paso, Texas
2. Olympia, Washington
3. Stuttgardt, Germany
4. Fayetteville, North Carolina

Four tv shows I love to watch:
1. Scrubs
2. BSG
3. Gilmore Girls
4. repeats of Invader Zim

Four places I've been on vacation:
1. the Cascades ("oooh, Lake Chelan!")
2. White Sands
3. Oktoberfest in Munich
4. Vancouver, BC (Expo '86)

Four websites I visit daily:
1. blogs
2. Rackham sites
3. Drawn!
4. MSN

Four of my favorite foods:
1. mac n cheese
2. mashed potatoes
3. Grape Nuts
4. my ma's spaghetti and meatballs

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. in my mom's kitchen
2. on a run
3. sitting at the dining room table (get a move on, you)
4. at Mighty

The Order of the Iron Mold

I had grand plans for the day. Drink some tea. Go for a run. Play war with my brother in law's diecast figurines*.

The black trunk with silver CrystalCaste scrolling was too much for my itchy fingers last night, and while the boys were out I hazarded a peek. Between giggles and layers of exacto- cut foam my plan took form. There would be two armies. The painted figures (Paintees) would have the easychair high ground and the obvious advantage. The unpainted (Pewtees) would be camped on the carpet savannas--worn from walking, but silent and grim.

At the sound of silver trumpets there would be a wild surge downward. First a shriek and slide as tiny hooves caught the nap, then the clattering of miniature swords by the landing near the Japanese balls, now a fierce sortie by a company of dwarves, perhaps some surprise reinforcements from behind our collection of Oz. And the Paintees would fall with the day while victory was crowed by fleets of eagles, and bats, and impossibly small flying squirrels in breastplates....

All to be caught on film. Perhaps narrated.

But brother and box are gone, and our camera never was up to the task. Which is for the best--since what would have started as mockery would undoubtedly have turned into plain fun.

* or 'Figs' as we were solemnly informed

Two sides.

Won't quite tide me over until September, but funny funny.

Horde.

The invasion is near. Long limbed, long locked, reeking of Mountain Dew and intent on assaulting my senses with Babylon 5 minutiae.
And I've only a papasan and a couple of bent spoons to satisfy it.

Scraps.

Some sprightly Sprats. And the requisite butter churn.

Put on a smiley face.

Before we out for the week, there's this. Follow with the rest of the album and a Sleepy Brown "Margherita" chaser. Nothing like jump-starting vacation with a little post-funk. All thoughts of Elliott Smith have fled in the face of jelly flip-flops and Vanity Fair.

"I have given you a present already, more than I could afford."

I can't say that I'm pleased with the first attempt. Neither could someone else, which made for a sullen evening. I can offer some excuses. Like my fingers were twitching the entire time--some sort of dark sympathy for the character. Or that art doesn't lend itself well to murder--but that's just ridiculous. Or that I didn't give the subject its due--which hits nearer the mark.

In fact, that last has me regretting a week spent sketching outside in the irresistable weather. My legs are burned, my feet are dirty, and my ideas are all bleached out. Nothing looks good in the full light of day anyway. Or, for that matter, illuminated onscreen. So, I'm going to search out denser methods, more robust colors--maybe dabble in layers of ink. And slip away for a while until I think I can stand the glare.

Squawk.

Yesterday our landlady announced that she'd joined the neighborhood knitting club. She looked so cute with her weekend hair and her big bellied boyfriend, and we'd all been chatting so nicely from our sunny corners that I chose to not share my opinions with the rest of the porch. My suspicion is that these clubs are fronts. That beneath the hum of cold industry lies a beating heart whose goal is the collection, distribution and creation of gossip. It pumps evil purpose into those soft little hands and those shining needles.

Nor did I mention my inherent distrust of The Clutch. That any gathering of three of more women becomes a disturbing example of hive mentality and that outsiders must either sue for entry or cross their fingers and pray they aren't found. Now, we live spare, innocuous lives, but detection is fairly certain, if long in coming. It's a matter of elimination. After evenings of deconstructing the neighborhood personalities--the stoned gardener accross the street, the bikini bacchanites next door--they will have to move to lighter fare. Eventually, there will come a day of No News. And on that day, they will turn their bloody beaks around and find something dreadfully intriguing about that quiet couple with their books and their laptops and their glasses of iced tea.

