...gone apey.

Rhapsody Playlist

Here's the artist I was losing my wits and words over the other day.

Little goose, who made thee?

Feelin' barnyardish lately.

The Goosegirl. It's a fave. Perhaps because it reminds me of my sister in law (has a thing for headkerchiefs). Or because there's a talking horsehead. Or because in the end they roll the fraudulent princess down a hill in a barrelful of nails until she's dead.

There was one small, horrifying moment when I thought I'd got it all wrong. That it was goats instead of geese and I'd made some terrible mistake and how the hell was I going to explain a gooseherder? I mean, if it had been the other way around, no problem. There's Bo Peep, and Mary's Little Lamb, a handful of Aesop's, maybe even some Blake that I could have fudged. But geese? Nuh.

But it's all good. No worries. Except for the missing gooseboy Conrad that I sliced out and am fairly sure is harboring a grudge over being deprived his fifteen minutes.

Seriously.

A curse on blogger.

The Rhapsody links aren't working, but I'm going to suggest an extra bit of fingerwork to check out Jeremy Enigk's one solo release. I'm about ten years late on this one, which doesn't really matter as he sounds thirty years out of place. Missed a couple of grooves on the generational circuit that all music travels.

But so worth the lag. Tull-esque. Drake-y.

With undertones of Lewis Carroll. Complete with what sounds to be an orchestra of tiny grass dwellers. Playing on instruments of reeds. Amplifying the sound with webbed hands and feet. Raising voices in sweet unrestraint.

Compass.

It was only a matter of time.

It'll be interesting to see how a children's movie deals with an issue Potter only hinted at--that mean business of soul-cutting.

Wah, wah.

Opinion seems to be unanimous. And while I've flat-out refused to do a second installment of the bothersome Baa, I will admit to a change of heart. From here out, it's all flower petals and large, blinking eyes. Ankle socks and ribbons and small, shy things peeking out from under their mothers' skirts.

Feels good, dammit.

Locking horns.

Alex commissioned a pic for a work friend's baby shower. He gave me a curt "She likes sheep" and left me to my devices. I paged through our Mother Goose, double checked the appropriateness factor, and opted for Baa Baa Black Sheep.

On giving him the piece, he refused to bring it in.

"There's no way I'm giving this to her in front of an office of women. It looks like a demon goat."

"Why on earth not? And it's a long-horned ram. Technically a sheep."

"It's the devil and it's roaring damnation down on your audience."

"It's bleating. It's just been sheared, for chrissakes. He's a little testy."

"No one is going to hang this in a nursery. It's the sort of thing that scars children. And grandparents."

"It's the sort of thing that kids appreciate later on."

"It looks like the cover of a Tenacious D album. No."

Ever on and on.

Took to sorting through and sifting out my drawerfuls of illustrations the other day. It's an excercize in humility that leaves me more deflated than inspired, despite the headiness of a good cleaning, but it's hard to stop once begun.

I came across this one, which I consider the first of its kind-- slick with age and from a thousand adventures in bookbags. It's at once a detailed testament to a cramped, unrelenting seventeen-year-old hand and a model of my complete (and completely irresponsible) textual disregard. (Bilbo Baggins in Persian pantalones? Gracious no!).

But I love it. Thundercat influences and all. And it remains in the "Keep" pile. On top of The Owl and the Pussycat, between the parades of pen and ink dwarves.

Fighting in the shade.

I grew tired and halfhearted in the middle of a particular snit yesterday and decided to change subjects.


Fairly characteristic, but the segue was ill-timed:

J: "Do you realize what today is the anniversary of?"

A: (stammering) "What? Well...uh...just give me...lemme...Maybe it's...?"

J: "You know this one."

A: "I really...er...well..."

J: (suddenly aware that it all sounded like a nasty trap) "Oh, good christ no! What do you think of me?"
"Thermopylae, dude. Thermopylae."

Happy August 11th.

Cornflower Blue Crayon on Canvas.

In case Alex forgets. There are more at the 1988 site (including a great Princess Toadstool) if you're up to a little digging.

Are we having a party?

I passed by a house on my walk today that gave me pause. Underneath the low wall was an empty forty, a bottle of bubbles, an open package of stick-on tattoos, and a suspiciously skittish flock of small brown birds.

The chaff.

A little Rumple for your weekend.

A classic. If only for holding to true Grimm form by offering up a cast of horrible characters.
They're all detestable, through and through:

The girl who wails without reason. Just shut up already.
The father who claims falsely that his crying daughter can spin gold from flax.
The king who not only carts off the miserable kid, but locks her away with an injunction to spin and marry his son, or keep weeping and die after three days.
The son who--let's face it--has no better prospect than to be married off to some semi-attractive street urchin.
And the bargaining Rumple himself. Though what the offspring of two such ill-favored parents could have to offer the linseed alchemist, I'll never know. Perhaps doughy half-royals are an essential ingredient in the whole conversion process.

That or they make for good sport.

Chill.

Nothing doing beyond sweltering. Listening to Alison Goldfrapp's icy vocals--this in particular.

Pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.

On my honor, I saw a mini tumbleweed dart past this afternoon. The baba a few houses down has been preparing for this day. Her garden is all shale and sage and spikey drab things that smell lovely when crushed under your sneaker--and I swear I heard the snapping of blistered fingers as it butted up against her porch.

That and the clouds have been burning for days. No substance or wet. Just grey breath on a clear sky and always the smell of smoke.

Great times...

...but what kind of people refuse to get up and dance to Come On Eileen?

Wouldn't mama be proud.

Looks like someone is a chip off the old block.

So, he may not have completely lost his shit on HempNecklaceGuy, but the disapproval was palpable.

To tell the truth...

If Alex can bandy about rumors, so can I. Appropriate, considering that Joss Whedon has been tapped for the screenplay, but I wish he had cast his sights a little higher to the much more Amazonian Zoe.

"Your footsteps give you away."

It doesn't take much to propel me out of bed at 2:27 AM. My brain is usually dying for a stab at paranoia at that hour and my reflexes are unswerving yes-men in the dark. Last night it was a creak--or maybe a snick--that sent me up and about, exploring the undersides of beds, standing still and snuffling for long moments at doorways, coming eerily close to looking like some kind of barefoot invader myself. Probing corners, breath held.

And creeping to the window for the final check.

