Besmirch

What do you think?

Three Riddles and Their Answers

1. I'm thinking of a colour between cadmium yellow medium and raw sienna. Snow stings my lips, and melts against the saltine cracks in my vanity.
Kate Moss would be terribly jealous.
Think about another day, sustained all round by the ocean, green and protean, washing against yellow ochre sands, turning warmer, by degrees, beneath the sub-equatorial sun. Imagine a red, white, and blue parachute strapped to your back as a boat lifts you up and over the water, and you see everything drop away. Imagine you think you can fly, maybe.
Imagine you think you're alone.


2. I'm thinking of a number between one and four billion, hoping that it's you I'm singling out. Some years, when we're lucky, we run into corners together, and find that our world really is flat. We find that our beer has gone warm, that Sir Alex Ferguson really is a prat, and that Chelsea is winning the Barclay this year.
I think you'll find, that without me, you're still not alone, and that even conditions don't stipulate love, that even submission can't unbind a definite maybe. So this is my definite maybe.


3. I'm thinking of a conundrum, but there it goes, spiralling out my window.
Fur is murder, but leather is divine, and carrots have feelings, and I am made of nothing more than meat. Nor am I less than an everlasting soul.
You must admit, the reasoning is good for a one-sided fence. I will run copper wire to your teeth and back through my ears. Your frozen delight will accede its own terrors, and these will dispose of my amenities.

Never Painted Daisies on a Big, Red, Rubber Ball

What are your resolutions?
Everyone makes them, even guiltily, in secret.
Mine is to eat less cheesy snacks, and otherwise to completely ignore the advice of the sagacious Dylan Moran. Now, is it only me, or is he bizarrely edible himself? Infinitely less so than the cheesy snacks, mind, but with a mic in one hand and a blazing cigarette in the other, with his happy little lilting drunken Irish accent and deepset, languishing, old worldly brown eyes...isn't he sort of cute?
And he makes me laugh.
Which, as any woman will tell you, is very important in a bloke.
Anyhow...I give you, the first in a seven-part standup bit.

Apologies for Lack of Form will be Forthcoming

I am only as old as the Netherlands,
Fit only for Muspelheim's army.
I am only so bold as the golestan,
Frayed rose-petals greying and tawdry.
Ascend, and draw near, in the absence of cheer,
Have we ever seen battles so tragic?
It is neither the rain nor the absence of pain
Which causes the rats and the traffic.

And did your agate eyes form newly
The bright and belligerent knell?
How could we convene in this hell
As faint colours arrested me truly?
And never did Orpheus play quite so well,
Nor his lyre so gravely attest
This depravity grim, molestation so trim,
He has given us beauty, at best.

But ghostly, then, I scattered flowers
Down upon the scarrèd street,
Then waited I for those small hours,
When Mercurius flies his most fleet.
And upon this side of the grave
Did I think myself, rightly, a knave--
I did tumble my mind till it was bone-dry
And the airs I assumed, rather brave.
The End

My God, what manner of nonsense is this?
I am so, so sorry.
It was all extempore.
I have no excuse for it. Though the first two lines are sodding fantastic.

Je Ne Suis Pas

I don't like shopping.
You know it, I know it.
I loathe malls, and the pre/post holiday nonsense. Post holiday nonsense is worse. It's not only harried housewives leading their husbands and teenaged children round to wonder where and how they are going to hide their children's presents.
Post holiday shoppers are the worst. They are the anal-retentive, grouchy, primarily brainless women who can't decide whether she made a mistake returning that CUTE sweater for a pair of CUTE boots.
BUT I'll tell you one thing.
I've never had a bathrobe that wasn't red.
And, when you've got someone to send you a German Christmas carol sung by some castrata soprano boy, life is...tenable.
Anyhow, I'd like to tell you all about something fascinating and lovely, and life-changing, but the telly's going, telling me that Claritin relieves all my indoor allergies for twenty-four hours, and won't make me drowsy as well, and I wonder where I left my chisel. Which doesn't really matter, I suppose, because I use disposable palettes.
I guess someday I'll get back to the nice, organic way I used to have to scrape my palette clean after weeks of ignoring it. Last time I did that, I wrote a poem about it.
Speaking of pigments...have at. Linkature.
Also, ten things I only like sometimes:
1. Acrylics
2. Dante Alighieri
3. Very Femme Handbags
4. Dark lipstick
5. Zach Braff
6. Stiletto heels
7. Cardboard boxes
8. The French
9. Children
10. The Pixies
I do, however, always, always, always love Sir Anthony Hopkins, his big, earthy shoulders, coy smile, and steady gaze.

Frayed Knot

Fear is crazy, isn't it?
Completely irrational.
People fear a lot of things.
I, personally, fear loss.
Namely, the loss of the few, few friends I have.
I have different sorts of friends.
Some of them, I rant and rave to about pigments and binders, or alliteration and assonance. Some, I have deep discussions with, which start out insightful and hopeful, and devolve into wondering what the true significance of Bugs Bunny's catchphrase, 'what's up, doc?' really is.
But, like the highlander, there's only one who's run the gamut. Even if he thinks I'm a tool, or an idiot, or doesn't understand a word I'm saying, and just wants me to shut up so he can roll over and go back to sleep, even if I've mutilated his pride and nipples and get wasted and hide under the pool table when he's TRYING to beat a bald Jewish midget, he's patient and good-humoured and big-hearted enough to grin crookedly, blink his eyes that glow just a little in the dark, and tell me something vague, that makes me laugh, that makes me know everything is going to be all right.
And I'm afraid I've fucked up royally, and that I'm too proud to really look at myself and see all the things I've done wrong, the things I've said wrong, the things I've left unsaid, and that maybe we'll turn into those people who see each other in ten years and don't know each other any longer. I'm afraid I've said too little, or too much, that I could have made more of an effort, in every way, that I've put out the wrong signals, that I've taken one of life's biggest tests and failed miserably.
And even if I do fail, even if tomorrow he wants nothing to do with me, and can't be bothered, if he realises how big the next monumental effort he's going to make is going to be, and focuses solely on it, and realises that I really was never there for him, anyhow, I'll still feel a better woman for having known him, and loved him, and I Will Not Be Embarrassed for this soppy, raw, honesty.
Merry Christmas.

Double Down

I have gotten into making playlists. I never used to. I've always just queued up the songs I wanted, but I actually have saved a couple playlists for my moods. Three, in fact. Two of them are bittersweet, country, rockabilly, and a little rawky nonsense chucked in. One is out and out depressing. So depressing that it, in fact, includes 'London Rain' by Heather Nova. Yep. It's that bad.
No, really. When I said I was facing different pressures this year, I didn't mean that I wasn't under any. There's always pressure. But there's always someone to give it to, fortunately. Someone who will be wearing a magnificent dress on New Year's.
Consider yourself warned.
Also, I don't believe I've bothered posting my latest piece of poetry up here. That is because it's rather bad, and in a breathless metre that is almost off, but not really quite. Have at.