On your side.

I was scrounging for some musical fare to read to and found this. It's older, so I'm not going to brag, but it's quiet and strumming and the band has a whiff of Yo La Tengo to them. The rest of the album is pretty great too and totally suited to an evening of reverent page-turning.

Sound of sounds.

Fitting and disturbing that my first words of the day were, at three pm in a voice raspy from disuse, the "satan is real" printed below today's Penny Arcade. They just swelled out of me from some forgotten nicotene cranny.

Nothing much. Just braying about my foot and the crappy new Gomez cd. Booh.

Also, yippee skippee to sarah for finding this.

Pilgrims?

March winds and April showers bring May flowers.

They're all anthropomorphized, see?

Little March winds. Carrying pipes that they never bother to play properly. Blackhaired and surly and roving like wild things. Terrorizing the pets.

Blue-shawled April with her copper watering can. Listless and moody--pale but for the running eyeliner. Muddying the rugs and wringing her skirts onto the floor before she goes upstairs to sulk.

Biddable May. Fair and rosy. Always shocked by the mess. Probably armed with a paintbrush and a mop. Accountable to Summer for the state of things.

Chained to an old-auntie couch.

This is what happens to kids who play outside.


A combination of a lack of grace, the poorly paved Buffalo streets, and an insistence on passing older runners. I can't pretend I didn't deserve it. Though I did give the neighborhood a much needed lesson in profanity. I will also admit I looked like a mighty fool.

Mmm...Mighty....

guh-huh.

woot.


Which File Extension are You?

God damn dirty...

I got yelled at by a homeless guy on my run today. Not a true barrage, but there was arm-waving and a definite lunge. A dispute was raging over (literally) a garbage can and amidst a string of bumspeak the larger and more prickly of the two turned to me and yelled "Did you put her up to this???". I made a sprint for the bridge. Dude stayed put, but it did wonders for my pace.

But the emergence has started. The first few have pulled themselves from wherever they've been wedged (churches, basements, I've got some theories about warm air pockets in the mud by the pond). Now, I enjoy the odd thrashing of the trash, but it's best to stay clear of the punchy spring bums. They're nervy with the thaw and tempers are running high with the initial turf skirmishes. By mid-summer, lines will be drawn, benches marked, and things will mellow. By August you'll have to peel them off the Wilson Farms parking lot with a knife. For now, I keep my jacket full of stones and pepper.

"They talk fast, but they talk true."

Apparently my Tuesdays were getting too decadent and someone was keeping watch. At some point between Gilmore Girls, America's Next Top Model, spoonfuls of whipped cream and Hershey's syrup, and mutterings about how I'd forgotten that Tristan & Isolde was coming out and now it'll be weeks before I'll be able to find it at our shitty Blockbuster, it got to be too much. Perhaps it was last night's smoochy scene with Brad and that blonde chick from Happy Gilmore that put things over the edge. I thought I'd been balancing things out with Firefly Wednesdays, but somewhere a scale was just upended.

Serves me right.

Goody Goodwife put a hex on me.

A corner of another piece of scrap. Though I'm not to blame for it. I'm holding my mom directly repsonsible. She'd asked so sweetly to see some of my pieces, and I'd been such a testy bitch all week that I decided to make things up to her and go against my strict "no viewings until finished" policy. So I laid things out and she played nice with my terrible ego.

Until this one.

"What are those things in the corner?"

"I dunno, mom. Grass fairies?"

"Ah." Followed by the series of ticks that generally indicates the bruising of her tender, born-again sensibilities. The nervous smile and compulsive throat clearing that have been the norm since I showed her my first hobbit, grotesque and reeking slightly of magenta marker. I've never been quite sure what pointed ears have to do with the Dark Lord's work, but I packed my shit up without a word and we made pineapple horns (or should I say "crescents"?) instead.

The next morning, try as I might, I could not set pen to paper. Seems that the different strata of superstition we inhabit intersect at some crucial point.