I never know what to expect when I look out. A flapping dog leash in the form of a noose. A ring of dancing jackrabbits (sinister animals). Maybe an eye peering back. But I was not prepared, in bending back the blind, for it to make the same noise that woke me. At that hour strange logic asserts itself and I felt sure that it could have only been me that I had heard minutes ago--standing there, dreaming myself back in bed and waking myself in turn. Or maybe I'd been late for my nightly appointment at the window and some ghostly impulse had given the blinds a sympathetic flick. Anyway, I was comforted where I probably should not have been, and followed my previous and future shades back to sleep.

Back in your crate.

It occurred to me last week as I blew past the open windows, shrieking inanities at the pup, that I should try being more selective with my invectives. Who is it exactly that the luckless passerby thinks I'm entertaining? What is the neighborhood left guessing as choruses of whosabadboy?s and nobiting!s and shameless cackles float out past the curtains into the early afternoon? Perhaps something a little less innocent than the game of tag with a tiny bulldog who's just pissed on my foot.

Idiot, slow down.

Thom Yorke's The Eraser released yesterday. Rhapsody's withholding it and I had to fight the impulse to trot down Elmwood and buy it sight unseen. I've since heard a few tracks and meh. But a well-written review always makes a shitty album seem worthwhile.

Doin' it for themselves.

I suppose it's only fitting that I offset a weekend spent marvelling (as an outsider) at the bonds of sisterhood with an ode to the two worst sisters in literature. Balance things out a little, as I'm sure it's not all mohitos and chocolate ice cream and shared sparkly shirts. Though I could be wrong.

Aside from a scheming duo in Arabian Nights that would switch out their sister's newborns for puppies, these two are the worst of the lot. Not to mention successful, having managed spots in the biggies of both mythology and fairytale. All despite the obstacles of merchant class mediocrity, and pinching corsets, and sub-par husbands. You've got to admire their persistence.

More of the same.

Me likey. From their upcoming album.

Season of the Shark.

Went to see this last night. Great stuff, if you like arthropodal makeout scenes and fuzzed-out guitars. The crowd was an improbable mix, the music was terrifying and beautiful and precise, and the ushers were appropriately ogreish.
Oh, and the band was selling t-shirts in the Shea's lobby before the show--next to the bar, under the painting of Lucille Ball, largely ignored. It was all pretty perfect.

Oh-joh-boh.

Or whatever cutesy noises you prefer.

Puppywatch 2006 has begun. This is Dooley. Or Duel-y. Or Duly. I'm not certain on the spelling, but considering we only get him for one shift a day, it doesn't really matter.

Magically delicious.

Purple sky. Orange moon. Something real cool is happening somewhere close.

Nods.

A hearty hurrah to the Garveys. We tipped our barbeque beefs to you at lunchtime. In all seriousness.

Congrats also go out to UltraViolet for unseating Daredevil as Shittiest Movie. Affleck had a good long run, but he fell to flaming swords, sharp one-liners, and the omnipresent pelvic area of Milla Jovovich.

Never enough.

My parents returned from the wastes of El Paso this past week.

They came bearing gifts, among which were spices, hot sauce, handmade Indian kitzch (the New Mexican natives have this crazy knack for nitelights), a set of godawful monogrammed coasters that by week's end will have been tucked away, and this:


It's an actual paper with actual articles and we're actually planning on framing and hanging it. So, feel free to either covet or condemn, according to your inclination.

Feed me banks of light.

God damn, I love being an American.

Snubbed a porchly Fourth in favor of rockers and fireflies. Ate some mean brats. Hounded other peoples' dogs. Followed a glittering line of connect-the-dots back into the city on a well-timed drive home. Listened to music that filled the dark corners perfectly. Sat under a flag.

Avatar.

Gotta run...episodes of Last Airbender are on YouTube.

Crazy Grandma.

Visited my grandmother today. I secretly enjoy what I can liken only to teatime in Wonderland. If I don't concentrate too hard it makes good sense, but after an hour it starts to unstring itself into pigbabies.

She set me to pitting fruit under the gay merman while she slippered around the yellow table. We drank tea and ate fresh cherries and peaches and scoops of cottage cheese from tiny crystal bowls. We made poor harmony chattering in our own separate senseless strains. I rumbled about orange light on sidewalks, she mused that the robins were "calling for rain". Sometimes there'd be a chorus of comprehension. More often not.

We retired to the living room, and on passing the bust of young Octavian I resisted, once again, the Pygmalian urge to kiss it. She sat in her Red Queen chair, I picked an armless lounge covered with largeprint roses. We held court with the lifesized Buddha and the ceramic frogs and the iron rabbit bookends and the two Indic goddesses. She pretended to read her New Yorker, I pooh-poohed my uncle's Basquiat, but neither of us payed much attention to anything other than the seacolored walls. And when the colors began to run and our sometime-similarities became a little too glaring for comfort, I stood up, ignored her plea for a hug, dodged the hornet gaurd on the porch, and pelted out into realtime.

"I thought it was already as heavy as can be."

I've wasted my morning. Dreaming of flying again in the half-light.

J and J. Part 3

More Jorinda and Joringel. I've got 'em riding a line of adolescence that might be pushing it. Grimm likes its heroes unfledged (read Snow White or The Snow Queen--no one peeps above twelve), but I get squeamish at the thought of too-young love. These two in particular share a lot of alone time. And, as it's obvious that 'woodland strolling' means something else entirely (blackberry picking, of course), I'd prefer everyone to at least be legal. Those thorns can get prickly for the unlicensed bumpkin.

No shit.

I read that these two are discussing lead roles for Atlas Shrugged. The wake of the news sent me into a flat spin that's most recently been marked by spoonfuls of molasses and a stubborn addiction to America's Next Top Model. My brain refuses to recover from the downward spiral.

But I suppose the casting is vaguely appropriate as the novel revolves around a woman who sleeps her way through the country's brain trust and in the end flies off in a jetplane to an intellectual utopia in the sky. (I liken it to that other great fifties epic, but with railroads rather than T-Birds, and doo-wop replaced with bright sassy odes to capitalism). The smarties are safe and cocooned and the dumbasses are left to their cotton candy and their beauty school drop-outs and their red-scare versions of WMD's.

Which led Alex to ask the burning question:
"Who cleans the shitters in a land where everyone is a supergenius?"

From a Basement on a Hill.

There was an old woman, lived under a hill.

