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.

We are not accepting submissions at this time.

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.

He who would pun would pick a pocket.

Not exactly drawn in the spirit of the holidays, but, 'tis the season for shearing. It's more 'greyish lamb' than 'black sheep' and, if there's any allegorical 'lord/queen/church' to 'master/dame/little boy' parrallel to be drawn, I've probably missed the mark. But it's gotten me somewhat shakily back on track and has kept me from any, ahem, ...woolgathering.

Don't spray it.

Been overdosing on Mother Goose. Here's a little known jewel:

Whistle, daughter, whistle,

And you shall have a sheep.

Mother, I cannot whistle,

Neither can I sleep.*

Whistle, daughter, whistle,

And you shall have a cow.

Mother, I cannot whistle,

Neither know I how.

Whistle, daughter, whistle,

And you shall have a man.

Mother, I cannot whistle,

But I'll do the best I can.

This, days after my grandmother waggled her finger at me over lunch and said (around a mouthful of raisin bread), "Hsst! Ladies never whistle!" Perplexing when one's only sources of Old World counsel contradict each other.

*Intentional correllation between sleep and sheep?

Also comes in flavors "Smashing Pumpkin" and "Metallica".

Ever wonder what radiohead would sound like in lullabye format? I confess, after the String Quartet Tribute To and Christopher O'Riley Plays...I did.