The Alchemist
Turn my leaden heart to gold
Seize my misbegotten rapture.
Increasing life by eighteen-fold
Increasing chances of recapture.

I have never eaten anguish
In such sweetbread complications.
And my life has never languished
Through my lips in mad gyrations.

We are baking, twice-mixed bricks
Submitted to the kingly Nile
We are scalding and transfixed
We are marching, rank and file.

There is glory, yes, in love,
And no less shame than in submission,
But I have proffered up my glove--
A challenge of my own volition.
Tuesday, 20 November, 2007
8:52 am

For your linkature needs, look HERE. A great pal in times of great stress, and one of TF's more talented artists. Check out mah portrait. Teehee. Shameless plug.

Holiday Disclaimer

I want to wish you all a merry Christmas, and let you know that I never wanted to be a Christmas tree, no matter how many times I have sung otherwise, in English, Japanese, or Italian.
I repeat: I do not, and have never wanted to be a Christmas tree.
I have, however, thought occasionally about dressing in red and green ribbons and a few strands of tinsel to a few select holiday parties.
Happy Parasailing!
Also, some of you have probably wondered why I, of all people, named my blog 'Lady Things.' I would like to quell those queries with this little cliperoo.

Pincers

New journals make me so excited. Despite the fact that they're destined to pretty much fall into ruin as recorders of the nonsense yammering I fill them with, and despite the fact that I can very easily type everything in to my computer...it's not the same. Journals are journals are journals. And I love watching my handwriting change with my moods. One moment, it's long and intricate, the next it's text-book Asian schoolchild, no slants, neat loops, and the next it's all capitals, two millimetres tall and easy to read, even from two feet away.
If your eyes are good.
Christmas is coming! Be very, very quiet.

Frighteous

I am greatly pleased.
I don't know what it is, but the holidays this year just aren't so daunting as they used to be. Yeah, I'm under different pressure than I was last year. Then, I was on my own, doing nothing really, but heading into the wild blue yonder, and this year...I'm counting my foreign coin collection and realising that I really really like the way British pound coins sit in my palm--all nice and heavy and smexy.
I'm going to go shower.
Mum, I remember when you had your operation.
I was terrified, even if I seemed like I was blowing it off.
It's worse from the outside.
Alla y'all should go read Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut. It's hilarious.
Or any part of the Wilt series by Tom Sharpe.
Though I'm not sure how you'll get hold of the latter here in the States. It's very difficult.
Also, listen to 'Straight, no Chaser' by John Coltrane. I guarantee you will feel all boozed up.
And I will leave you with my favourite sonnet. That is, twenty-seven.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

Journeys of the Writer

(This is a little snippet by thisisme, a piece of vers-libre which I love because I feel it's something I would have written, while I still could. Ah, influencing young minds...anyhow, it's brilliant, for someone who's usually pretty rubbish at vers-libre.)

You said it had been over
Before you entered here
And so you turned and strolled away—
Your mind a Cheshire Cat.
And it could have been several days ago
Had it not been memories.

So I turned another head,
Another hinge on my bed,
And traded the spice of cinnamon
For a luscious smack of thyme;
I watched the sky of Robin eggs
Slumber in a grain of sand.

Yet, time wearies spectators
So I picked up my blue fountain pen
And wrote of the goose from which it came—
A little grey thing
That swam in the lake every morning.

Ah me! The books I have read
The knowledge ingested
While I have consulted the blazing sun
Coated in his sugar-sweat—
The ancient tomes of ancient dust
That crumbled at the slightest touch.

I’ve splashed my share of ink and pen
On a thin papyrus crust
And dreamt of Egypt—Isis eyes!
The noseless Sphinx, the Phoenix skies,
And the vocal barge of baritones
Floating down the binge of tombs.

Little flakes of snow, pristine,
Melted round my thermos toes;
A little tincture of frozen pools,
The dozen lessons of sadist schools.

There were fogs that I wrote of too
All chocked up in little bottles,
And sprinkled over the twilight skies
Above the Northern Sea.
The Spermaceti danced for me
With rolling fats for fins—
Wretched, wretched limbs!

And so I did seek counsel of self
Within my endless volumes,
And all the little papers filled with blots
That lay strewn all around me:
Notes of how I’ve lived, and slept
Beneath an endless field of stars
And my soul found its purity
By lines scribbled into the moon,
A dash of lovers dreams.

The pictures formed into my mind
And sculpted their numbers there—
Yet I still remember Alice
Before she came to Wonderland

And I’m sure I would have followed her too
Had it not been a memory.
(finis)

Bo Burnham

I think I've found my one and only. Gotta love Yank lads. Beware, the following puns may be physically painful.

Sixteen and Six Feet Tall

I swore up and down that I was going to turn out to be five foot ten. After all, my mum is five six, and dear old dad is an even six foot.
But no, I got the rubbish short person genetics. I prefer to give my height in centimetres. One hundred fifty-nine, to be precise. And that is where I will leave it.
I have only recently stopped resenting being short. I'm not even that short. I'm average. In just about every way, which also pleases me. But I fit into small spaces, and because I walk quickly, this helps when navigating through the Holiday Rush which is now occurring in all public places.
Yes. I am painting. I am. I'm actually managing not to rush myself through a portrait.
I am also coming to terms with the fact that I run through sunglasses at an alarming rate. I just broke my second pair of mirrored aviators in as many months. This doesn't fix the fact that I have sensitive eyes, and don't like bright things.
In other news, I LOVE MY EASEL!
I had one a while ago, something like it, given to me, but it was missing bits, and it didn't have a watercolour telescope arm thingie, which is sexah beyond words. And it only weighs about two kilos, and folds up to the size of a toothpick.
Everything Winsor-Newton does is magic. As goes for Derwent.
Oh...shite. I promised myself I'd do watercolours over the weekend. I have a beautiful Eurasian boy to paint, and I have shamelessly neglected him. Well, at least I kept busy.
I want to leave you with a thought. This is someone's favourite poem. It isn't mine, but it is someone's.
It's called Five Ways to Kill a Man, and it was written by Edwin Brock.
There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.

You can make him carry a plank of wood

to the top of a hill and nail him to it.

To do this properly you require a crowd of people

wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak

to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one

man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,

shaped and chased in a traditional way,

and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.

But for this you need white horses,

English trees, men with bows and arrows,

at least two flags, a prince, and a

castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind

allows, blow gas at him. But then you need

a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,

not to mention black boots, bomb craters,

more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs

and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly

miles above your victim and dispose of him by

pressing one small switch. All you then

require is an ocean to separate you, two

systems of government, a nation's scientists,

several factories, a psychopath and

land that no-one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways to kill a man.