And if she isn't gone, she lives there still.

Baked apples she sold, and cranberry pies.

And she's the old woman who never told lies.

To the nasty business of deconstructing a piece.

Stay in the shade.

Rainy-day great.

Love the one you're with.

My dad requested new artwork for his fishing boat "Mel". "Something more detailed," he said. Translation: "something bustier". Putting my objections to painting nubile naiads on the hull of the cranky, turquoise excuse-for-a-craft aside, I agreed--it being Father's Day weekend and all.

But I'm experiencing some apprehension regarding a changing of the gaurd of what is essentially the deity of the vessel. Goddesses are a touchy bunch--water goddesses notoriously so--and I can't help feeling that by supplanting the first ungainly icon with a newer, sleeker model he's begging to be on the receiving end of some well-deserved wrath. Watery wrath, that is--which makes me even more nervous. I don't know what tempers lie beneath the lids of those unruffled Pennsylvania lakes, but I'll wager they're old and unforgiving.

Besides, what new spirit is going to want to take up residence in a boat where the last inhabitant was given the boot on account of her fading appearance? My resistance to this whole thing stems not only from well-informed fear, but also from pure feminine indignation.

And she says, "Tsk."

What did I just tell myself about tinkering?

I got the remonstrative negative from The Missus S. on my latest piece. I turned it upside down and sideways, showed it under sunlight and lamplight, from a window on the porch and through the bottom of a orange juice glass. She was unbudging and I was inconsolable.

The Gathering.

I've been pushing the borders of geek lately.

There's a growing pile of novels in the shitty book bookcase that's become harder to keep from prying eyes. In it is a grade-level retelling of Tam Lin from my sister in law, a couple of Dean Koontz classics on Frankenstein's monster, and the sequel to the Jason and the Argonauts time travelling adventure that I read back in March. These were never meant to see the light of day--are really the kind of trash to be brought to bed with a blanket and a flashlight, or tucked behind a copy of Ladies Home Journal. But stacked as they are, they have a combined power that will not be ignored. And they've begun to seethe and spew from the shadows.

Seeking his own Manifest Destiny, Alex has mounted an effort to catalougue and price his Magic cards. They've set up pastel camp on the kitchen table landscape and have likely initiated talks with my bookcase by means of drum and nightlight.

As their generals, it's been difficult to not catch the fever. Which I suspect was the plan all along. Who can tell how many discussions ("Rebecca Guay or Quentin Hoover?" "Geekiest Cover of a Book You've Read?") it will take before we realize we are simply mouthpieces passing information between two armies which will no doubt merge and conquer once we're out of the way?

Jumping levels.

A reminder to myself of yesterday's brief eureka.

Something having to do with pine. And a crow outside.

Pleasantries.

Exactly two years here and our next door neighbor finally introduced himself. Since the move, we've maintained a rigid, wary co-existence with them based on a few simple rules: no eye contact, no words, and complete indifference when we pass each other on our (very frequent) beer runs to Wilson Farms. We acknowledge the differences between us--and despise them accordingly.

But Tuesday night, "Mike" came over, asked politely for a smoke and made strained conversation. I'm not sure if he felt he needed to bum in order to converse or the other way around, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm also not sure why he made the effort with us--the hard hardcore lesbians that live on the other side are much more approachable--but I've a few theories. Perhaps he'd spent the last two years in a drug induced haze, had never noticed us, and the clouds were just beginning to clear. Or perhaps he has a secret love of MarioKart and just couldn't stand not being part of the fun. Maybe he'd heard me bitching last week about neighbors who walk naked in front of open windows, and figured that since I was on such familiar terms with his scrot, etiquette demanded that I at least know his name. Or maybe he just wanted a moment's rest from his lovely wife.

Whatever the reason, he came and the boundaries are officially down. Which makes him the bigger neighbor. And one less person I can ignore on my sprints from the car to the front door and back again.

Ley-lines.

Still making a nuisance of myself with our camera (which has in turn been proving obstinate--it's clearly a fair weather device). The great thing about Buffalo is that taking a few steps out of doors affords you with a buffet of architectural delights--and with residents that are forebearing enough to let you capture them as by the bys on film.

And there's no end in sight. A good thing, seeing as how we're woeful homebodies. As long as I can keep finding charming little angles in the doorways of Blockbuster and in the trees around the hospital garbage cans. Chapin alone is a world waiting to be populated with lanterns rather than stoplights and racing turtles in lieu of the odd Ford Taurus.

But the going has been so slow lately...

The growing pack.

It's about time!

For those who didn't know, he 'e go.

Barely contained.

It seems I need to see Da Vinci, especially considering the circling rumors that this one is in talks to play The Joker in the next Batman installment.

Also, my personal countdown has begun. Twenty two days and pre-ordered (yes?).

On a related note, we've managed to hold to our boycott of X-Men for the second week in a row. I've not quite forgiven Singer & Co. for the defection to Camp DC. But I suppose if someone asks you to direct Superman, you say YES.

Cleaning the platter.

Here was the face that only a fat man could love.

The thing started out so well. A little Spratly role-reversal, is all. And why the hell not? It makes more sense that a Sprat that 'could eat no fat' is really a fat Sprat on a diet, chafing under the thumb of his thorny wife. It was just so clever and cheeky. Him sitting at the table, stomach a-growl as he pushes around his perfect peas, while she parades the kitchen--all collarbones and grit--spooning potatoes into a frame that defies softening (she's very high strung, poor thing) and yelling a strident "Eat!" (German accent optional).

What a colorful spin, right?

But I passed it by the other night and under my drunk, unkind eyes it began to unravel. Sprat was slipping from his bench and those perfect peas were set to rolling. The flagstones blurred and the ceiling beams curled and wandered. Indeed, it seemed that every angle had decided to buck against my tinkering with convention. "Where is our Skeletal Sprat?" They asked. "Where is our Large-Bosomed Mistress?" And it keeps getting worse--so it's been posted as is, before it becomes more wreckage than rhyme.

Except for that mangled missus, whose death mask of a face will be kept in a sock drawer--stern warning against Inventiveness in Illustration.

Wowza.

It's been settled then. We've found the world's perfect dress.

"'Cuz on Tuesdays they all like to catch them unawares."

"I'll steal that banana from you."

Three screens and a dozen cryptic discussions ranging from fruit to flowers. Set to playoff commercials and punctuated by the odd yowl of disappointment.

