Lady Things!

KAWAII!

2009-12-31T19:05:00.001-06:00

We can has teh keggers!

Come on down to San Marcos, kids, we're gonna tear it up.

Nom nom nom.

2009-11-19T08:26:00.002-06:00

I am the luckiest little bean ever.

Liz (bless her) got the most delicious coffee creamer in the world.

Imagine this, kids: English Toffee.

Done.

Can has teh kitten?

2009-11-11T08:53:00.003-06:00

No.

No, I can not.

What I can have are a snake and a tarantula.

Heh. You read correctly, Aaron.

We can has a tarantula in the living room. Drop by and see it some time.

They're special buddies.

It's actually a little creepy how well they get along. I'm convinced that some day they're going to tear one another limb from...erm...entrail, and I'm pretty sure Luca (tarantula) is going to win. I wanted to name him Aragog, but no one appreciates the nerdy names.

Well, bah humbug to you, too!

Speakinawhich, A Christmas Carol is out.

Go do it. The skinning looks so legit.

Nao!

2009-11-10T10:29:00.003-06:00

I would post pics, if I had any, but as everyone knows, I'm a huge picture phail, and never take them.

BUT!

I shall have you lot know that I'm in San Marcos, recovered from a bout with the flu, getting re-addicted to gaming (thanks Aaron, you twit), and generally kicking ass and taking names.

NOT!

Well, everything but the latter.

I need a godsdamned job.

Pineapple is a fruit, not a name.

2009-11-03T09:03:00.002-06:00

So...I've been swearing up and down that I'd do it, and whinging because Josh went out of town just before I left Houston, but there's a lovely bloke at Shaman Modifications by the name of Pineapple who did me a second dermal anchor.

If you want a piercing, he's the man to go to.

I still think his name is ridiculous.

Three weeks of healing time, and I'll be good to go for another spike. Hurrah!

The Child Thief

2009-10-30T10:32:00.001-05:00

By Brom. Go do it. You know you want to.

all your headaches are belong to me

2009-10-23T11:24:00.002-05:00

I am not well.

Not well

at all.

I blame Obama for my weather-change flu.

The end.

And now, for something completely different.

2009-10-19T10:53:00.002-05:00

I haven't updated in for-ay-ever. That's cause I was working seventy-hour weeks, and couldn't be bothered. Now that no one is reading this dreck any longer (good for you), I can say whatever unrelated nonsense I want, and shan't be judged. Heh.

I'm leaving Houston, moving (again!), tomorrow. Yes, am terrified.

I watched the Monty Python-a-thon on IFC last night. God, I love Idle and Cleese. They make my inside bits happy.

Also participating in NaNoWriMo for the first time, which is also terrifying, but fifty thousand words only comes out to about 1700 words a day, so I'm not exactly in the shit.

In further news, I am now obsessed with George R. R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire nonsense. Guh. Give me big facially scarred men with pyrophobia any day. Or Jaime Lannister would do just as well. Twincest!

Erm...oh. The reason I'm actually updating is cause Severin Koller with the beautiful cheekbones is back in business. I watched him ages ago, mainly because he's an incendiary prick who's actually really good at what he does, and is passionate about it.

He doesn't just shoot a couple pictures in high exposure, or in sepia, and think it's amazing because he did it. Now, I don't know the first thing about photography, but I know all about artistic passion (because I'm sure I haven't it any longer), and he manages well. I don't mind a swotty git if he actually knows what he's talking about.

I'm not sure whether I'll be updating regularly from now on, but we'll see.

Oh, God, I'm terrified.

sehr questionable

2009-07-04T10:47:00.002-05:00

josh says he can draw roses coming out my ass.
i'd rather he didn't and just stuck with the sketches i gave him.

faux vacations

2009-06-26T22:43:00.000-05:00

i'm not coming back,
but pretending's fine.

2009-06-12T07:53:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I'm just tempted to KAWAII!
Right now is not one of those times.
I have to go to work.
Guhh.