Simpler, direct, and much more neat is to see

that he is living somewhere in the middle

of the twentieth century, and leave him there.

Shirley Temple Time

I have a bizarre sense of humour.
I blame my father, who never made the corny daddy puns, but instead has a snarky, sarcastic funny bone that would far rather nudge you with an ironic jab than clobber you over the head with a broad-angled...erm...clout. Heh.
For example, the reason I posted the Cyanide and Happiness strip the other day was not, in fact, because I have an inexplicable craving to have sex with twelve guys at once. Not even if they were members of my imaginary harem. In fact, if that's what you thought the purpose of the comic strip was, you should probably go find a wall with which to repeatedly introduce to your skull. Don't worry, at this point, it won't hurt the brain.
No, in fact, what made me snoogle at the quaint and porky humour was that the two line people were, in fact, completely gender-neutral. That's right. I thought it was funny that someone who had no genitalia would have a desire to engage in a 13-person mostly-male orgy.
See, when I explain it like this, it's no longer funny. It just gets me weird looks.
The other day, I was on the phone with a friend, and, as it's a trans-Atlantic call, the line was a little dodgy. So when he said something like 'How are you, doll,' it sounded a bit more like this. Without, of course, the funkeh beat and bottoms.

And so I laughed at him. For a good twenty seconds. And he patiently waited at the end of the line until my convulsions were through. Such a wonderful patient, small-handed fella, who holds his pencil with two hands out of mere choice.
Speakin'a'which, oh yeah...I've started up painting again. Got another layer on the Lavertezzo Bridge, and a few fixups on mah Gerard portrait...hair, shadows, &c. I've decided, in proper Deutsch fashion, not to carry on with the WIPs. For one, my camera lacks batteries and I can't be arsed to go out and buy any.
I'm still watercolouring. And I'm going to dig out that unspeakably smexy set of Derwent watercolour pencils I've been hoarding for such a time as this.
No, you may not eat them, for they are sexah and not good with ketchup.
Oh. Apparently Egyptian men are well hung, as per the nine most badass Bible verses ever. Google that.

Just like a Mini-Mall

In hell, you have to do the dance, as well.

Parting Thoughts at Midnight

Cyanide and Happiness, courtesy of CollegeHumour.com

Hallmark Moment

I was watching some videos on youtube last night. Specifically, I was watching Johnny Cash videos. Namely, 'Hurt.' I've been surprised, since I first heard, a few years ago, that he'd covered a Trent Reznor song, but you know, it makes sense.
I do NOT like the 'God's Gonna Cut You Down' music video. It's pretentious nonsense, a scathing obituary that does nothing more than kick one of the most amazing songwriters right in the teeth. I'll tell you something, though...Johnny Cash on Sesame Street singing to Oscar the Grouch is a ruddy classic.
Furthermore, I've done a lot of little flash fics lately, ripping them up as soon as they're finished. They're excellent practice, but will never see the light of day.
Journalism: It's what's for Dinner.
This is a brilliant photographer. She's an Indonesian girl with a head fulla great ideas.

Interlewd

Soren Kirkegaard said, 'Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.'
Pablo Picasso said, 'Art is a lie that helps us believe the truth.'
To tell you the truth, I am SICK AND TIRED of these catchy one-liners that philosophers, theologians, artists, and celebs toss off as casually as their last spouse.
I mean, honestly, anyone trying to sum things like 'truth' and 'life' up in under twenty words should be shot. Nevertheless, I'm always bizarrely fascinated by these happy little sayings.
Also, Monica Belucci is hot beyond words.
And so is Sean Bean.
And so is this tea that Sinead's spilt all over me.
The End.

Keeps Raining All of the Time

Mood: Jazzy!Blues
Eating: Ink on my fingers
Listening to: Ella Fitzgerald & Count Basie, Tea for Two
Reading: L'Homme Qui Rit
Contemplating: Hokusai's 'In the Bowl of the Great Wave'

How revoltingly cute are puppies?
We've just gotten a new one, to replace Cody. Her name is Jody, in commemoration. She's a toonsy little mongrel, so squishy and eatable I could just squeeze her! But I won't.
Erm...it's meant to be Thanksgiving today, but we've celebrated yesterday. I'm actually do to get into a car in about half an hour and drive off into the sunset. Crazy party, this is. Life, I mean.
I want my Descartes back. I can't find it. This upsets me a great deal. And my Bridgeman's. And I'm discovering the beauties of really fibrous raw paper. Even if it gets stuck in my nibs, if you can learn to work with the texture (as with any paper) it creates the smexiest ruddy effects.
Ye gods, my fingers are numb.

In Which We Have Fun With Capitals

I want to apologize. The scathing little imp whose business it has been since my childhood to inflict bouts of creativity on my foggy, fevered brain, is back. Courtesy goes entirely to certain jiggle-loving, beer-swilling teddy bears who Shall Not Be Named lest it goes to his Entirely Overinflated Ego.
Anyhow, this morning, post breakfast cuppa, I found myself writing a loose-lipped little jangly piece of four quatrains (how redundant is that?), and despite the fact that I Do Not Like It, I am writing again! As our favourite Swiss stoner would say, 'yuppee.'
Except he's not my favourite Swiss stoner.
I haven't one of those at all.
Anyhow, I get the feeling that people think I'm too arrogant for the modest level of talent I exert. This is Simply Not True. I am just the right level of arrogant. If you're Too Modest, it's not my fault. In fact, it's more of an expression of pride to be self effacing.
If I write something that is Downright Wretched, with very little Excuse for Being Alive, I acknowledge it. Go to WF, and look up my latest. It is simply Not Very Good. I wrote better material when I was thirteen.
Anyhow, I am going to be very busy over the upcoming holidays. So if I don't update, I don't want the three of you who Are My Readers to whinge. Which you don't, anyhow.
I love you, Mum and Dad.

Second Violin

Sometimes it's best to be second strings, or even a last resort.