Makes for some strange nighttime drawing and the powerful compulsion to sneak around with a pen.

memorialized

Weekend recommendations:

chipped pork under tents
stale Twizzlers for breakfast
listening to the game-clamor from the porch
painting in the shade
new summer shirts
drunken pilates

Going native.

The risks of obscure reference-making:

A: "You've been drinking a lot of water lately."
J: "I've been in the sun a lot lately."
A: "My little sihaya."
J: "Oh hells no. Did you just call me 'water fat'???"
A: "No, no! I called you 'desert flower'."
J: "...well, my Fremen isn't what it once was."

What a time to be alive.

If they stick with the original Whelan artistic blueprints this should be passable. I'm not holding my breath or anything. (Should I downplay my cool by mentioning that I'm spinning in my chair at the prospect? Or that McCaffrey looks a hell of a lot like my great aunt and I once entertained notions of us being related? Or that fourteen year old me was guilty of...(gasp)...fan art?).

Considering the systematic way the film industry seems to be munching through the sci-fi/fantasy classics (library cards out, list of Hugo winners in hand), they should get to L'Engle in no time. That's where the real fun begins.

Four

Four jobs I've had:
1. Can I say artist four times?
2. Something offloading trucks
3. Something with tacos
4. Something with a headset

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. The Last Unicorn
2. Any X-Men
3. Sense and Sensibility
4. Superman (the original, fingers crossed for the upcoming)

Four places I have lived:
1. El Paso, Texas
2. Olympia, Washington
3. Stuttgardt, Germany
4. Fayetteville, North Carolina

Four tv shows I love to watch:
1. Scrubs
2. BSG
3. Gilmore Girls
4. repeats of Invader Zim

Four places I've been on vacation:
1. the Cascades ("oooh, Lake Chelan!")
2. White Sands
3. Oktoberfest in Munich
4. Vancouver, BC (Expo '86)

Four websites I visit daily:
1. blogs
2. Rackham sites
3. Drawn!
4. MSN

Four of my favorite foods:
1. mac n cheese
2. mashed potatoes
3. Grape Nuts
4. my ma's spaghetti and meatballs

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. in my mom's kitchen
2. on a run
3. sitting at the dining room table (get a move on, you)
4. at Mighty

The Order of the Iron Mold

I had grand plans for the day. Drink some tea. Go for a run. Play war with my brother in law's diecast figurines*.

The black trunk with silver CrystalCaste scrolling was too much for my itchy fingers last night, and while the boys were out I hazarded a peek. Between giggles and layers of exacto- cut foam my plan took form. There would be two armies. The painted figures (Paintees) would have the easychair high ground and the obvious advantage. The unpainted (Pewtees) would be camped on the carpet savannas--worn from walking, but silent and grim.

At the sound of silver trumpets there would be a wild surge downward. First a shriek and slide as tiny hooves caught the nap, then the clattering of miniature swords by the landing near the Japanese balls, now a fierce sortie by a company of dwarves, perhaps some surprise reinforcements from behind our collection of Oz. And the Paintees would fall with the day while victory was crowed by fleets of eagles, and bats, and impossibly small flying squirrels in breastplates....

All to be caught on film. Perhaps narrated.

But brother and box are gone, and our camera never was up to the task. Which is for the best--since what would have started as mockery would undoubtedly have turned into plain fun.

* or 'Figs' as we were solemnly informed

Two sides.

Won't quite tide me over until September, but funny funny.

Horde.

The invasion is near. Long limbed, long locked, reeking of Mountain Dew and intent on assaulting my senses with Babylon 5 minutiae.
And I've only a papasan and a couple of bent spoons to satisfy it.

Scraps.

Some sprightly Sprats. And the requisite butter churn.

Put on a smiley face.

Before we out for the week, there's this. Follow with the rest of the album and a Sleepy Brown "Margherita" chaser. Nothing like jump-starting vacation with a little post-funk. All thoughts of Elliott Smith have fled in the face of jelly flip-flops and Vanity Fair.

"I have given you a present already, more than I could afford."

I can't say that I'm pleased with the first attempt. Neither could someone else, which made for a sullen evening. I can offer some excuses. Like my fingers were twitching the entire time--some sort of dark sympathy for the character. Or that art doesn't lend itself well to murder--but that's just ridiculous. Or that I didn't give the subject its due--which hits nearer the mark.

In fact, that last has me regretting a week spent sketching outside in the irresistable weather. My legs are burned, my feet are dirty, and my ideas are all bleached out. Nothing looks good in the full light of day anyway. Or, for that matter, illuminated onscreen. So, I'm going to search out denser methods, more robust colors--maybe dabble in layers of ink. And slip away for a while until I think I can stand the glare.

Squawk.

Yesterday our landlady announced that she'd joined the neighborhood knitting club. She looked so cute with her weekend hair and her big bellied boyfriend, and we'd all been chatting so nicely from our sunny corners that I chose to not share my opinions with the rest of the porch. My suspicion is that these clubs are fronts. That beneath the hum of cold industry lies a beating heart whose goal is the collection, distribution and creation of gossip. It pumps evil purpose into those soft little hands and those shining needles.

Nor did I mention my inherent distrust of The Clutch. That any gathering of three of more women becomes a disturbing example of hive mentality and that outsiders must either sue for entry or cross their fingers and pray they aren't found. Now, we live spare, innocuous lives, but detection is fairly certain, if long in coming. It's a matter of elimination. After evenings of deconstructing the neighborhood personalities--the stoned gardener accross the street, the bikini bacchanites next door--they will have to move to lighter fare. Eventually, there will come a day of No News. And on that day, they will turn their bloody beaks around and find something dreadfully intriguing about that quiet couple with their books and their laptops and their glasses of iced tea.

On your side.

I was scrounging for some musical fare to read to and found this. It's older, so I'm not going to brag, but it's quiet and strumming and the band has a whiff of Yo La Tengo to them. The rest of the album is pretty great too and totally suited to an evening of reverent page-turning.

Sound of sounds.

Fitting and disturbing that my first words of the day were, at three pm in a voice raspy from disuse, the "satan is real" printed below today's Penny Arcade. They just swelled out of me from some forgotten nicotene cranny.

Nothing much. Just braying about my foot and the crappy new Gomez cd. Booh.

Also, yippee skippee to sarah for finding this.

