Haps.

To all the grannies in the house.

All Souls' Day

For the poor sods languishing in the spiritual queue.

Amongst the brambles...

...sharing the loot.

Look straight at the common disaster.

Realize what you've lost.

Light it up.

The Wick Man. For she who illuminates.

Dangling.

Never hang something from a tree you don't want much made of.

Gingerly

trying out some new pens.

Life's no fun without a good scare.

Set to Elfman's Serenada Schizophrena.

Mooning about.

The Man in the Moon came down too soon

and asked his way to Norwich.

They sent him south and he burnt his mouth

By eating cold pease-porridge.

English nursery rhyme

Up.

Skirts tucked under, shoelaces wound about, hat on firmly, and a good besom in hand.

In Threes.

Nibbins

"Well, we've time while they're at this song: it has nine times nine verses; but you ought to stay for some more Whoo-hoos. Doesn't it give you the feel of the moon in the tree-tops: 'Whoo-hoo-hoo, says the hook-eared owl'? Come along quietly."

The Midnight Folk, John Masefield

Our veins is thin.

Last of the waterbabies for a while.

Boat, 2

Yar.

Take a good, hard look.

A weekend of wind and water.

Scissor happy.

Infinite possibilities for less shit.

Spooky Old Tree

One with a light.

One with a stick.

One with a rope.

Entering Moriae territory. It was all I could do to not drop three, huddled figures under those boughs.

And a bit with a dog.

The theatre. Doodlings and doings-on.

Ship to Shore

Belay that.

In the hedges.

A swarm of bees in May

Is worth a bale of hay.

A swarm of bees in June

Is worth a silver spoon.

A swarm of bees in July

Isn't worth a fly.

May all your swarms prove worthy.

Stuck in my head.

They are the Choirmasters of Faery. The literal Un-sung. Melodies come to them in tight, ravelled packages and leave deconstructed through bright beaks. Exit confounded through blazing nostrils. Fall to the ground in shards.

The broken remains are collected and scribbled down by the maestros, then played with the backwards, hobbled artistry of the fey. They limp back to us in the pre-dawn, garbled and sad, displaying their pieces, desperate for a rendering. And the codebreakers? They tease out the strongest strains and pipe the old tunes, and they come back to us, altered but true.

Ino what you're thinking.

A retooling of the bluegirl after some (s)trident opinions.

After the Fall.

Having a hard time shaking the feeling that my post-fall inventory missed some key injury.

Nobody.

There's a long history of giants sleeping past red letter days tip-toed through by red-headed scoundrels.

Fantastic Voyage.

With the Blue Lady, and all her incarnations, in mind.

Rewind

A little out of time, but the holidays were a little out of joint this year.

2011

Happy New Year's from the inmates of cell block Gadra.