Mishy Mash

Gut morgen, my naughties!
Eight thirty in the am and I'm seriously regretting not having tea yesterday. Well, I had some caffeine-free herbal tea, but I did neglect having my soothing cuppa. I introduced a midget and a Platunia to the joys of lemon tea with honey and milk. And this morning the midget shrieked because I put mayonnaise on her fried potatoes.
I blame the Jews.
Hah. Watch those words come up in a random search of the internet, and I get sued for anti-Semitism.
Speaking of which, it's hilarious how the Jews called 'Semite.' As if we were the only ones.
Josch.
Do you know what I miss? I miss my compleat Shakespeare, and my battered, duct-tape-mended copy of Les Misérables. I miss Les Mis the mostest. I have a copy on my computer, but the translation isn't nearly as competent, and the prose is, to say the least, purple and overblown. Difficult to read.
Notwithstanding, as I read over the death of Valjean (oops, did I spoil it for anyone?) I found myself now, as when I first read it almost a decade ago, completely choked up. Pathetic, huh? I lose two grandfathers in the course of a year and all I have is a sad smile for them. Some fictional convict croaks and I get as weepy as a fat kid confronted by a cake he cannot eat.
I've always had a massive hero crush on Valjean. Aided along, of course, by the fact that Liam Neeson plays him in the '98 version of the film. Sigh. Despite the fact that I wanted to punt Hans Matheson between the legs by the end (and Claire Danes as well, for that matter), I can say that Neeson played around the gaping shortcuts in the film pretty sodding well.
Oh. Speaking of big handsome thespians...the film 'Love Actually.'
No, no. Don't throw tomatoes. Please. I'm humiliated to admit it, myself, but I truly appreciate that film. It's light enough that it takes my mind off Christmas, and it has enough brilliant actors to make me forget that I despise chick flicks. I mean...Alan Rickman AND Emma Thompson...how can you not love that? AND there's that adorable bird who's Hugh Grant's secretary.
I think I'm going to have to watch 'Much Ado' tonight.
Wow, that post was really out of it. Please, don't think I'm all about films and Alan Rickman. I watch about a film every two weeks (if that), even if Alan does, admittedly, live on my cell phone wallpaper.

Seven O'Clock is Perverse

Seven o'nine to be precise, in the AM. Disgusting, isn't it?
I want to give you something creative, but I haven't got anything new. I was, however, going over some things that are older and I am determined to write again, soon.
In other news, I have been branching out artistically...I have a little silk bound pillow book that I usually ramble into, but I recently realised that, despite the fibrosity of the paper (it's hand-made), I could really go to town with some dip pens and light washes, if I was careful to use blotting-paper.
Guh. Yes, I know...I know.
I'm going to try to have another WIP of my painting up today or tomorrow. Because we all know that come Friday I'm going to be up to my knees in other things.
Namely, poo.
Well, being incapable of posting my own work, I'm going to post one of my favourite writers ...*drum roll*...Tiger!
This one is called 'Elliptical'

When the light sparkles every eyelid eats the sky.
The purple skirts of flesh
That blossom through the legs so tantalising ----

Each smile equals
A rose-beam
that reddens in the sun

with it's fiery flames screaming like an engine
The streets red with its demon eye.

And why do I
Stand listening to the siren sound
Awaiting the dent, a crush, a smash, a wail?

Every flower has a life, the red is evidence.

I know I shouldn't but I have to.

Mummy, what's a rutabaga?

Well hiya. Did you know that it's National Rutabaga Month? Apparently loads of people are calling November as their particular 'national month.' It's National Novel Writing Month, as well. I'll admit, I am a little tempted, every year, to pick up the writing fever and produce 50,000 smarmy, ill-conceived words, but I do that so much already, I figure that adding more smarm to the swill-pile is not going to help me finish my already-ambitious projects.
That having been said, I'll likely not have my first 'real' novel finished by the time I'm thirty--not at this rate, anyhow.
Erm...so...

Cheddar Bunnies

I recently encountered something that worries me deeply. You know Goldfish...the healthy snack that smiles back until you bite its head off...yes...those...they have imitators. And these imitators make bunnies. and these bunnies do NOT SMILE AT YOU!
Dear god, PEOPLE ARE MADDENING!
All right, so I write, yes? I have a rambly little piece of prose that doesn't really mean anything, and good CHRIST I have people correcting my grammar. MY GRAMMAR! I wrote a sentence in the following general structure:
'Don't touch it!--it is too delicate to be altered.'
Some ignorant wanker called me on the capitalization.
They called me on repetition. Honestly, do you not think I caught the fact that I began two sentences in a row with the same word?
I am so disgusted by people who don't catch nuances in reading.
AND FURTHERMORE! Osch. Sometimes, when you read something in a different language, it really sinks in. I bought a hue of vermilion last week, and in French, the word 'hue' is 'nuance.' That made me angry. I don't want a bloody 'nuance' of vermilion, but hey...the proper pigment costs twenty bucks, so I'm not going to shrew too much about it. Because, quite frankly, I'm not worth twenty bucks for thirty mililitres of oil and powder.
Maybe someday.

First Frost. Robert, that is.

I do not like pastoral poetry. You, knowing me, and reading this blog, are very likely aware of this. I like narratives, sure...Tennyson will always strike that chord in me that glares at Lancelot for being such a ruddy prude, and I like abstract vers-libre. I even like some love poetry. Take my last post about Rumi, for example. I even like whingy-emo poetry if it displays some originality (like the Lamentations of Jeremiah, for example). I like, especially, strange, personal pieces that are moving and real, even if they're not in the best of styles (Rupert Brooke). But pastoral poetry has always left me frigid (like Meg Ryan's face). It's like a rubbish lover, they're just not worth staying awake for.
But I will admit a certain fondness for Frost's 'Road Less Travelled.'
It is difficult, in fact, not to entertain a fondness for it.
I'm not going to include it here, because I'm sure you know it, and if you really want to go read it, you can look it up yourself. I'm merely expressing my own astonishment at liking a piece by so gimpy an author.
In other news, I am rediscovering my watercolour roots. That was actually my first wet medium, would you believe it? Most children use tempera or poster colours, or some other water-soluble plastic derivative, but the late, great, Spike Marowitz gave me, at the age of eight, a set of 50+ year old watercolour tubes and some fantastic brushes, three of which I still have and use.
Anyhow, I figured I shouldn't be so phobic of the medium as all that (I despise watercolours, they're difficult and they give me the heebie-jeebies), and I'm reworking a Japanese-themed piece that I originally did back in '02. Hopefully I'll make a better mash-up of it than I did then.
In other news, OMG I JUST REMEMBERED!
Hah. I just typed 'OMG!' I'm going to go have a good laugh about that.
But erm...all kidding aside, I went to the art shop the other day and the Winsor-Newton brushes were all 50% off. I nearly came right there in the aisle. I got two fantastic Fitch brushes, little ones, cause I've got plenty of big brushes, but very few detailers. I'm going to go have a glee-fit over them, and perhaps finish my Gerry study.
Toodles!

Ah, History

Someone, who shall continue to remain unnamed (but of whose blog we shall post a complete screenshot), has made a mild spelling error.
And just when I called him a complete fag.
He couldn't wait till Sunday or ANYTHING! Check out what he called his archive.

Oofla Foof

I would really like to say that I'm made terrific progress with my painting. The truth is, I haven't. I haven't been making progress in much of anything. Besides finding brilliant videos like this one.

