Book of Five Rings.

The castle spread out from an ancient center in a series of concentric circles decreasing in age. Each circle was separated from the others by stone walls--more labrynthine than fortress, clasping and overlapping like petals. Each wall was carved in fantastic bas relief showing scenes of the hunt. None was ever still.

The outermost ring depicted the FoxHunt. Costumed men and women armed with tiny bugles. Terriers made dainty attempts at capturing a thinking, reasoning prey. Within these walls was the library, the greenhouse, and a handful of tea-rooms overlooking a lawn. Here she read and studied and was left to herself.

The second ring was the StagHunt. King and retinue, faithful dogs and hawks. Bows and arrows, long-legged steeds, and a quarry that would rather run than hide. The killing blow was always left to the King--possession of land and beast unquestioned, even in stone. Within these walls were the kitchens, the gardens, the aviary. Here she walked the grounds with him and ate with him every night.

The third ring was the BoarHunt. Warlord and men at arms. Long lances, hounds like horses, horses like harts. Success was no certainty and more often than not the warrior king went abidingly to death--staked to the ground by a tusk and snout that demanded sacrifice. Within these walls was a wood and a hall. Here she danced with him, at first unwillingly, but he would always escort her back.

In the fourth ring, the Hunt was reversed. Men of stone, armed with stone, backs to a fire and eyes fixed on the descending pack. Here she did not go, but she could see the tops of oak and black pine over the wall and a host of invisible gardeners was always set to pruning the barriers.

The fifth ring was seen by only one and depicted no Hunt at all. Only a mass of creatures running, running. Some ran on four legs, some ran on more, and there were those that ran on two, but they were no less animal than the rest. Who is to know what this wall contained? It is only left to say that the roads that led inward were many and the road that led out was one. And when The Change came about he could not find any of them and he did not try.

Willing...

...to try one pic a day.

Into the blue.

From Werke, kritische Gesamtausgabe: Tischreden:

Eight years ago [in the year 1532] at Dessau, I, Dr. Martin Luther, saw and touched a changeling. It was twelve years old, and from its eyes and the fact that it had all of its senses, one could have thought that it was a real child. It did nothing but eat; in fact, it ate enough for any four peasants or threshers. It ate, shit, and pissed, and whenever someone touched it, it cried. When bad things happened in the house, it laughed and was happy; but when things went well, it cried. It had these two virtues. I said to the Princes of Anhalt: "If I were the prince or the ruler here, I would throw this child into the water--into the Molda that flows by Dessau. I would dare commit homicidium on him!" But the Elector of Saxony, who was with me at Dessau, and the Princes of Anhalt did not want to follow my advice. Therefore, I said: "Then you should have all Christians repeat the Lord's Prayer in church that God may exorcise the devil." They did this daily at Dessau, and the changeling child died in the following year.... Such a changeling child is only a piece of flesh, a massa carnis, because it has no soul.

--Martin Luther

Come Again?

Why don't you just crawl in there and see if the oven is hot enough?

One of the more suspensful moments in folklore and all I can think is "Her hair is hanging all over that food." Quick thinking, bravery, and a good set of forearms ignored at the prospect of a ruined batch of hot crossed buns. Little girls who forget to don their hairnets deserve Purification by Flame.

A tale dominated by the bellies of evil women. At the first pang of hunger, a frau drives her children out of the home. Into, of course, the waiting hands of a Butcher and Baker who fattens her captives up--probably on gingerbread men--with the intent of baking them down--potentially into gingerbread men (you've gotta search for the cannibalism--there're savory nibblets where you might not think to look). Ultimately the witch can't ignore the demands of her own stomach and a couple of inconvenient grumbles send her tumbling into the fire. Craft and cunning forfeited for the sake of a few extra pounds. Even poor, chubbed up Hansel seems to have lost all reason ("Both of us on the duck? Are you mad, man?"). So things are left to the famished Gretel, who blows on her fingers, cinches her belt, and keeps her wits about her.

Makes you want to throw out those heart-shaped cookies.

Have designs.

Just waiting for the euro to drop a bit more.

Everybody needs to know it's the year of the rat.

As lucky can be.

The confounding chimney sweep.

Is it insensitve to suggest what seems so reasonable--that these are the bastard sons of witches and St. Nick? Where else would Santa take his indiscretions but aloft? Witches are a tempting lot--or at least a welcome change from the Pillsbury softness to which he would be accustomed--thorny and wild, legs wrapped around straw and stars and not much else, and not exactly discriminating when it comes to love. An oddly appropriate, if ill-fitting pair. And the mythologies (if not quite equinanimous) share similar leylines.

