Chanti-where and Who-let?

"The Bremen Town Musicians".

I'm not sure why this tale in particular takes such precedence over "The Fox and the Cat" or "The Mouse, the Bird, and the Sausage" or any of a dozen obscure, insipid (and rightly ignored) animal stories. I never had any use for them, especially outside of an Aesop-type format. I'll take amphoras over glass slippers any day, but remove the Greekness and you're left with what is essentially Barnyard Entertainment. Booh.

In fact, I don't think our heroes ever even make it to Bremen. And there's nary an instrument, nary a song. Just a bunch of frightened thieves, and the honest desire to turn the page.

Flattery.

Trent Reznor's released a new cd. It's quality, but check out the first few seconds of these. The similarities have me a little freaked.

Rhapsody Playlist

Can someone scratch my nose?

Twice now, this week past, I've been interrupted mid-sentence with a jeepers-lookit-the-time. I feel compelled to say that both conversations involved a rather strident, rather one-sided rant involving Children of Hurin. Possibly the phrase "forged by a dark elf" was used. Considering the verbal liscense I've given myself regarding the book, and the inevitable fallout, who can tell? But it seems I am that guy.

I'll post this pic and have done. It's Hurin and it breaks my heart. Excuse the smudges.

"There he was bound by the power of Morgoth; and Morgoth standing beside him cursed him again and set his power upon him, so that he could not move from that place, nor die, until Morgoth should release him."

For years. Years. Through the murder and betrayal and strife and that pesky moustache hair.

Steam and Beeswax.

Found this on SteamJournal's Year 2000 Predictions moments after coming across this.

I think he just said "Fucking awesome".

Hurry up, already.

Last of the 12DP for now. Unless I'm wrong in assuming that everyone knows the story. In which case, I'm bound to keep posting obscurities.

And who doesn't like cabbage?

Tried compiling a list of excuses intended to leave me blameless for the objectionable anemia of ^this^ piece. Far-fetched ones involving eyesight and invisible cloaks. Reasonable ones dealing with desert venues and the effects of sunbleaching. In the end, I was left only with the weighty evidence of Artistic Deficiency.

That being said, there are a few lessons to be learned. One being: "Pick up the Magenta every once in a while"--will do you good. Another: "Five more minutes spent on bricks is always well advised". And a third: "Never, ever spurn the services of a roadside crone." They may smell like last week's golumpki, but those witches routinely roll the supersecretdownfalls of all royalty into every dirty shirtsleeve, every crusty sock.

So far, so good.

A collection finally approaching respectability.

Add an extra for the pot.

Release date: April 17

"Therefore with my eyes thou shalt see, and with my ears thou shalt hear; and never shalt thou move from this place until all is fullfilled unto its bitter end."

Of The Fifth Battle

Conveniently timed to divert tormented souls from the temptations of Shadows of Angmar--which I dare not even link to.

One of Twelve.

Don't drink it, sister.

Eleven and a half dancing princesses.

We were coming from dark and headed towards dark and our eyes adjusted quickly, but you could still get lost in those tunnels. Carved by dragons was the rumor, and, overwhelmed by the blackness and the stench of sulfur, it was hard not to believe. I'd heard them called wyrmholes by those who lived before us and those who would come after, for sometimes we'd cross paths in those places that wound beneath time. Greeks smelling of blood and honey, eyes full of ghosts and hands dripping from sacrifice. A party of feathered, dreaming Celts. Groups of fearful men and women sucking in air from behind glass helmets. Endless chains of dwarves. It was easy to stand and stare. Easier still to lose the thread of your own tale, and I'd seen evidence. The trick was to cling to yourself--to any goal or deed or triviality. To a half-eaten dinner or your thin-soled shoes, to the men waiting in boats at the end of the trail or the man you left for dead in your bedroom. And with them needle your way downwards or outwards or wherever you chose.

Z's.

Not dead, but sleeping with one eye open.