Now that we've gotten that smexy little piece out of our way, we can connect with the real issues in life, like, of what are we composed? Did man really land on the moon? And, who is going to make me a cuppa?
The answer to all these things is, for any good narcissist, ME.
Oh. Alan Rickman plays the cello. One of many more things for me to love about the man who is the 'greasy git.' What I wouldn't do for him to snarl at me.
I would also like very much to post some of my poetry, but I've not written any lately. So here you are. I'm going to once again foist upon you someone else's poetry!
I don't know how familiar you are with Rumi, but he was a Persian mystic who wrote a ton of trippy poetry, much of it based on concepts of unity and love.
This is one of his more user-friendly pieces, called 'The Unseen Power.' Sigh. I love nature pieces.

We are the flute, our music is all Thine;
We are the mountains echoing only Thee;
And movest to defeat or victory;
Lions emblazoned high on flags unfurled-
The wind invisible sweeps us through the world.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes

Two words.
Redheaded.
Twins.
James and Oliver Phelps are hot.
And that's all I have to say about that.

MSNBC

Looks like elephants and southern men aren't so different after all.

I Will Extol the Magnificence of Thy Raisins

All right, we all know it. I am an admitted gourmand. And if I don't follow Epicurean philosophy quite well, I am at least hedonistic in the food sense. Lucullus dines with Lucullus and all that. I have a love affair with food.
This morning, I'm feeling particularly enamoured of porridge. Yes, porridge. One of the most underrated comfort foods of all time. The year is drawing to a close, and it's getting a bit nippy. Of course, with my island-girl blood, anything below seventy is frigid and my teeth with start chattering, but when you drag yourself out of bed at seven in the morning to find wisps of smoke rising from a pot of gorgeous warm porridge with raisins and butter and milk and nutmeg and honey...there is nothing greater. Nothing at all, I say.
Well, maybe this bagel I made for myself yesterday. It was incredible. Toasted, with melted butter and basil and garlic and parmesan. Yes, it was brilliant.
Osch. Last night we had fettucine in a five cheese sauce (bergkase, emmentaler, parmesan, mozzarella, and some other cheese which I forget), with white wine and fresh basil. I passed out several times during the meal, mainly because it was paired with fat salmon steaks marinated in white pinot, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil. I was always taught that less is more with fatty fish, but this was only marinated for three hours or so, and didn't at all become acidic. My kitchen (lab) partner and I reduced the marinade afterward for a gravy, seared the fish in olive oil and fried it in butter, and did a final glaze of lime juice just before it came off the pan.
Sigh.
All I really want for lunch is a bowl of hot chicken soup with rice.
God, it's freezing.
In other news, Devon Aoki is hawt. Yes, she's skinny, but she has the strangest features. And we all know I love that.
Ah...I've been wanting to post this for a while. About a month ago, I remembered the poem itself, and it was driving me up the wall because I couldn't remember the opening lines. All I could remember were the closing lines, but here it is. William Cullen Bryant's 'Mutation.'
HEY talk of short-lived pleasure--be it so--
Pain dies as quickly: stem, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release
His young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes--did it keep
A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

A lot of his work was a bit stodgy, but I have to admit that I love this piece, and 'The Arctic Lover.' He still looked like a bloody Quaker.
Cheers ma darlings

Sexy, thy name is...hot chick on the guitar

Don't even try to pretend this doesn't turn you on.

Lavertezzo 1

Life is no burden, and Life is no blessing this time around.
Ominous words, those, and regrettably enough, accurate. If not to you, or to me, to someone. Poor swot.
Well, I'm going to go ahead and post the first WIP of my painting, which will be titled *deep breath* 'The Bridge of Lavertezzo over the River Verzasca.'
All right, here goes. The sketch was done with a .9 mm mechanical pencil over about five minutes, from a couple of different reference shots. I'm still kicking myself over not bringing a camera to Ticino when I went, but PTL, these things will happen. I'm sure I'll manage to be back there at some point.
*Clears throat*
Ahem!
The sky was done mainly with a knife-mixed concoction of titanium white and flake white, manganese blue, and cadmium yellow deep. You can see the streaky yellow bits in the sky. I'm going to go for a Delacroix feel with this baby. Those of you who've seen 'The Sea from Dieppe' will know what I'm talking about. And if you haven't, go look at it. I love that painting. The mountains were gently patted in with a flat number 12 natural bristle, and they involve olive green, sap green, a whole lotta yellow ochre, and a smadge of cadmium red deep.
The bridge is mainly unbleached titanium (something I'm sure is going to come in handy in this little venture, and the brush on the left side is olive green, yellow ochre, the merest hint of mars violet, and burnt umber. I'm going to go ahead and postulate that I'm going to use very little to no actual black in this painting, substituting Van Dyck brown instead (which is something I do pretty often).
Insofar as the composition goes, I'm taking reference from three photographs of this area, mostly for the rock formations, but I'm also drawing from memory. I'm going to go ahead and ignore the fact that this is a fairly active tourist spot, and paint it as though there were no such thing as electricity lines or backpackers.
I don't think you can really see the sketch, but if you can, you'll probably be about as pleased with the composition as I am.
Uh...Yes. I'm aware that it doesn't look like much yet, but those of you who've bollocksed about with oil will probably detect my next moves. Loving you, and Jesus!

Saboteur

If you know me, you've probably been exposed to this little wanker. But click anyhow. You love it.

And in other news, Jack White's mugshot is nearly as smexy as Mel Gibson's. Observe.

Wet

Wet canvas, that is. LOOK HERE for the kind of things that make me squee.
Yes. I am a confirmed art nerd.
I know that alizarin crimson will go cool if mixed with titanium white, but cadmium red light will not. Cadmium red deep, however, will, particularly if mixed with zinc white. And that Indian red was originally derived from the urine of Indian water buffalos fed only on mango leaves.
Ain't that a kick in the head?
Erm...I'm quite tired, and I wanted to share my joy with you.
I am going to buy a pair of fabulous boots.
They will make me happy.
Even though Elton John is not my Grandmother.
I have a better Grandmother, and she makes fabulous barley soup.
I will, for those curious, be posting WIPs of my painting for the benefit of one beautiful Brit Canadian, with brief blurbs detailing the process, more for my own benefit than anyone else's. So if you're the person this painting is going to, don't look, because until the last couple layers, it's going to look like rubbish.
Erm...yes. I am sleepy. I've given a vain attempt to write more poetry lately, but you know how that goes. Whenever you try, it turns around and gives you a solid kick in the groin.
And with that thought, and the knowledge that no, I will not foist any lame midnight extempore poetry on you, I turn in.

Wooster! Revisited

For those of you who have not yet discovered the pile of AWESOME that is the Wooster Collective, check out THIS LINK.
For those of you who have, check it out again. I guarantee that you will, at the least, crack an amused grin at some of the art on there, and at best, be offended by some of the graffiti.
I was digging round in an old notebook today, in this case, a pocket-sized graph-paper Moleskine, and, amongst the pieces of tawdry vers-libre and syrupy prose, I found this little gem.