Pilgrims?

March winds and April showers bring May flowers.

They're all anthropomorphized, see?

Little March winds. Carrying pipes that they never bother to play properly. Blackhaired and surly and roving like wild things. Terrorizing the pets.

Blue-shawled April with her copper watering can. Listless and moody--pale but for the running eyeliner. Muddying the rugs and wringing her skirts onto the floor before she goes upstairs to sulk.

Biddable May. Fair and rosy. Always shocked by the mess. Probably armed with a paintbrush and a mop. Accountable to Summer for the state of things.

Chained to an old-auntie couch.

This is what happens to kids who play outside.


A combination of a lack of grace, the poorly paved Buffalo streets, and an insistence on passing older runners. I can't pretend I didn't deserve it. Though I did give the neighborhood a much needed lesson in profanity. I will also admit I looked like a mighty fool.

Mmm...Mighty....

guh-huh.

woot.


Which File Extension are You?

God damn dirty...

I got yelled at by a homeless guy on my run today. Not a true barrage, but there was arm-waving and a definite lunge. A dispute was raging over (literally) a garbage can and amidst a string of bumspeak the larger and more prickly of the two turned to me and yelled "Did you put her up to this???". I made a sprint for the bridge. Dude stayed put, but it did wonders for my pace.

But the emergence has started. The first few have pulled themselves from wherever they've been wedged (churches, basements, I've got some theories about warm air pockets in the mud by the pond). Now, I enjoy the odd thrashing of the trash, but it's best to stay clear of the punchy spring bums. They're nervy with the thaw and tempers are running high with the initial turf skirmishes. By mid-summer, lines will be drawn, benches marked, and things will mellow. By August you'll have to peel them off the Wilson Farms parking lot with a knife. For now, I keep my jacket full of stones and pepper.

"They talk fast, but they talk true."

Apparently my Tuesdays were getting too decadent and someone was keeping watch. At some point between Gilmore Girls, America's Next Top Model, spoonfuls of whipped cream and Hershey's syrup, and mutterings about how I'd forgotten that Tristan & Isolde was coming out and now it'll be weeks before I'll be able to find it at our shitty Blockbuster, it got to be too much. Perhaps it was last night's smoochy scene with Brad and that blonde chick from Happy Gilmore that put things over the edge. I thought I'd been balancing things out with Firefly Wednesdays, but somewhere a scale was just upended.

Serves me right.

Goody Goodwife put a hex on me.

A corner of another piece of scrap. Though I'm not to blame for it. I'm holding my mom directly repsonsible. She'd asked so sweetly to see some of my pieces, and I'd been such a testy bitch all week that I decided to make things up to her and go against my strict "no viewings until finished" policy. So I laid things out and she played nice with my terrible ego.

Until this one.

"What are those things in the corner?"

"I dunno, mom. Grass fairies?"

"Ah." Followed by the series of ticks that generally indicates the bruising of her tender, born-again sensibilities. The nervous smile and compulsive throat clearing that have been the norm since I showed her my first hobbit, grotesque and reeking slightly of magenta marker. I've never been quite sure what pointed ears have to do with the Dark Lord's work, but I packed my shit up without a word and we made pineapple horns (or should I say "crescents"?) instead.

The next morning, try as I might, I could not set pen to paper. Seems that the different strata of superstition we inhabit intersect at some crucial point.

You know it's a weddin' when...

You have to offer a ride to a family whose two pickups have broken down.
Your father yells "Nice dress!" in the church parking lot, and three scantily clad guests turn and smile.
The dance floor is empty for Al Green, but everyone gets up and sings along with "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy."
You have to time your trips to the bathroom around the groups of pot-smokers who will no doubt kick your ass just for being straight.
The bottles of wine on the tables have pasted-on, photo-shopped images of the bride and groom.
The newlyweds get the floor to themselves for a very special dance to Nine Inch Nails' "Closer".
and...
The maid of honor has to go on a beer run when the bar runs dry at nine thirty.

Season of Multiple Coats.

Four pics scrapped in two days. The first I'd spent three on. It was doing fine, but was slow in the going and I panicked at the stretch of time before me with no real guarantee of success. I like a sure thing. I'm also starting to realize that there are certain shapes that my mind can't grapple with. Old women in shawls. Arrangements of hills. Daffodils (those improbable angles, dernit!). Stubbornly, I keep returning to them--routinely I get swatted back. But it will come.

Maybe it's the change in weather. My sphere of interest revolves--from things dancing in dead treetops to things turning in the grass. A seasonal world-tip. It just takes a while to regain balance and let the vertigo clear.

But either way, I run the risk of getting hit by cars.

Put the bunny in the box.

Don't ask me--it came of its own volition. Alex walked in and practically yelped, "What the hell did you do to the Easter Bunny?", but it's not my fault.

He's been let out for a smoke break. Problem is, those muscles are too atrophied to assume any position but the one he keeps in his cage. Right leg up, left leg down, ears and hands at rest, head cocked to avoid the little fingers that find routes between the wires. Always worming, worming...

But his handler seems to think it's good for him. So, he's picked up, arranged on the back steps, and left to blink in the sun for a few minutes. Only to be put back in when his color returns and his legs start remembering their old speed.

Tsk, tsk.

A meme picked up from the RT a few days back.

Five Worst Traits:

1. I never switch my fork back to my right hand after cutting my food--it's easier just to eat with the left.
2. I point at people when I talk excitedly.
3. I've been known to hide behind bushes, or fences, or the cereal aisle when I see someone I don't like coming towards me.
4. I weild my right of way as a pedestrian like a battle-axe.
5. I'm a chronic high-fiver.

Unmoved.

By night's end, the bunny count was at a whopping six, leading local residents to twitter about early tulips, fat robins, global warming, and potential stews for the upcoming year. The rabbits remained unfazed, however, and continued to nibble at the gardens and the cardboard Peanuts cutouts. Several took advantage of their holiday status and the atmosphere of springtime tolerance and basked on the sidewalks, tripping dogwalkers and flashing impertinent tails at the fair-weather runners.

Mornin'.

I'm in the worst mood of my life.

My knee has exploded in pain.

I have to serve thirty two people eggs benedict and polish sausage in twenty eight minutes (and counting).

My Easter Bunny has always been black with glowing red eyes (Santa has glowing green, the Tooth Tairy has glowing yellow). Every Easter, I wake in the predawn to the mental image of him slavering by my bedside.