Old fossil.

Cast your vote.

Luke in the sun(s)set is my personal fave.

Funny as heck.

Heh.

Ages 18 and Up.

Keeping myself honest by posting the shit. By the end of this one I was harrumphing and grimacing and (quite literally) cutting a few corners. I've also been suffering from a specific paranoia. After receiving an offhand remark regarding my satyr pics and (perceived) sex organs, I've been seeing...things in recent works. Lounging on the rocks, skirting the treelines, shaping themselves into suspicious clouds. Precautions have been taken, but I've considered instituting a game of Find the Phalli for all subsequent pieces. Pretty redundant when applied to fauns, but Fun & Exciting when one pops up in the alpine meadow below Snow White's castle.

Life is zee bubbles.

"...stay your ship, so that you can listen here to our singing; for no one else has ever sailed past this place in his black ship until he has listened to the honey-sweet voice that issues from our lips; then goes on, well pleased, knowing more than ever he did."

Crazy Grandma quote of the day.

"Come, look," dragging me to an astronomy calendar of my uncle's.
"What are we looking at?"
"Is this the earth?"
"Nope. That's the moon, grandma."
"Well, I know what these are," flipping to a starry page.
"What are they?"
"These are the Gallant Seas!"
(laughing)
"Couldn't have put it better myself."

Everything nice.

Even creepier than the orginal, due to the skittish resolution. The scanner decided to take some liberties with the eyes. I was going to use her for "Girl With A Curl", but agonized over whether she was a "very, very good" or a "horrid". Though, to tell the truth, I find neither line reassuring.

Left alone with big fat fatty.

Not too much a case of art imitating life. Though (in very small circles) I was known to bedeck our collie's mane with shrubs and tiny pinecones and proclaim the coming of Dancer, The God-Dog of War.

Whole world in its coils.

Just assuring an end to the seemingly limitless ruminations on flayed satyrs. If I can find a decent translation, I'll be setting my sights on something more accessible.

Athena of the Puffed Cheeks.

More Marsyas. And finally a link to the actual story.

There was some howling and pitching once I realized it was the Olympians that made fun. But after a furious scramble and a last minute costume change, the coterie of nymphs I'd arranged for her was tranformed into godlings. Smallish and scrawny, but I liked the idea of their younger selves sporting in the predawn. As in dawn of times. After the war with the Titans. When there was an abundance of abandoned...lumber.

Hera's the one in pink. Standing over the others with the makeshift birds on her dress. Peacocks, damn it.

Demeter's in the gardening sack. Dirty hands and feet.

Aphrodite's in back. I hadn't the temerity to try her face. No one should.

Artemis is the little one. Dark eyes, slavering chops.

Bored now.

So, do you accept the cast-off baubles of the gods? There's sure to be a hitch involved--something that sets your feet on the road to that ill-advised tourney that poses a threat to life or limb. Wherever the route, whatever the dangling temptations, you can be sure that someone's skin is going to end up gracing a mantle somewhere.

But who's to say that leaving the thing where it falls will do you any better? It's unlikely that an Olympian would take kindly to anyone spurning their inventions--roadside trash or no. Especially one as notoriously touchy as Athena. Best to gather up your chances, good and bad, and resign yourself to being a mythological footnote.

Marsyas.

Raise those double-reeded pipes and salute the month of the winds.

Hysterical and useless.

Nelly Bligh caught a fly and tied it to some string,

Let it go a little way and pulled it back again.

They called him the Little Tyrant and the tiny, armored, winged things trembled in the reeds as he passed.

Lower your axe.

Of course, you leave a tree to its business. How many citizens had passed by with stoppered ears--knowing full well that any root has its reasons? And no dwarf has any right going armed into the wood without expecting retribution. So, you skirt that particular glen and eventually the yells subside and in time those bones are incorporated into the landscape--one of a million warnings the forest offers up.