Sonnet III
The blighted moon weaves, all a-tremble
With the warning of a wave,
Rise to sing for nuptial revels--
You have said I am your bane.
I have determined now, as then,
To love you less and trust you more
Until unfortunate events
Return me to your western shore.
Will you be loved, betrayed, or both
Upon my wisdom-wrought beachtide?
I pause now, ere I plight my troth
Unto your soporific pride.
Of your heart I am aware,
You could have me if you dared.
(finis)

I wrote that baby back in late September of last year, just before I vacated the Lone Star State. Dre, don't resent me cause I held back. So far as fixed verse goes, it's not bad, but it doesn't hold any of the strong sound and imagery that I usually utilise.
In other news, I have a propensity for both cutting and burning myself accidentally. Whenever I yelp in the kitchen, I swear, even Sinead is laughing at me, and she is the sweetest kitty of everyone's kitties.
Back to writing...I started putting 'Mockingbird' into fixed form, but I can't seem to grab hold of what I was feeling back then. I remember writing it, yes, walking down to the park at the end of the cul-de-sac with my MP3 player blasting 'Universally Speaking' into my ears, contemplating taking a walk down to the dunes beyond the forest and back, but for the life of me, I don't know what the hell I was feeling.
Maybe because I don't do a whole lot of feeling.
And maybe because I just don't care to rehash the little that I do.
Oh...here's another link for you.
The immortal Edward Gorey, and the Gashlycrumb Tinies.
Till next time, my lovelies.

Shame on you, Laurie King!

On one of my erstwhile blogs, I said something about picking up a modern book in which Sherlock Holmes (who outpaced both Captain von Trapp and Robin Hood as a childhood crush) is married to some little blonde snit who apparently possesses the same powers of observation and deduction as he does. I was enraged, promptly wrote the book off as a piece of literary whorishness, and went along my merry way, bought an edition of Descartes, and was done with it.
Recently, during a little coffee break (free day) I happened upon a book by the same author, earlier in the series, before Mary Russell (read: blonde snit) was busily engaged in snogging Holmes, and was merely testing his nerve by dressing like a gipsy and browbeating him into teaching her about bees and cigarette ashes. I amusedly began to peruse, believing I should soon be throwing it down in disgust, but all I can say is, shame on you, Laurie King (the author of said book)!
I liked the style, the pace, and, worst of all, I liked the blonde snit who had so callously usurped my place as the Beekeeper's Apprentice (the first novel in the series). She's an overtall, slightly ungainly woman who is almost always right, and knows it. Don't ask me why, but she was bizarrely charming as a character. Even though Holmes likes her better than me. (pouts).
I am by no means endorsing these books, though, in my spare hour of browsing at the bookshop, I did manage to get through half of the first volume, and was entertained. I'm simply saying not to discount something because of its appearance.
Even if you're almost always right.
~
On another note, I am working on a new painting, as of last night. A semi-commission, this time. My darling Swiss will no doubt be delighted at the subject. It is none other than the old Roman bridge at Lavertezzo. I was there on a road trip earlier this year, and those who went with me can attest to my adoration of the Ticinoise (Ticinese?) countryside. Probably the most beautiful place I've ever been. I wrote a poem about it and everything.
*Big Smile*
Anyhow...yes...we'll see how it turns out. If you're lucky, I'll post WIP's.
Loving you, and Jesus!
(and Sherlock Holmes)

Oh, Daddy!

Yes. I have one living in my room.
A daddy long legs, that is!
*cue drum roll*
He's cute, and only has seven legs. He moved in while I was at the XD, and whenever I look round, he's in the corner I look. I don't know how he gets round so quickly, being an invalid and all. He's very cute. I didn't think I was ready to love again after Fred, but the little minger's wormed his way into my heart. I think I shall name him Percival.
Sir Percival Gainsley.
Yeah.
I would also like to apologize for the poetry I wrote the other day. It was inexcusable. Here is something a little fresher, older, and sexier. Something bright and happy to remember those days, sitting outside the duplex, with a cup of hot peach tea, watching the sun go down on a new home.

Peach Tea
Opposing me, enclosing me.
If I work, I will not eat.
Doubly honest self-esteem,
Strangling suffrage is a dream.

Delight by charted sights,
Crackling sparks lie maimed at night.
Kow-towing to a tainted line.
Health in silence, a tongueless mime.

Fruit burned in second storm's wake.
Mind churned, thicker thoughts to make.
Bubbling skin on funeral pyre.
Pennies ransom Charon's ire.

Quadruple clean-cut channels
Win all defensive battles.
Oppose every single drop.
Falling upward never stops.
(finis)

Crows with Measles Committing Suicide

Funny, when I was twelve, I would have thought that was stunning imagery. Now it's just...gigglicious.
Erm...here. This is some really rubbish work, but you might as well see it.

The winter wind is closing fast,
Tracing across my hollow palm.
I drink up the last sun-rays,
Vitamins drench my shining hair.

Like an elliptical dish, the crowing child
Would have eaten your codfish heart.
But you fed it to the crocodiles
Deemed more worthy of your love

Ugh...yes, that is really rubbish. I'm going to be ashamed of it for some time. Erm...something else...aha!
Here's the long-awaited gesture, for those of you I haven't shown it to yet. Reference from Mehmet Turgut's photograph 'Rebel 7.' The painting is called 'The Epiphany of Auntie Sunshine.'
No, actually...it's called 'Prophecy.'

Craig's so sensitive! He has a tattoo!

Now, I hate to do this to you guys again...that is, post another video clip, but this one is great. Many thanks to Betts, who introduced me to this brilliant comedian.

Now that that's through with, however, I think I shall have to tell you that I'm extraordinarily chuffed. Yes, yes, I am. I finished a painting. Or, rather, abandoned it, as da Vinci would have it. Yes, I have a photograph of it, and here it is!
Just kidding. I haven't got one, yet, but it is coming.
Soon.
I've been toying with the idea of doing a miniature. Yes, a miniature. I went out and bought some itty canvases the other day (there was a sale...30% off all canvases, joygasm), and started on the larger one, but the small one...well, it's only about 12x10 cm, so I can just beautifully work on a miniature. What I'd really like to do is a round vignette miniature, but I haven't been able to find miniature-sized round canvas and there's no way I'm going to stretch my own now that I've run out of gesso. Let the corporations do it for me!
Now, I know none of you know what I'm talking about, but I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you how much I love grumtine. Not the thin, clear stuff. I love the dark bluey green stuff that takes an age, an age, and half an age to dry, and smells like orange rinds and makes your room smell clean even when it's not.
Yes, my room looks like a tornado went through it, but, believe it or not, I'm actually making a conscious effort to make it presentable. Despite the fact that my ever increasing stash of art nonsense is steadily encroaching on my living space, it's all right! I won't panic! Because we all know that my easel shrinks down to the size of a teaspoon, canvases can be sold to other aspiring artists at cost price, and brushes are easy to transport.
I'd encourage anyone who doesn't know what I'm talking about at the moment to go away, if you haven't already, because I'm about to tell you about my new brush.
It's black Fitch sable, a #4 filbert, with a handle that is balanced in the smexiest possible way, a ferrule that's not going to shed though it walks through the valley of the shadow of death, and the only regret I have is that I'm not allowed to marry an inanimate object.
This is the sexiest brush. It's not that I don't appreciate the beauty of natural bristle. I've had a set of natural bristle brushes since I first started oil painting. I've dragged them across three continents and though three have been lost along the wayside because they were stuck together with old oil paint, I'm still terribly attached to them.
I especially love the daddy, the big old #12 that scrumbles and covers so nicely, even if it is stained with phthalo blue at the tips and you can barely see that the handle is made of wood. These are the kind of brushes that don't give in.
But I'm still in love with my new filbert.
My God, I'm a nerd.

