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.