Pt. 2

...!!!

Godless sea.

And when the seas receded, they left a seed which sprouted and grew tall. And the birds would dart like minnows through its hair while the sweet, sensitive deer schooled in its shadows. And it mocked the desert summers with a submarine grace and chided the winters with whalesong. And when the simple townsfolk ventured out, they would croon and bow and garland it with sage. And they called it Lan-yir, Messenger of the Waves, and tended it with great care.

And generations passed, and in the fifth and twentieth year of King Meshna the Forthright, Lan-Yir was consumed with trembling and its heavy pods burst with effort and poured forth from themselves wondrous clouds of--

--WEBFOOTED SOULSNATCHERS FROM THE DEEPS!

A chemical reaction.

I stared at a screw on the wall for so long yesterday that it leapt in fear from its post. But rather than fall to the ground, it sprouted wings and dipped, top heavy and grunting, out the door. Seriously.

Jesus in the sheets.

Been stuffing in earfuls of the The Knife. Ignoring the natural comparisons to T.A.T.U., it makes for wild listening. And a seriously creepy video.

Pagemaster.

Still slogging through The Snow Queen.

And grappling with the timeless 'blank page' issue. Drawing an open book presents the illustrator with a very real dilemma. To fill or not to fill. Theoretically the attempt at script should always be made--but the problems of precision and content are immediate and daunting. Should the artist take a stab at what is really the author's job and cross the line between illustration and documentation?
On the other hand, an unfilled page is glaring--potentially suggests indifference, lack of inspiration, or (god forbid) craftlessness.

I go back and forth. And am never quite satisfied with either result.

Bathroom walls beware.

Two for flinching.

Head in the waves.

When at a loss, remember that mermaid silhouettes are always in abundance.

Compass.

I want to see this.

Castle onslaught.

There's been a recent trend dealing in the debunking of fairy tales. I'd go so far as to say that the modern writer considers it his duty to participate in the demystification of myth. And while there are a few commendable reasons for doing so (historicism, humor, feminism), the market has been overrun with retellings--some with premises so superreal as to be mundane. Bookstore aisles are swirling with narcoleptic Sleeping Beauties, compulsive Cinderellas, and wicked witch chem majors. I read a version of "Tam Lin" set at a college where the beloved was captured by study, and a modern day "Red Riding Hood" where the wolf was merely a predatory man.

Many are clever, some are brilliant, most are filtered through a sharp, skeptical lens. Precise, but narrow.

"Just" a rose.

I could agonize a few days more over something to say, or I could just post the damn pic.

Every blue-eyed floozie.

Came across this fantastic blog which left me variously appalled/in stitches. And, of course, spurred into imitation. Good fun, despite the art world's unbudging stance on large women--and its subsequent refusal to represent them as anything less than ludicrous, bullish, generally pantless, and, in most cases, besotted with tiny men.

But I'll follow along. And who better to link her with than Hermes? If the Greek pantheon has a trickster god to offer, it's him. Fine fodder for a Lasso of Truth. And perfect cuddle material for any undersexed behemoth.

Where everyone's the same.

Was recently sent this findyourspot quiz. It offers up perfect-match cities and is longish but interesting.

Amongst a smattering of Washington, Texas and Georgia(eh?) locales, my number one came up Olympia, Washington. Predictable enough, considering a lifelong goal of moving back.

Perhaps even less suprising were Alex's top two results.

Thassalotta frequent flier miles.

Bookish.

Beware of a man of one book.: Never attempt to controvert the statement of anyone in his own special subject. A shepherd who cannot read will know more about sheep than the wisest bookworm. This caution is given by St. Thomas Aquinas.

Recently purchased a copy of Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. $5.35 at Milwaukee's best used book store. Now, I'm not posing it as a Dictionary Game replacement, but perhaps as potential alternative...?

Fodder for the animals living on an animal farm.

A piggywig hamming it up.

Lear's representation is more traditional, but I like my swine in suits. There's something unsettling about a pig's bare ass. A phobia that probably owes it dark origins to the cartoon industry and its limited flesh palette.