Sunnyland Sim and Willie Dixon

See y'all after the weekend rush.

Totally Underground

To Whom it May Concern

I wrote this piece a while ago. All right, a long while ago. Over a year ago. And no one's responded to it on the WF (that means you, Dre...and you've been encouraging me to write more fixed verse). So, being the tawdrily narcissistic being I am, you will be subjected to it here! Voila!

Jester's apprentice, violet veined,
I die to dance upon your stage.
Recall that I, the human stain,
A conquering worm, infirm with age,
Has wished for naught but birth-release--
A way to bring my brain decease.

Yet you insist, as times before,
That I pause my pagan rites
To seek another dancing floor;
An alternate to fuel my nights.
So I sit and weep backstage
As life winds me in its rage.

I know my time has come and gone,
I was the brightest of the stars,
Winked but once, and scarcely shone,
And proudly now, I bare my scars.
I am a soldier, fire-ant queen.
I am an altar, half obscene.

Take heart with me, befuddled lordling,
See the cherry-pits of doom.
Taste the ichor of my scorning,
Aim your bullets for the moon.
When the artichoke abstains,
Your gradient grace will be to blame.

Skip stones on the freckled lake,
Pay in dimples for my trial,
In my hairline fracture, bake,
Drain with me this virulent vial.
Sing with me, o fevered choir--
Chorus spinning on a wire.

Let us live our fire out,
Ill-mannered not to yield the ghost.
Let us whisper, ere the shout
Of sorcerers has summoned hosts.
Enspectred cobwebs catching time,
Let us live our welcome dry.
(finis)
Sunday, 6 August, 2006, 3:38 pm


Is it too cliché? Is that it? Is it too much like my older work? Does it not display enough development as a writer?
In other news, I would like to announce, for the second post in a row, my complete adoration for a thespian. Yes, yes...blah, blah. This time it's John Cleese. Sometimes I just want to take Basil Fawlty and kiss his nose, hand him some tea and crumpets (real ones) and tell him it's all going to be all right.
Sorry, back to poetry. I've been reading over my old poetry, and found that at some point during my late fifteenth, early sixteenth year, I made a switch from lofty fixed verse to some very abstract concepts indeed. I stopped writing poetry based on Aristotle and started writing based on myself.
Yes, my work has suffered.
And furthermore, I've only ever written two or three narrative poems. One was about Icarus and what he found when he got to Hades, another about a nightmare I had, and the other...well...judge for yourself.
The Words*
I dreamt that my words were torn--
Halting, falling from my mouth;
It was almost as though they were sliced away
As they came falling--
My name they were
Calling, as they trickled
To their doom.

I found them in a leather-bound book
And the pages were worn, and water-stained
But the pen-markings hadn’t gone anywhere
They lay suspended half-way in the air.

Like phantom figures in an old ballet
That nobody’s seen, but everyone knows
And then there was nothing, I still couldn’t speak
Because the words were light-fast,
They wouldn’t leave the pages
Though I jolted and tossed, and licked them off the pages.

I rushed into the street, and machines swerved around me
Avoiding the inevitable impact of metal,
But I couldn’t scream, my words were worthless
Scrawled out in silence, too small to see.

Well, I spoke to the sun in its own peculiar language—
I’d learnt it from someone born in a volcano,
It did not require words that were voiced with the
Mouth and the throat, and the tongue, only the soul
Played an essential tune to communing with the singular
Beaming, life-giving, conflagrating sun.

It was nearly a fight to force out my thoughts
From my soul, I had never done this before
Though I knew how to do it—one must only be honest
With the sun, because it knew everything already.
I said,
“Would you please give me back my words,
Or at least could you tell me
Where have they gone? I don’t know, I have looked.”

And the sun said, “You’ve found them already—
They’re in that book that’s right in your hands.”

So I looked at the first page,
And it said a line of Shakespeare,
A pretty proverb from the Phoenix and the Turtle,
A very old poem that nobody knows anymore.

My mouth, it opened, and I wrapped my tongue around
Every letter, but I couldn’t quite make any sense.
The sounds I emitted were all very rusted,
Like doors that haven’t been opened in years.

But I had just been speaking the day before yesterday,
And yesterday there wasn’t anything to say,
So I hadn’t spoken a single word.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t say anything.
Then I thought,
‘Well, this is pretty absurd. I’d better go find out
All about this book.”

So I picked myself up, and walked off into the sunset,
As all good adventurers do.
(finis)

And I will leave you with a picture.
Courtesy of a smexy musician.

Ken from Kent

How do I love him? Let me count the ways...
Oh...wait, wrong poet.
Shall I compare him to a summer's day?
He is more lovely and more temperate.
Blah, blah, blah.
I'm speaking, of course, about my favourite Kentish thespian, Kenneth Branagh. Even his ex-wife still adores him.
And now, after all his fantastic work, on stage, on film, behind the camera...he's directing a version of Die Zauberflöte. For all you operatically impaired loved ones out there, that's The Magic Flute, penned by Mozart some two, three hundred years ago. And now, it comes to you on film! The magic of Papageno and Prince Tamino, the mysterious Priest Sarastro, and, of course, the evil Queen of the Night. Apparently it's set in WWI rather than in Egypt, where the opera was originally meant to be located. I can't wait. I wanna be friends with it.
*wags tail*
Here. Have some Kenneth luuurve




















Great. Now I want to go watch Much Ado About Nothing.

