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.