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.

Flora.

The pink fairy in the Strawberry Quik wants your soul.

Hansel and Gretel

For this season and for ever after, starring in the role of.

Changing the hue, but holding the line.

Or, What you will.

Now, now.

Don't you cast your scrapbooking labels on me!

Complex.

Lily's been causing problems in the Garden of the Gods. I found Ganesh upended, trunk in the dirt. Buddha's gone pallid with fright, arms in the air, ready for a frisk; and the luckcat has forfeited her turn. I've righted them, consoled them, brushed them off--and braved her resentful tortoise eyes--only to find them freshly dishevelled in an hour or so.

She does, however, seem to enjoy resting in the long dark shadow of Alexander the Great. But, really, don't we all?