My aunt has no fewer than five crucifixes in her house. I hate crucifixes worse'n the smell of eggs benedict and polish sausage.

Warrior woman.

There's been a hot debate (I should say, hotness debate) going the last couple of days over four little ladies. This pic puts things in better perspective, I think, and goes far to prove me right.

My ranking? From hottest to least hot, go from right to left.

Maybe a quick nap.

That owl knows something's up.

Who's the woman kidding, really? No self-respecting peddlar would sport her wares so carelessly. In these days of the Roadside Outlaw, the best method is to bundle and run from town to town, fingering a charm against brigandry.

There's also something about her appearance. An awareness of the waist and a tightness of the bodice that at best hints at coquetry, at worst vanity. Neither of which lends itself to an occupation that relies on distraction and deception and the savory secrets in pockets and twisted scarves. And those earrings, and ribbons, and polished(!) buckles--storybook embellishments, and no more practical than her shoes.

But over everything is the smell. Not of woodsmoke and bog, but of expensive perfumes gone stale. Of blood and of bad magic. As hard to disguise as the gold skirts winking around her ankles. But it doesn't have to be a lasting costume--just impressive enough for an adolescent. She only needs a few moments, and then it will all be cast aside as she gloats over her Bianca (or Blanche, or Alba, or Gwynne--whatever name this particular juncture in time and place sees fit to give its Snow White).

Such a thin getup for someone who knows. The owl could warn the girl, but why? He is a bird of ill-omen after all, and the sun is just beginning to rise....

"Three cirlces--two moons and a crown."

The latest in the avian antics down by the lake:

Three birds whirling in the way-ups. Hawk. Seagull. Crow.
The gull is wailing.
The hawk is the obvious aggressor--either holding something or after something, but certainly up to something.
The two smaller birds work as a team and take turns buzzing. One shining arrow, one dark blot.

I've got nothing. We could have been watching the end to the ill-fated pairing of two star-crossed birds. Or the beginning. Or perhaps it was simply neighborly altruism on the part of the crow. Or the traditional reenactment of some old Native story--Crow suing for Gull's hand, Gull pleading with Hawk. Or an assasination attempt by Hawk's two closest councillors.

It all smacked of portent. Or maybe of riddle.

A bit dated...

I was folding laundry and listening to My Radio when this (yes, it's a Rhapsody link) came on. The vocals were cloudy from where I was standing, but it had a strumming modern indie feel and it was good. Turns out it was Pink Floyd (when in doubt, it's always Floyd--or Beck). I happen to (really) like Floyd, but give 'er a whirl. If you likey, I also recommend "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" on their A Saucerful of Secrets. You'll never believe it's from 1968.

In actual current music news, I hear Gomez has a new cd coming out. Word is May 2nd.

Deviations.

This one got away from me for a while. Probably because in the middle of the (excessively long) process I started making up stupid stories.

The girl in the middle is Mousy. Our heroine. Drab, temperamental, smart. She's poor--probably orphaned--but with some rare gift (aside from head-of-the-class status). The king likely owes her family some debt (her father saved his life, or maybe he was in love with her mother but they couldn't marry--I'm fuzzy on the specifics) and has taken Mousy in out of guilt and duty. She has the run of the castle and is included in the activities of the royal children--included, but always apart. Sigh. In their company, the dramas of her life unfold.

1. Black Haired Girl. The Bitch. Everyone knows The Bitch is always either very dark or very pale--but always lovely. Out to make Mousy's life misery. Grows up to be the comely competition.

2. Blondie. The Best friend. Quiet, unsure, timid. Beautiful, but not too bright. Devoted and demure. Vapidly religious. Outwardly appalled at Mousy's stubborn ways, but secretly approving. Smuggles snacks and gifts during the Hard Years when Mousy is forced to labor in either the stables or the kitchens.

3. Boy Standing. Some kind of wise-ass higher-up. Often partners with The Bitch to make the other's lives hell. Oh, but wait. He'll grow up to be cute and dashing, and will undoubtedly fall for Mousy at some point. Sorry though, hard-nosed girls don't go for spoiled-brat sons of viziers or dukes or whatever. He probably ends up with Blondie as consolation.

4. Sullen Boy on Wall. Love Interest, duh. Evil tempered but fair. Roams the grounds viciously defending--no, viciously tormenting--the castle geese and chickens and mice. Hates The Bitch (though she flounces around him enough, to be sure). Best friends with Boy Standing (though that relationship is weak and will eventually dissolve due to someone's betrayal). Goes off to adventure or crusade and comes back lean and scarred, and totally hot.

5. Boy Sitting. Look at that shirt. Mousy's Gay Friend.

Oh, and at some point they had a pompous tutor who fell off a wall.

In our fridge.

As predicted, Chocolate has pulled ahead of 1% in the Race of the Gallons.

Horses and Men.

Oh man. A very lazy draft of something I wanted to keep at the front of my mind. Don't look too closely, those rough edges cut.

Modern gods.

All right. Here it is. The single gayest piece of thing I've ever seen. And of all places, above the sink in my grandmother's kitchen.

Despite my past importunings, she's kept it there, insistent that my uncle will give her glory-halleluiah if he comes home to find it down, or (if I'd had my way) dropped indecorously into the toilet. Fact is, I've come around to it--enough to give it half-friendly, half-reverential taps as I fill the tea kettle. So it stays, winking at the blushing ceramic rooster across the room, keeping the cliffs of tea cups from caving in, and dancing over the dishwater like some jaunty Triton. All to allow passage of my grandmother's grey curly head as she raises her sails and gazes into the Backyardlands.

I've never even HEARD of "Where the Blue Begins".

I found a Japanese website that has masses of work from a smattering of illustrators. Some of the shots offer close-ups that verge on the obscene (we're talking bristle-strokes and smudged pencil lines laid bare for all to see), and while I'm sure the artists would have something to say about the unflattering microscopics of it all, it's great for study. I'm not going to give a link because I'm very possessive--and, might I add, a bit jealous and ashamed. But let's just add prolific to the mountain of praise that's already been heaped on my favorite.

The League of Extraordinary Hoplites.

This fell into my lap yesterday. The cover is horrible and the reek of the Sci-Fi/Fantasy aisle at Barnes&Noble is usually enough to ward off my troublesome geek streak, but sometimes I will not be budged. I'm a big Holdstock fan, and the prospect of intertwining Arthurian and Greek storylines had me standing slack and salivating for more than a few minutes.

