What matters most.

J: I'm debating having a thing for the Wilson Farms dude.
A: Fat swearing manager guy?
J: Nuh. Glasses-wearing, deepvoiced guy. Clarkishly sweet. In a smells-like-Java kind of way.
A: You cannot have a crush on every man that reminds you of Clark Kent.
J: Why not? Clark's very crushable.
A: I think, by definition, he's actually very not.

A skinny Santa is bringing something to me.

More Hallmark for your holiday. Can't shake the Cutesies. While simultaneously holding fast to the notion of a Worker Drone Culture--drab, bleakeyed, scarred by the lash.

On the construction of holiday elves:

Basic recipe:
One part 1950's fashion (holdover from Hermey)
Two parts incredible attentuation (long fingers, skinny pants--for small workspaces and chimney-plumbing purposes)
Healthy dash of Dick Van Dyke

Flavor according to taste--
-High class toymakers--prim, tidy, classic reds and greens
-Shackled elf--nervous and lined from life under perpetual deadline
-Jack Frost--smirking, weather-damaged skin, cracked and bleeding fingers

Won't let the nervous bury me.

Not the kind of glen for stumbling on ungirt. Even in the daylight.
Especially in the daylight.

It's the bright places of terror that are the worst. Those populated by the pale, lidless things without shame or sense of dark propriety. Of dawn crimes performed with incurious fingers and mouths. Of words muttered around noon-bleached bones. Of suffering beyond screaming in a green world of singing birds. All observed by an approving sun.

Most wonderful time.

Time once again to own up to that nearest and dearest passion.

Mush.

We are tree-purchasing masters. In the hard-handed, frosty bearded, thin lipped sense of the word. It's really the season's Great Race and there's no place for frivolity. We yoke the Yule and run him ragged. With results. This year came in a decade winner at thirty-seven minutes. That's including drivetime, selection, payment, setup, and a mild fracas concerning exits and entranceways at Home Depot.

There's no real art to it. More of a grab 'n go. No measuring or trunk trimming. No unwrapping for the twenty digit count. Just whatever's taller than us and small enough to shove inside the trunk of a midsized Nissan--twine takes time. Then the sprint to the house. An unceremonious dressing-down with the kitchen scissors. A shake, a spin, and a shove to the stand with a nasty injunction not to fall like 2004's defiant Douglass.

And back to our preferred screens. Leaving the holiday spirit panting and anemic and pinned somewhere between the bookcase and the wall.

Songcraft.

Tired of hearing those same two Portishead songs on the Rhap's Downtempo radio? Check this out. It's a weird taste sensation, but worth it.

(An A.B.L. find.)

Untitled.

Such lofty plans for this one. I had blueprints for Peas and Pixies. Peas and Pucks. Peas Amano style. Notions of something called The Dance of the Littlest Pea. Or Mendel's Multitudes. Or maybe The Plight of the Pod on the Gardener's Block.

But after two days of family haggling, five hours on the phone, and the official start of the venomous holiday tide, I've settled for simply peas. Peas and Quiet.

And the footprint of a tiny Jack o' the Pod in the upper left corner.

I am NOT your honey.

Piece #97 in the series of irrecognizable, vaguely referenced scenes from The Greats.

The Princess and the Pea. Not that one would know.

But something went down outside of those castle walls. Something much more interesting than the mean-spirited plot to test bluebloods being hatched inside. Just how long did it take her to get past that guard? How much coaxing of a couple of well-fed ornamentals pampered and buffed into total intransigence?
There would have been a scuffle. Foot-stomping and bared teeth. A helping of "Don't call me sweetheart"s, peppered with a few "I AM calm"s. And then the flood of barracks language (no doubt pocketed over years spent spying on her father's men at arms) that would have cast further suspicion on her claims.

All much more entertaining than a roll in the blankets with a legume. Or a victorious set of bruises. Or the marriage that came of them. Or the happily ever after with her brood of delicate, well-bred hemophiliacs.

While not quite as I remembered...

There you are, you sneaky little bastard.

Time was...