And so he stands properly accoutred, just in case--

--because, there's the strong intimation that he is waiting for our protagonists to show. Angling his cane. Combing his whiskers. Making halfhearted attempts at the odd truffle to maintain appearances. But he rather prefers crisp linen, and white gloves, and the company of bees to more porkly pursuits. And when word floats down of two travellers in dusty wedding clothes entering the wood, he forgets that he's a pig at all. And so selects the most flattering of his poses and thrusts his snout high and sells the family ring for fame and a shilling.

Worth a watch.

Pretty cool.

Sense of our lives.

Rough draft? First draft? Final draft?!? Jeepers, I just don't know.

I've cast back the dining room curtains to burn out the allergens and the current plague of indecision.

First stones.

And the crow led little Gerda to the back door, which stood ajar (whoops).

More from The Snow Queen's--

-Bustling back entrance.

Obligatory bird standing by--aid to my suspicion that crows are the ancestral chroniclers of all things Faery. Seriously. Take a flip through ten children's books. I'm willing to bet that in seven you'll find a crow skirting the verge in some illustration. Blinking at the audience. Documenting quietly into the underbellies of leaves. I'll stand by those numbers.

Crows.

And sometimes bees.

Though this particular crow is serving multiple purposes. In multiple skits. There's a pointy-chinned king in there. A pauper dressed as a prince. A goosegirl. Two arguing nuns. A tailor with a wagonload of invisible thread. And what looks to be a geisha buying (or is it selling?) lamps. A little gratuitous perhaps, but why not use one bird to kill, well...a couple of stories?

Campaign trail.

"This town has enough problems without having to worry about ghosts and goblins."
H.D. 1989

For Gabby's perusal.

Up and at them.

But finally allowed that angels are essentially the superheroes of a prewar generation. All she needed was a suitable moniker.

J: We can call you Sweet Sixteee, Grandma. Or The Silver Nibbler. Maybe The Baker's Bane. No, I've got it! Grandmacaroon!

Up on the top shelf where mama keeps the cookies.

I had a conversation with Crazy Grandma yesterday that went something like this:

G: You promised Grandma a picture, sweetie.

J: Well, what do you want?

G: Angels!

J: Angels, Grandma? Are you sure you don't want a nice dragon? Maybe some talking mice? How's about I draw you as an angel? That could be fun.

G: Hsst! Don't make fun of your poor Grandma!

J: I would never.

To show virtue her own feature.

One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever.

--From Hans Christian Andersen's The Snow Queen

I was lost for ideas and thought to seek stimulus from the personal favorite of a personal favorite. I'd never read The Snow Queen. It's fantastic--despite my fears that approaching it with agendum would wither its effects. Seems I work well through second-hand inspiration.

That being said, I'll hold off my ramblings on The Differences Between Art and Illustration for another day.

Deja Hue.

Not many changes through the years. The sweatshirt varies. And the state of fade on the cargo pants. Otherwise, remaining a faithful fan of swirling a little milky craze into the dayz.

Needing a refresh in materials.

There are only so many times you can cut your india ink before it starts to lose its grip.

IN UR NURSERY RHYME, STEALING UR FOWL.

The Owl and the Pussycat.

If you don't know it, read it.

It's catchy, it's weird, and, aside from a few extremely unfortunate lines, may be the cleverest bit of anthropomorphism this side of Carroll.

Major Ursa.

Yep.

Daywalker.

Flight of the Possum.

Haven't the foggiest. I recently passed a shop on Elmwood that carried some distinctly impractical umbrellas--flimsy, frilled, definitely not rain-ready. Sunbrellas. Parasols, if you prefer your english uncorrupted. They weren't selling, but I figured their appeal since the Diamond Jubilee and the invention of SPF has been reduced to a small clientelle of badgers and owls. Nocturnals on the lam. Second-shift skunks. Or the odd, thrill-seeking vampire.

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.