But those girls. Living on the fringe, practically perched to cause trouble with their good looks and ludicrous opposing natures. Always pushing and pulling and making ripples in the sensitive frabric of the forest. The pale one would have known--would have stood like marble until her slow mind worked out the story behind the scene, would have left it to its end. But the other, never one to resist the flush of discovery, was bound to indiscretion. And fated to step into the narrative by broadcasting their hideout in the red maple brake--so alike in color to her dress and cheeks and traitorous mouth.

Frabjous day.

This may just be what it takes to convert me. And while I don't relish the idea of interacting with bogus creature cross-overs like this (LOTR needs no improving), I fear it won't be enough to put me off. Must. hold. firm.

In other news, dictionary.com's word of the day today is galumph. Score uncounted for Carroll's triumph over the English language.

By way of reasoning.

A: Read your post. You can't spell for shit. "Yield" has an "ie" and you mispelled "Ulysses".
J: No I didn't. Where?
A: It has only one "L".
J: That's bullshit. Of course it has two--"Odysseus" has two "D"s.
A: What are you talking about? And no it doesn't.

...and not to yeild.

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?

Matthew Arnold, The Forsaken Merman (39-45)

Better poems will come with better pics--my own little incentive--Ullysses grins at me from the end of a very long tunnel. I was going to do some judicious trimming here, but everyone knows that ladies of legend always travel in packs of three. There's just no screwing with that number.

Cross, boss, moss. Damn.

Glad to not be a lone, petulant voice protesting the sneaky censorship of Lionsgate's 25th Anniversary release of The Last Unicorn. The widescreen format is delightful, and it's all been buffed to a pretty shine, but the removal without warning of the (four, mild, text-based) uses of profanity is senseless. Especially considering that there was no ratings change.

Rabbit in your headlights.

I suppose it's true love. The bastard was well gone when I entered, slumped at his post, carrot-standard slipping in his grip. Lidlessly staring at the glass Korean dragon perched on the dresser opposite.

"It's not meant to be. She's royalty. You're rumpled Americana. Besides she's got centuries on you, the coy bitch."

"We'll find a way."

"Come to your senses, Creepy. I've got a lovely Lybian bird-maiden preening on the bookcase, aiming no higher than modest local folklore. Much more your speed."

"I've got it under control. Go away."

Outside the core.

This dude plays Mitchum Huntzberger--Logan's father on Gilmore Girls. More importantly, he had a brief spot as a sheriff in the Firefly episode "The Train Job".

Tonight, he and Rory shared a bit of post-dinner banter while Logan took a call. Seriously, this gets good.

"Blah, blah, blah. You're good for my son. Blah, blah. Didn't mean the shit I said about you last season, blah." And then, "Blah, (something about a) firefly." "Firefly?" asks Rory. "Firefly." There could have been more, I missed a lot between handfuls of chips, but it was said. Thrice.

Now, I'm pretty sure there's minimal crossover between geek tv and the GG, so I'm not certain who, outside of my tiny universe of couch and Tostitos brand salsa, this was aimed at, but it can only be a signal. A signal that the CW is obviously looking to pick up where Fox tripped up. And that Mitch will be reprising his role as the gruff, diseased, and not wholly unattractive Sheriff.

At least a person can hope.

Broken branches trip me as a I speak.

Fuckyou, Tree Faces. fuck. you.

Nothing like a treeface to strain the ties between author and artist. The written word is biddable enough when it comes to the Green Jacks and the Old Man Willows, but aim to render a Treebeard visually and you're courting failure on epic, nursery-school levels. Trust me when I say that what you conjure will be no shepherd of the forest, but rather a thing of warped proportions and impossible angles. A perversion born of the unholy union between pipe cleaner and newspaper, reeking of clotted glue.

Don't follow where WETA falters. Leave Fangorn to your wordsmiths.

And, go.

