Children of the Night.

I tried, I really did.

The enduring (and, to my mind, mistaken) image of the Beast has been that of a big cat. Ferocious, to be sure, but also powerful, sleek, attractive--watered down and prettied up to romance an audience of fourteen-year-olds. I always liked to think I'd resist the urge to, well, lionize him in the Disney sense. Rackham did, and Dulac--forgoing fashion and form and arriving at something resembling more Murnau's Nosferatu--something nearer the ugly truth. (The three were comtemporaries--did one inform the others? was there something in the postwar waters?). But has a grace been lost and are you plucked from the story because of it?

So maybe I didn't try at all. I clearly don't have the stomach for the unsettling, so here he is--curried and cleaned for easy viewing.

Tookish.

Sitting here amazed at how much work it took for an eh. It aspired toward Golden Age/Art Deco and instead fluttered to the windowsill of 1970's German b&w.

Sing wit me now.

New United Airlines commercials aired during the Olympics. The animation for this one is crazy.

Devil may care.

Faustus.

...sensitive about my shit.

Trying out some 'new' stuff. But I'd be lying if I said it doesn't feel real good to curl up in the spaces between a zillion tiny little lines.

Weak forces.

Came in from a dark and rainy run to a darker-still house. No reassuring tap-tap on a keyboard. No percussive thwock of japanese flash cards. Just vague rumblings of furniture moving around upstairs and this sound--clear as water--pouring from invisible rafters.




Simply the first few seconds of "Gravity" by Gorillaz on a Rhapsody left to run. But Albarn's ghostbaby voice just about sent me leaping from my soggy sneaks.

Greetings to thee, Zachiel.

Lord, but it feels like fall.

Parts per million.

Kidnapping of some knight. Though a distinction really must be made. The mythoscape is littered with so many maids a-wander, peering under every suspect toadstool for a handsome abductee, that how is one to know? How are they to know for that matter? One gent is like to the next when it comes to the tug of Faery. They are nothing but poor souls whose lot it is to be completely unmanned under the gaze of the Goddess--as Troll Princess, Titania, Venus herself. In that arena a Cupid looks much like a Beast, who looks much like a Bear, or a Frog Prince, or a Tam Lin. Under such circumstances, who would blame a girl for a slight blurring in discernment to make a quick end to her search? Keep in mind that half these women are trudging around with growing wombs.

But they do know and they stay the course--floating over the geography like pretty spores. White-gowned, white-crowned, with passive purpose. Until the time comes to get weedy and tenacious.