The first three Googles for bridge troll have to do with some funnybusiness out west. A couple of homeless guys decided it would be good fun to camp below overpasses and harass pedestrians. Not that I don't applaud a vigorous return to traditions, but there's not a billy goat or gold piece to be seen--just plain Colorado hippietrash.

The rest of the pickings are slim: A handful of horrible watercolors that have no right popping up on the first page of a search. An overly sentimental piece by Terry Pratchett which I won't recommend. The short story by Neil Gaiman that I will.

Maybe I'm missing a point.

In a perfect world.

Seen the new commercial?

Electric Sheep, meet Mighty Taco.

Menchika boola.

An ode to the rocky relationships with godmothers. My own is my mother's half-sister. Near enough in relation for some really effective spellery to go down, but not so close that a magical misstep would end in any weighty guilt for her. Not that she's one to take care. So, she ran off at the mouth a bit during my baptismal ceremony. Rained down some rubbish on a forhead still damp from the font. Made a young mother cry. All the good stuff was there. Everything except the convenient mitigation in the corner, shivering behind the curtains, waiting its turn.

What was it she said? Not telling. Did it work? Dunno. Probably. It's possible she just gave me a serious case of blocksey when it comes to babas of any sort. Fairy or no. That, or there was no curse at all and she instead opted for a more direct route to vengeance.

Well, shit.

Would anyone believe me if I said the perspectives on this piece were accurate?

Well, they are.

Would anyone believe me if I said it lost a certain something during scanning?

Well, you'd be a chump.

God dammit.

I'd like to produce its stunning mate from my apron-folds and <poof> transformation, but all I've got are some glass shards and a suffocated rat.

The Courtship of Henrietta Pink and the Viscount du Pac

From Her Lady's journals:

I cannot tell precisely when it was that we met. Undoubtedly at some crowded event--I was always surrounded by people in those days. Surely we crossed paths at more than one party. We must have danced, though I don't recall it.

But the parties changed to lunches and the lunches to morning walks--strange that the early hours of the day are the most intimate. Perhaps it was the quiet, for we rarely talked unless it was to the birds. He would say something, laugh, and turn to confer with the long-lived crows that watched the grounds. Eventually I learned enough of their language to hear bits, but I've never taken to twittering on my own.

He was shy but dressed himself in yellows. Large, but graceful. His hands were stained the color of cherries, and he whistled faultlessly, if tunelessly. He smelled of dirt and water and of days in the sun and his skin was waxen in the way of very fat men. But if his waistcoats were wide, so were his orchards, and we married after a year. I wore a pink bow in my hair that day and ever after.

And after two years of marriage, I found the hedgemaze.

Hungry Jack.

From the story Clever Jack, which I'm beginning to think I've conjured from the airs. But the bumbling adolescent is archetypal enough--so he's bound to attach himself to something.

Pass the salt.

Did I mention that I want to see Happy Feet?

God help me, but I want to see Happy Feet.

Clean-up.

Nothing doin'. Catching up on things. A couple emails here to a long-lost aquaintance. A half-dozen oblique apologies there for all the attempts at drunkhuggery this weekend.
Nothing too extraordinary.

Except the neighborhood finished its tree-felling yesterday of all days. Pried open the rooftop strangleholds, loosed the powerline nooses. Committed all from air to earth. I can't help but watch them desperately oozing into the mud and think we've got some quiet retribution coming our way.

For. a. reason.

Week, made.

Demons despise the sound of shaking paper.

Was aiming for bohemian, but can't help feeling I just drew a bunch of dirty hippies on the road to either a remote Fourth of July celebration or their next Boss concert. I'm guessing it's the red stripes. Next time less fire(works) and more brimstone.

Folklore is rife with this one. Devil agrees to build a bridge for some dude but demands possession of the first soul to cross. The dude plays along, but at the last minute frustrates all plans by sending across an animal--usually a dog or a rooster. The devil is left with a canine soul and the dog is left (presumably) howling eternal rage at doublecrossing masters from a frosty nest in the ninth circle. No one comes out of this smelling sweet.