...It was a picture, though, worth seeing--the princess sitting in the nursery...at a great table covered with her toys. If the artist would like to draw this, I should advise him not to meddle with the toys. I am afraid of attempting to describe them, and I think he had better not try to draw them. He had better not.

More from The Princess and the Goblin--though less princess than goblin.

A quick peek at the strange relationship MacDonald cultivates with his phantom illustrator. There's a smattering more of don't-evens, a handful of have-at-its, and endless smugness which essentially amounts to him triple dog daring any doodler wanting to try their hand. My own copy is illustration-free (Digireads--you get what you pay for), so who knows if his injunctions were obeyed. But I'm willing to bet they served only to goad any artist with even the barest of tempers.

Darkness in the Valley

Might just be the last to have stumbled on this. The pairing's a little weird with the video, but totally worth the new version.

Valkyrie elesion.

Which classical composer are you?

Richard Wagner
This German opera composer was unexcelled both in self-importance and in artistic ambition--he worked on a bigger scale than anyone else dared tackle.

Honey and gunpowder.

It baffles me that one of the most revered writers of the century is essentially a starving artist. Here's a copy of the letter of thanks for our recent purchase of the (SIGNED!) 25th anniversary (WIDESCREEN!!) edition of Peter S. Beagle's (DIGITALLY REMASTERED!!!) The Last Unicorn. If you're thinking of ordering, read this and go to the conlan press link. Help a brother out.

Thank you for helping Peter S. Beagle
by purchasing the new DVD of THE LAST UNICORN from Conlan Press, instead of from
somewhere else. More than half of what you just spent will go to support Peter
and his projects — but if you had bought it somewhere else, Peter would have
gotten nothing.Here's the situation in a nutshell:

Granada Media International (the English company that
owns the animated film of THE LAST UNICORN) has sold more than a million copies
on DVD and videotape since 1999. By contract, they owe Peter hundreds of
thousands of dollars in royalties, but so far they have refused to pay him a
cent.

Peter has fought
for three years to get his due, so far without success.
He still isn't
getting any royalties from the DVD you just bought, either (not as long as
Granada keeps stonewalling).

However, the people at Lionsgate
Entertainment (the film's American distributor) are great folks. To make it
possible for American fans of THE LAST UNICORN to finally own a GOOD version,
they are putting out this special digitally-remastered 25th Anniversary
Widescreen DVD. And to help Peter, they have agreed to let us sell copies via
the Conlan Press website. By purchasing here you have put money straight into
Peter's pocket and helped him in his quest for justice.

Please spread
the word. If you know anyone who wants to buy this DVD, tell them why they
should buy it here.Thank you very much! (And thanks to Lionsgate for caring.)

If you'd like to know more about the situation, and what you can do
about it, go to www.conlanpress.com/youcanhelp.

And if you'd like to add your
own voice to the people from more than 34 countries who have stood up for Peter,
just go to www.conlanpress.com/html/fans_speak.html and follow the instructions there.Peter S. Beagle
needs support in the fight to get him his due for the animated versions of THE
LAST UNICORN and THE LORD OF THE RINGS.

To learn all the details —
and find out how you can help — go to: www.conlanpress.com/youcanhelp. Sincerely,The folks at Conlan
Press

And let's not forget about that ST:TNG episode. Sarek rocks.

Wherry-necked.

There were concerns regarding this particular tableau. Stalwart princesses have become almost as runnathamill as skittish ones, and I'd done with itchy fingered adolescents donning their jerkins and kicking robes and responsiblity under the bed. There's something crazy fascinating about a stony-faced Penelope.

And how does one lure a dragon anyway? And why? I suppose she'd exhausted every other option. The tree had regular trimmings, as did her hair. Her bedclothes were of the new thinweave brand ("Keep your daughters safe and cloistered with EasyTear"). The guards' ears were stoppered against lullabies, their noses against perfumes. And princes don't really quest for the sharptongued, boltish types.