What held me was the idea of Merlin as one of the Argonauts. I'll admit I've had some passing theories of my own about the many incarnations of Merlin in literature (the ageless Schmedrick, anyone? Prospero? Hello, Gandalf, who came streaking out of the west from the direction of a place called, uh...Avallonne?) Most of mine are pretty ludicrous, but Holdstock's makes perfect sense--Merlin the Timeless, the Deathless could indeed have been around during the time of the Argo. And if he were, it certainly follows that he would have been a member of what was essentially the Bronze Age Justice League. Everyone who was anyone was on that ship (Hercules, Atalanta, Peleus, Orpheus, Castor and Pollux--even two dudes with wings, a la Hawkman)--it would have been incumbent on him as a B-rated hero to man an oar for the shining Jason.

So now, I've taken it on myself to ferret out which of the thirty-odd crewmen he could have been. Odds are I'll lose interest in the P's (who the hell was Peneleos, and why should I care if he was Boetian?), but it should prove fun in the meantime.

Maker.

My self-absorption knows no limits.

If only they had a ponytail option.

"When I look up, I just trip over things."

I've been on the hunt for the perfect tree. Perfectly imperfect, I should say. Been going around with our low-end digital camera (which might as well have a handcrank for as much good as batteries do it) and making a nuisance of myself in parks and on lawns. So as not to give people the right impression (I imagine I walk a fine enough line in the minds of our neighbors), I've been using Alex as something of a model. He's been a good sport, hamming it up with hemlocks, posing with poplars, beaming with birches and the like--all while I snuffle among the roots and shoots (gollumgollum), capturing everything but him and begging that he please not trample the mushrooms.

It's for a good cause. Or I hope. I've decided that if I'm going to spend my days shuttered in, I should at least have a reference of things without. Remind myself of the existence of organic line. Liven things up a little. Loosen my absolute stranglehold on symmetry. Perhaps throw a bit of dirt on the canvas. Or at least a little dust. Maybe something surprising will happen.

She choppa, she choppa, she choppa...

A farmer's wife.

She's blurry. And an apparent terror. But don't be so quick to judge. By the looks of her cheekbones and florid complexion, she's a woman that loves to laugh. Okay, and drink.

I'll warrant that she'd been patient. That she and The Three had once lived together blissfully. She would have viewed them with forebearance--even affection--watching as they collided daily with the table legs and each other, listening at night as they made their plans in high, sweet voices. They would have delighted in her cooking and allowed for her cat. One can't be too selective of company when it's in short suppply.

But lines, I'm sure, were crossed. And hair on the china and pawprints in the Sunday curd may be, for a woman in just the right mood, on just the right afternoon, perfect recipe for disaster.

Nada mucho.

Man, I've got a fever for the flavor of this shit.

Also got a new favorite song. Tiny Birds by Yo La Tengo. The whole album is of course fantastic, but everything builds up to and down from this one. It's swirling and sad and manages to get all sorts of caught in the back of the throat, so just sit still if you listen.

yo la tengo

Gripe.

It seems that my string of luck has ended. In more than one arena. I just got bored with this one. Bored. If the shit goes more than three days without being painted, I start verging on tantrum. Sometimes there are tears. I've learned to stay away from crockware after the Bent Pot Incident, but more often than not, I spend the afternoon grumping with my hand in the caramels.

Perhaps it's the green tea my grandmother gave me. I wouldn't put it past her to try to slowly poison me, crazy bitch.

"I'm only attracted to men of above-average intelligence."

Spent the afternoon shackled to a conversation with my cousin.

It really is the purest form of torture. She employs various methods to draw from me exactly what she wants to hear, and I try to preserve my self-respect in the face of Ultimate Pain. There are only so many "uh-huh"s and "of course you are"s and "holy shit he was married?"s that I can color with sincerity before I begin to lose it. My mood eventually sours as I realize that she will never stop. My sweaty running shirt freezes and I watch as my Kraft Cheesiest cools and curdles untouched. My stomach barks and my cramped arm and a million other factors conspire to wither me. Oh, but hold on, she's asking if she's pretty.

Like any despairing captive, I decide that honesty is my only way out:
"Shannon, you have other qualities. But I'm not going to spend the next twenty minutes stroking your ego."

And faced with a discussion that has a turned a disagreeable corner, she packs up her tools, speaks a word to the guard that secures her a later meeting, and is gone.

Kells.

Heard the first rumblings of this on a great illustration blog. It's a full length animated film-in-the-works, but the concept art is worth a peek. Think Samurai Jack, but with tonsures rather than katanas. No sign yet of any fussy whale-islands (aren't all Brendans the same?), but hopes are up.

Where it's black and black and green.

Wall of Kelp
Two blue, two colorless to cast

Someone had the temerity to compare this to a Magic card.

I've no idea what it is, actually. It would be slightly mer-mish, if not for the feet. It also reminds me of a "Remember the Lusitania" poster I saw years ago--but that's just morbid. It could be Thetis, but I've never really forgiven her for abandoning Peleus. And while I'd love for it to be Ino, the thought occured to me after I'd finished, and her shawl was green.

Fact is, it came on the heels of another drowning dream. The standard slip, fall, splash, slide into blue. Pretty enough as far as imagery goes, but I'm having trouble reconciling fear and fancy.

"I win. I always win. Is there no one on this planet to even challenge me?"

The last conversation I had with my brother began like this:

C: "When is the next Superman trailer coming out?"
J: "I dunno. I really don't want to see any more."
C: "I've been thinking. Maybe I should order three tickets for the first day now, just in case they sell out."
J: "They will sell out. But who are you ordering for?"
C: "Uh...Me."

Happy 28th.

Brain slosh.

God, I got nothing.

I hurt myself rocking out to this song:
"Bounce" - System of a Down

I found this picture (the first in the slide show) and decided to brag to everyone about how I've been in the highest tower room. As if it isn't the biggest tourist draw in the country.

A favorite site posted for the first time in months and they now have a blog. Crazysmart and fun.

Unremarkable.

One of those days where you want to do something senseless just to have something to blog.