Of course, the offspring of these blasphemous unions would always be out of step. Stout believers of Kris Kringle could never bear the implications, and the chambers of a witch's heart are tenanted only by her cats, her owls, her faithful toads. So, orphaned and forgotten, their children would be relegated to the the frilled outer edges of each world--the rooftops.

And so become the sweeps.

In grace and appearance they well resemble their mothers, but their temperaments are much more cheery. They are on friendly terms with the sky but are content with small plots of brick and tile, and they travel the chimneyways with inherited ease. Prim, fastidious, and the perfect caretakers of the supernatural highways, they sweep the hearth, clear the stacks, scuttle the vapor trails, and buff that raw coppery line where city meets sky--smoothing all roads for their absentee parents.

And of course, close the days with a bit of mending:





hemming the skirts of Great Auntie Horizon where they peep up around her red stockinged ankles.

In essence, they are the interworldly janitors, but it's a lofty custodianship.

Bon voyage, Gabby!

Eat your vegetables.

Indulge that gum-popping voice in the back of your head and RENT THIS.

RSVP regrets only.

As I was saying....

And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay held illimitable dominion over all.

Edgar Allen Poe "The Masque of the Red Death"

The Importance of Beating Ernest.

My senior year of high school, I had an English teacher who graded me particularly harshly. On my midterm paper on A Farewell to Arms she slashed through the title page with an injunction to "Stay away from Hemingway!". I think she thought she was being glib. I just thought she was being mean. This picture reminds me of her. Not only for the strong resemblance she bore to your standard kettle stirrer, but also because I've a hunch she would have scrolled something similar across any of my rooftop drawings. "Try to escape the cityscape!". "If it's in the trees, hold back your B's! (pencils, that is)". "Avoid the gables, if you're able!".

I ignore her now as I did then.

Let's go for a stroll.

Outside of a few delusions of grandeur from the Welsh, shoemaking has traditionally been the realm of elves. Honest to goodness elves, proud and undiluted since that first Master Cobbler with Hammers-for-Fingers, with the Pincushion Mouth. No sprite mixed in for humor, nor fairy for whimsy. No dwarvish conscientiousness, or gnomish sense of fair. Which means, of course, that poured into your wingtips is pure Elf--unmitigated by equity or charm. Bad attidudes tap-tapped into your leather, small magicks pooling in your soles. Waiting for your first misstep. And, wrapping themselves around your digits, they will take you where they will.

Harrowdown.

There was an old woman of Harrow,

Who visited in a wheelbarrow;

And her servant before,

Knocked loud at each door,

To announce the old woman of Harrow.

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A runner's plea.

I realize it must be tempting to stand at the back door and save your Uggs a nasty muddying while Fido takes a shit, but for christ's sake...tie up your goddamned dogs, Buffalo.

Yip-yip.

Another elusive Mother Goose. Farmer drives his comely kid into town. Bird spooks horse. Kid gets bucked. I'd like to say I was drawn to the cautionary tone--"pride coming before a fall" and whatnot--but I suspect it has something more to do with horses asses. I'm not one to argue with powerful trends. Let's just call it a January theme.

NY Salad.

While folding laundry, I struck up discourse with the denizens in the back room. The lampshade shadows are shifty but they don't miss much; and, once the temperature hits sixty-four, the radiator pipes start to squeal and gossip like little girls. So I turned up the heat and decided to address domestic matters--notably defense plans for whatever has taken to writhing around in the midroom walls. I suggested a potential loose plaster problem. The pipes disagreed and(claiming more intimate knowledge of apartment viscera) chattered on about dust serpents. The shadows dropped dark eyes and whistled which I took to indicate something worse. Of course, all attempts at strategy eventually lost themselves along more conversational routes--from questions regarding the seasonal Livingston ban on chocolate chip cookies, to the Tube Sock Currency Issue, to philosophies on why the buoyant mushroom is really the most congenial of all foods. More pressing matters of hearth and home.

To 2008.

Skumps.

Where the drifts get deeper.

The wood grew wilder, her mood milder. And winter eventually cracked and bled the color of roses.

Exhaustivo.

Last one. Promise.

Last year's leftovers.

Found this at the back of the icebox. Scraped off the rime, peeled back the layers of foil, took a cautious sniff, and decided that, with a nice holly garnish, it might just be fit for consumption.