A Masterpiece of DNA

So get this...I'm on YIM and my cousin Christella pops up. I haven't talked to her in yonks, cause she happens to live in the PI, and I'm not exactly close to my rellies of the maternal persuasion, and she offers me to view her webcam. I'm not gonna say no, and voila! She sitting there with this adorable little three, four year old boy on her lap and it turns out, he's my cousin, too.
Oh, and Chris is really pretty, too. Last time I saw her, she was a chubby little eleven year old and I was a gangly ten year old and we...made fires in the back yard.
Yeah.
Wow...that was a long time ago. So, yeah, I have a new cousin I didn't know about, and...erm...man, I miss calamansi juice. Or however you spell it.
Again, got into contact with the friendly, neighbourhood hole-in-the-wall art joint and bought myself a new tube of Payne's grey. It'll come in handy with this new gesture I swear to Gawd I'll finish.
But back to my maternal family...I'm just realising that they're a cool bunch, particularly the younger ones. My uncle Michael is a tattoo artist, Christella is looking to join a band, my late grandfather was a martial arts master, my mother was a sprinter...we Destuas are freakin hardcore, y'all.
And what's more, my mum's maiden name...yeah...it's that close to my dad's. How's that for serendipity?

Ship This!

I think most of my epiphanies come through while driving. Not me, personally, driving. Wow, how terrifying a thought is that?
No, while on the road, looking through my mirrored sunglasses at the wide, wide world, all the flatlands and hilly bits and jumpy abandoned barns.
Most lately, I've decided to boycott 18 wheelers. Why, you ask? Because I feel contrary, that's why. And because they're very large, diesel-slurping cogs upon which the machine of the system rotates goods all round this great nation of ours. Ladies and gentlefiends, I see a Wal-Mart truck coming toward me, but that doesn't matter.
Doesn't matter at all.
Do you know why?
Because.
There's this little boy. He's going camping with his sisters. But that's all right, because he has his little sleeping area, and in it there's a little mattress. It's dark blue, with rockets and planets and aliens, and even stars, but not those girly pink stars. These are orange and cool. You won't find rainbows or winged ponies here, and his sisters will leave it alone. Because it's a boy cot.
And that's why the Wal-Mart truck can cease to exist for all I damned well care.
~
I also just had a great deal of pizza. Three lovely slices, with a buttery, thin crust that flakes in your mouth and, just when you'd love for it to stay there, disappears. And get this: my feet hurt.
Yes. They do, they do.
Again, this doesn't matter, because I have a roasty, toasty little hotel bed to slip into, with lots of pillows which, at some point during the night, will end up on the carpet. And my toes shall be happy and squirm in delight.
Admit it, that makes your toes want to squiggle, too, doesn't it?

Haustellum Brandaris

To whit, my love, I am no token.
I am no blood-bright copper penny
Chipped between the teeth of youth--
No signale of darker passions,
No debauchery at sunset.

Be certain, I am nothing more
Than broken linen in the sun,
Flaxseed oils pressed for pigment.
With Tyrian purple, my eyes drenched,
No longer black with dark intent.
(finis)
Friday, 28 September, 2007
9:51 am US Central

Lick It Up

Quite frankly, I don't GIVE a half-damn if Bear Grylls receives off camera assistance or occasionally sleeps in motels. He's beautiful, has Matthew McConaughey Syndrome ('I believe this would be a fine opportunity to take mah shirt off'), climbed Everest at the age of 23, and...well...who can resist a bloke who eats maggots out of a rotting carcase? Observe the adorableness.

I defy anyone to find a more unconsciously charismatic wild man. So there.
Erm...oh, here's a link to his blog.
And if that's not enough to satisfy your linkage needs, this is something big, something beautiful, something outlawed in the former U.S.S.R.
Buglakov's masterpiece.
The Master and Margarita.
Don't read it if you're allergic to satire.

Butterball et al

So I'm driving peacefully down the Interstate, listening to the radio, lamenting at the state of the music industry, wanting dreadfully to find Chester Bennington so I can sit him down, look him straight in all four eyes, and say 'No! You Dreadful boy! This is NOT MUSIC!'--when an advert comes on.
Now, I'm sure we all loathe these little abrasive interpolations between ourselves and our music, but this one seemed to catch my interest. It was the Butterball Poultry company, and it began with an obtrusive: 'Attention, all potential Butterball employees!'
Next, it informed me that Butterball was expanding its boning department, and that I really should be a part of it.
Yes.
They are in desperate need of turkey boners.
This is a fact that they repeated several times, pausing, of course, to include the fact that Butterball is an equal opportunities employer. Yes, even if you are a four eyed freak with little to no musical ability (like Chester dear), you, too, could have an industrious career as a turkey boner.
I'm sure this message comes to you in your very hour of need.
Who doesn't want to work for the boning department?
(Disclaimer: The following testimonial is fictional. All similarities to characters living or dead is purely coincidental)
~
Jim-Bob Leroy, Jr. reports:
'I've been boning turkeys all my life, and I never IMAGINED I could git paid fer it!'
~
Well, there you have it, folks! Come down to your local Butterball recruiting agency today and...uh...bring lube.
~
In other news, I'm still painting. I'm working on a wretched gesture piece, based on a fabulous painting by Mehmet Turgut. You should find him. He's brilliant, if a little psychotic. But what else could you have come to expect from little old me?
I also unpacked Taidgh. No, not the crazy Irish poet on my link list. My guitar. Yes. He's in need of a polishing, but all my spare bits of cotton cloth are besmirched with clots of pigment and safflower or linseed oils. Yes, even the pair of jeans I'm wearing. I'll have to steal a tea towel from the kitchen.
~
(No turkeys were boned during the creation of this post)

Elegy for the Missing Turtle

This is so depressing.
Fred is gone.
She will be sorely missed.
I really wanted to paint on her shell.
I have half a jar of turtle feed sitting on my shelf, looking all useless and forlorn. I'm not quite certain what to do.
I don't have a pet any longer. I am inspired to write a mediocre, angst-ridden emo poem to celebrate my feelings for Fred.
~
You were a lady
In your dull speckled shell.
No red eyes to celebrate your name,
Only dreams of the thorny brambles
From which I plucked you,
Six-year rings dancing a sarabande
Across your reptilian back.

You ate earth-worms and cicadas,
Only when they were alive.
Sucking the yellow life-blood
From their veinless exoskeletons.
Vicariously vivacious,
My cold-blooded plaything,
You ran away
Just before winter.
(finis)
Wednesday, 26 September, 2007
10:16 am US Central

Draught One

Yes, ladies and gentlefiends, it is I.
Yes, I have deleted all previous blogs because they were, in a word, ridiculous.
There is no point to having two blogs if you NEVER BLOODY UPDATE!
However, I am turning over a new leaf, scrubbing the scuddy green yuck off the bottom, and using it as an umbrella.
It's raining cats and fuzzy little pomeranians outside, and I just want to roll over and go back to sleep.
But no longer!
It's nearly reveille and there are so many more things I should be doing.
It's the second day back from sunny Puerto Rico and I need to sit down and rework some paintings. Maybe later on today.
Maybe, if I find the time.
So far as life goes, I am a happy little hamster.
Here. Have this, and don't say I haven't ever given you anything.