"Neither weaker nor less firm."

At the coming of Ragnarok, the maidens will burn when the Rhine runs with flame, the gold will be found anew, and the Helm of Dread will be worn by one far greater than Hreidmar's son.

Morning routine.

mullberry rouge from Persia--2 gold pieces

Black Sea kohl (Medea's speciality)--one shorn ram

age defying appleseed oil from the Hesperides--5 rattlesnake tails

UV-blocking balm (Heal-ios Inc.)--one amber necklace

membership to Atlas Gym--12 wool blankets

hair brightener--courtesy of Midas

making your wishes count--priceless

Lady Liberty.

Glancing-eyed, banner weilding. Feet in the corn, head in the clouds.

In violet light.

Where the spectrum ends. From the earth, to the earth.

Lunar jodhpurs--

--what a time to be alive.

Right outside of your front door.

Product of abundant porching and scarce imagination.
Safe as houses.

Pelting.

They all saw her, but of course they let her run. They turned their eyes and scrubbed the kit. Vigorously flavored the stew. Yelled a little too loudly for the pail. In those last seconds while the sun lingered in the streets to set her hair traitorously ablaze, the townspeople that had pitied her and worshipped her mother gave her safe passage into shadow.

And so exhaled their concerns--as much for themselves as for her. For if a king's strength is enough to inflame his people, there was the thought that his madness might be enough to infect them.

Revelry.

Maybe not in the strictest sense, but spoonfuls can be quite enough. Spoonfuls of airy powdered-sugar fun.

And liters of body wash.

Because New Orleans stinks. Literally.

Perhaps it's the layers of heat--heat of a thousand categories. Or perhaps it's the irrepressible plant life left to rot and riot and rot again. Or the fluids produced by body and building--sweat and piss and beer and coffee and fourth-story runoff--travelling in milky rivulets down every street, over every stone, between unwary toes. But the smell has a presence, if not a name. And it clings to that fat insistent dance partner that is Southern summer.

A city of glorious excretion, but I fear it's never coming off.

rocks. just rocks.

I suddenly remembered my Charlemagne.

Brave (new) world.

What does it say about a person's work when he tries for innovation and ends up mulling around his roots? Not much, I suppose. Experimentation is nothing if not starting from the beginning.

A thunderous clap would have been nice, though--to herald The Tempest.

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.

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.

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.

Marsyas.

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