I figured I'd walk down Elmwood instead of courting my own embarassment--there's always something off-kilter going on down by Wilson Farms. But today things were uncooperative--or simply dull. The riff-raff had been lulled by another successful garbage Wednesday (fat and sleepy bums are generally unwilling to spar). There were no dogs, no strollers, no kids in wagons. The cold had even driven the smell of ripe hippie from the Co-op. I came across someone I know, mouthed an "Aw-fuck", and steeled myself for awkward conversation, but they shuffled on.

The only real diversion was the early morning spitpattern outside of Merlin's that acts as a minefield between Spot and the bank. Not quite postworthy. So I performed the standard held-nose-hop-scotch to mind the stickies, walked home, and resigned myself to my inside antics.

"Shiny."

We were whorelets to the science fiction beast these past two days. I'm not sure whether to be more ashamed of the amount of time spent in front of the tv on the two warmest days of the winter, or of what we happened to be watching:

The end of Star Wars: Empire of Dreams. A History Channel documentary that we've seen before and will surely watch again. It's well done, funny, and Warwick Davis is pretty cute for a Hobbit...er, Nelwin...er, Ewok...er....

How William Shatner Changed the World. Two hours of bad. Bad writing, bad guests. And a scene with Jonathan Frakes brushing his teeth that made Alex distinctly squeamish. Oh, and they totally cut some guy off who started to explain a theory of warp. Something about being sucked backwards and the displacement of space, and what type of energy is needed, and all sorts of cool, and the camera just backed away in fear.

Firefly. There was a NINE HOUR marathon on the Sci-fi Channel. We taped it. We watched it. We loved it. For anyone who liked Serenity, we're willing to lend these out for a small fee. And, I know this is going to offend the Wash-crush of a certain someone, but when the doctor isn't taking his shirt off, I'm all about the captain.

Battlestar Galactica. The ninety minute season finale. It was excellent, but I kindof lost it when I thought I saw a Michael Biehn Cylon. It would have capped the evening off perfectly, as everything the man touches turns to science fiction gold (yes, that includes The Seventh Sign)--but it wasn't him, and I was sent to bed.

How do you spell "moraine"?

Some East of the Sun, West of the Moon. Or Cupid and Psyche for those who prefer their folklore Greek. I personally like a little Northern flava now and then. Mixes things up. Cools things off. Except they beat the word "lassie" to exhaustion.

It took ferfreakingever and I may have wept a little over it at the beginning, but it became more pliant with time and the threat of scissors. Eventually, our luckless heroine even came to take on a sympathetic tint--who could not feel for her, plucked as she was from her little bed and her (however indifferent) family by a bear? (Though I suppose a pauper would be stupid to not give up his prettiest to the first talking animal that passed under the sill. If the silly girls aren't eaten outright, they're practically assured wealth and status--and, anyways, it's one less mouth to feed...).

But first she must survive the trip. In a robe and thin slippers, clinging to the hair of her stinking mount. Watching the landscape change from hard, to bitten, to barren. Leaving behind her own hearthspirits and her familiar little gods and watching a new cast take their place. Committing to memory names like wind and faces like snow while they peek from behind their bergs and eskers and furrowed lakes, eager to proclaim her an unworthy new queen.

Poor lassie.

Tall, dark, and angular.

We do have a type.

This was nominated for Best Animated Short, and was probably the only thing of worth we took from our viewing of the Oscars.

The trailer definitely merits a watch.
Very Skellington-meets-Achmed.

Food or Fur, do you think?

This is the pickup truck that I discovered outside of the house today.


The crew was busy fixing the gutters, or the roof, or the siding, or any of a thousand projects that needs addressing. But despite the clanging of industry, they were not what first caught my eye. No...


...no. It was the dead coyote in the bed.


When I asked if they had hit it this morning, Worker One shook his head. "Nope. (Worker Two) shot it yesterday--they're nothing but a nuisance."

I decided against mentioning that the smell of two day old dead vermin on our front lawn wasn't any less annoying, but instead complimented him on his choice of ornamentation.

Our image in the neighborhood needed a little tarnishing anyway.

Ooh La La.

For those who care, Goldfrapp's new album is out and on the Rhap.

New blood.

The Neighborhood Kings that converge next door on sunny (but not necessarily warm) Sundays invited Alex over yesterday afternoon. They're self-satisfied lawyerly types who drink scotch and smoke cigars and wrap themselves in a rainbow of local team colors that would seem girlish on any other porch. They all have children (some grown) and not one dips below forty. I'm sure they fancy themsevles lordly and vigorous as they camp around a small radio under a Fightin' Irish standard and murmur. They are not to be refused.

After some frantic bundling ("Wear a scarf--NOT the one with the Pittsburgh colors, for chrissakes.") and a couple of barked orders ("Get me four Molsons. I don't want to go empty handed.") he went over. There was the sound of plastic chairs being rearranged and a settling silence that I closed the door on. Fifteen minutes later there came an appreciative roar of laughter. A half an hour after that he came in accompanied by the whiff of tobacco and single malt, with a glow that could not be entirely blamed on the cold.
And a demand for dinner that was grudgingly obeyed as I decided to grant him his day.

Sunday morning window shopping.

It clashes with my plans of yellow walls and big ceramic roosters--but, yum. In black, of course.

And, again.

I figured that sitting on the floor by the bookshelf, banging my head against the Norton, and crooning "better next time" over and over was getting no one anywhere. After last week's failure, I just decided to start over again. More worky, less wacky. And, walking by the piece this morning at four and giving it an appraisal with tired, unkind eyes, I realized I was right to do so.

Whatever. There's no shame in a remount. So.

But I had to draw something. This little guy took ten minutes, and while the broodiness of the whole is slightly undercut by a bouncy ponytail, it's accurate. Stupid Dove Shampoo, stupid natural curl. Always making light of my finest moods.

My poor nerves.

Just had the misfortune to watch the steaming pile that is Pride and Prejudice. It was a couple of open-collared shirts and a few loosely stitched buttons away from being a complete harlequin perversion. The gross improprieties! The shocking character miswrites! The contrived moonlight, and rainstorms, and misty morning meetings! Does one really need to sex up the greatest romance novel of all time? And while I love Mr. Darcy in any incarnation, my dislike of Keira Knightly is now resolute. Jutting collarbones may be attractive, but jutting jaws are not and I fear her Elizabeth Bennet was less "spirited English girl" and more "stubborn English bulldog." What good are a pair of fine eyes when accompanied by lesser talents?