So she'd steeled herself against the conventionality of it all, and the guaranteed speculation. Found a reedpipe and a promising wind. Lay her jewelry on the rooftop and waited for dawn. Once the pieces warmed they would begin to hum--no dragon within four counties would be able to ignore the unmistakable reverberation of sun-heated gold.

And then it was all a question of which reached her first. And then the agonizing interview, the haggling over ransom and flight fees, the matters of compatability, the packing, the weighing of the packing, the purchase of harness or comfy abduction sack....

Creative license.

Manawydan. One of the Three Gold Shoemakers. The Mabinogion also lists him as a knight of Arthur, which is tough, since he rolled with Bran. But, hey.

I'm indulging an old man in his weakness for frippery. And maybe poking a bit of fun. But any guy that parties down with the head of his king for eighty years can be pardoned an attatchment to ruffles. Besides, he's a craftsman and allowed a certain amount of flair. Dude worked in lapis, for chrissakes.

On the Dubble.

To color or not to color? Things could go great--I like to think I've got quite the handle on polka dotted kerchiefs. There's nice opportunity here for some florid complexioning and those trees would be a breeze. But something's holding me back--something more than an extended weekend absence and the look of warning from a dandy candlestick maker. Sometimes that fourth wall cracks for a reason.

I'll come back to it.

Dismissing the Greats.

The Princess and the Goblin. A disappointing read on any number of scores. Misleading on a few others.
First, there's no one goblin. There is, however, a slew with whom--outside of a failed kidnapping--the princess has...no connection. That's right. No real abduction. No years spent slaving in the mines. No arduous but inevitable change in her captors' affections leading to release and an eventual return 'cuz she loves 'em all so much. Just lots of rancor and a division that borders on racism.
There's an age problem. She's eight, the boyhero Curdie is eleven. This makes for some juvenile dialougue and nixes the potential for any romantic plot. (All hopes for rescue, elopement--possibly even a furtive makeout scene on a dusty mine floor, post-escape--all come to nothing). Booh.
No dragons. For some reason, I thought there would be. And why the hell shouldn't I have?
Add to this my growing suspicions, while reading, that the whole thing was the author's lameass attempt at witnessing, and you end with a piece that's hard to digest.

But the scenes between the Princess and the Nurse are fantastic, and worth a shake.

speaking of...

Last to know?

You really DO always come back.

"It's unbelievable. I've never seen anything like it before. It goes, and goes, and goes..."
Mike Banks

Last time we saw Aerobie he was taking his virgin flight off the hotel balcony and gleefully sailing into the arms of the Atlantic. Well, he's back. Luv'd up, barnacled, water-weary and sitting astride our fire hydrant like some kind of returning crusader. That or he was hung there as warning--Neptune's first act in the war against thrill-seeking, upstart beachtoys.

Wrap.

A little late in coming, maybe, but I had to get it out. That or run the risk of holiday remnants cropping up in all of my springtime venues. Dollys amongst the foxglove, teddys in the glens. Regiments of unfinished toy soldiers storming the sills of all of my pretty country kitchens, scaring the mice with their "Vive la Revolucion!"s.

Best that some worlds live in ignorance.

OklahOma-oklahOma-oklahOma!!!

Listening to the Flaming Lips "Do You Realize?" the other day and a strange pronunciation struck me. The word doesn't, doubly contracted into near nonsense.

Ex: "The sun d'n't go down."

It comes out as dunt, and reminded me so much of my Okie-bred sister in law that I had to investigate. Sure enough, the band is from Oklahoma City--ten miles from Mari's hometown, and apparently the seat of Vigorous Apostrophe-ing.

All very adorable. Just don't get her started on the word heighth.

Side by side on a wire.

That the new year's been masquerading as October is absolutely fine. Saw some crows bobbing agreement from scanty harbors. And a moon threading jetstreams into useless winter blankets. Lots of compulsive shivering wasted.

And then there's stumbling onto this.

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.