All the undead, please stand up.

The L____ family portrait. For the L____ family weekend. We were supposed to meet the mystery woman who is to be my new sister in law (once removed?), but, according to our natures, we bolted early. So she remains preserved in my mind the shadowy figure I've constructed--"She-Hara". I like her as such. She doesn't ask any questions--and weilds her singing sword like any dutiful Blood Elf must.

And, in the real world, we went to Boston. The MFA? Well--must I say it?--Mother Fucking Awesome.

Necessitas.

Another mess-terpiece. The goal was to bulk up my slender collection of recognizables, so I started with Zeus and ended with Ananke. Who the hell knows Ananke? Me and a handful of mythology professors the hell do. So, it's fated to unravel. Mwah. Inside joke. Also, I think my HB's were balking at what is essentially a glorified rape. "Stick to ruffles and rodentia," they say. And I spin them on their heads.

Pan-ic.

It's upon us again! March forth!

My stars.

Unfortunately, doused this evening.

Something safe for the picture frame.

I determined I'd stop with the obscurites, until I got swept up in The Courtship of Regina. There's a dapper housespider in the crook of our bathroom. I named him Charlie and then promptly went about the business of matchmaker. It was a fine romance (minus the problems that a few extra limbs are bound to cause) with dizzying highs and lows--a few speckled dramas, an entanglement or two. Stuff for the ages.

Of course, as they didn't sit well on the page, I had to substitute the ever-willing Beauty and the Beast.

All that is seen and unseen.

I miss the village. At my sentimental weakest, I allowed myself to be coaxed to a sermon at the Unitarian on Ferry where I could at least hear the bustle of Elmwood, smell the rotting dog shit on the sidewalks outside. It was strange and unfinished. We kicked nonexistent kneelers, looked for invisible icons on empty podiums, stumbled over every secular verse. It was Mass without amazement, a gathering for an irreligious elite that could never shake the feeling that they needed to be somewhere on a Sunday morning. But we got a good turkey sandwich from Globe out of it.

And, in homage to our missing Madonna, I give you Regina. Queen of the Ladybugs.

N-n-n-n-nobody's fault but mine.

And a half dozen faithless sheep.

Founding Fathers.

Barack Obama is inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States.

Oh man. Am I the only one who missed the significance of that number?

"Except little Nan who sits in a pan..."

"...weaving gold laces as fast as she can."

Been a bit dazzled lately by the upstairs workroom. Lots of glittering glass and ice and two brave windows with their eyes on the sunrise have had me experiencing something close to solar shock. Right now I've been going through the brown-grey motions, but the mole-ishness is overdue for a fade.

Oh, and I've met our first guest. A ladybug. Apparently good luck if you find one in the house during winter. Her name's Regina--so tip your hat if you catch her in her curtains.

Packed and ready.

Too many peeks in the wrong animal's mouth and I've forgotten how many blind men it takes to ignore what's in the middle of the room.

Powers beyond reason.

I was watching Laurence Olivier's 1948 version of Hamlet (rent it) the other night, when this suddenly occurred to me:





Hubba hubba.

Fightin' for survival.

Wresting the scepter from the Dancing Rasta across the street and taking my rightful place as King Crazy.

A terrible spat.

The Duel. By Eugene Field.

cool.

Forty minutes and one fridge shy of really loving this place.

Wait for it...

...okay now.

Naaaay.

BOTCHED.

and cropped.

Solemn stillness.

We've been doing what we can to squeeze every last drop of peppermint flavored Yule from the old place. The result is...not quite right.


Alexander chafing against his scarlet bonds.

A chilly and forlorn Yoda Claus--clearly caught in his own attempt to flee.

Eerie, floating ghost tree.

Dead-eyed Creepy, doing his best to keep his cool--imitating art as The Hare with the Pear Earing.

Joining together with hollow, reedy voices that freeze and crack in the air:

Du grunst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,

Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit!

Panic on the streets of London.

But bliss in its skies.

Inspection.

On its way to another cousin across the pond.

Giddup.

Sir Orfeo's queen. Just one more hapless soul nabbed by Mab.

For one of Alex's precocious little cousins who has a love for horses. I was debating whether to send her one of the (many, sigh) tiny glass unicorns unearthed during the moving process, but (in my experience) hard handed, tyrannical little girls should never be given custody of soft-mouthed beasts, especially porcelain ones. So I settled for paper.