Creep

2009-05-29T08:43:00.001-05:00

Usually, when someone's skin makes me want to cry, it means they're a massive trauma burn victim.

illogical.

2009-05-27T07:46:00.001-05:00

my plug-in baby
crucifies my enemies
when i'm tired of living.
?!

Goodness Gracious

2009-05-24T10:09:00.004-05:00

I have found a new artist to be madly in love with.
Paul Mellender.
Check him out.
He's got a Llewellyn-esque love for the classic, uses dramatic Carravaggio-style lighting, paints in oils and does gorgeous pencil sketches with great realism...and is kind of cute, too, for an old geezer. Go look him up. His ID is Kourete on the dA.
Also, I can has a new iPod?
!

ingrate austrian

2009-05-22T09:21:00.001-05:00

i can't believe i forgot severin.

borzoi?

2009-05-17T20:26:00.002-05:00

Ooh. Today was a good day. Not to die, just a good day in general.
First of all, Betts rang. Squee!
Heh. I always squee when Betts rings. It's rather humiliating, and probably annoying for him to have to deal with over the phone.
But.
Yes.
Also a woman walked by with two borzois! They're my favourite dogs at the moment. Tall, skinny, lazy, with big eyes. I wants one. I wants a big grey one, and I shall call him the Skraeling.
And he shall adore me with his enormous brown eyes and skinny muzzle.
Oyez.
Betts shall send me pictures of the baaaaby!
Who is probably bigger than me by now.

Piggies!

2009-05-16T08:46:00.002-05:00

Dan is never going to find a piglet as cool as these.
GIVE UP LOSER!

Watch Piggy Ear Flaps and more funny videos on CollegeHumor

there was a scooter boy

2009-05-06T21:21:00.004-05:00

So I work next to a Jimmy John's, right? And there's this bloke who works there, who rides a scooter to work. It has orange bits, and a skull and crossbones on it. He's pretty. I fancy the pants off him.
Has a swirly, colourful arm-piece. I'm so very tempted to go over during his shift and flirt the name of his artist out of him, but he really is way too cute. Glasses and dark hair.
Oh, I need to stop fancying boys with big tattoos.
No.
Wait.
I don't.

Oh My Darling

2009-04-28T07:50:00.002-05:00

Happy birthday, Terry.
I do love you an awful lot, by Io.

A Ten Minute Dream in the Passenger's Seat

2009-04-20T21:57:00.003-05:00

And if you swear
that there's
no truth
and who cares,
how come you say it
like you're right?
--Conor Oberst (whom I think is a bit of a pretentious wanker)

coming up for air

2009-04-19T22:37:00.002-05:00

Urk.
Just got reminded that the new Oh, Sleeper album is out soon. Yippee.
I'm excited.
Uh.
Worked late tonight, and made the mistake of drinking a Rock Star at six thirty. It's now twenty to eleven and I'm twitching like the comically coked-out squirrel in your garden variety family animation.
Well, not literally. I'm only typing about 120 wpm, so no harm's really done.
Again, urk.
Bitches and hos, yo.
I need new guitar strings.
Oh, and if anyone wants to buy me a pair of Doc Marten's Phina boots, feel free.

bluestockingahpoccylips

2009-04-18T22:27:00.002-05:00

Oh mah tum hurts.
Just watched some oddball Canuck film. Young People Fucking.
As usual, they have the 'best friends' couple get together.
What nonsense. Best mates are just best mates for good reasons.
Very
Good
Reasons.
Anyhow, aside from that nonsense, there was a very cute British boy with blue eyes and a sloppy smile in it, which is brilliant.
Oh man.
I was given a great big fat dose of reality.
Going through Whole Foods Market to grab some dinner, and the boy in the checkout next to us was a skinny bearded thing with big blue eyes.
Oh man.

Ugh

2009-04-17T19:48:00.002-05:00

I'm suffering.
I'm going to be working about sixty hours a week for the next three months.
*bangs forehead.
I'm going to suffer more.
But with beer.

couldawouldashoulda

2009-04-04T14:56:00.001-05:00

I love hot weather
and my lungs are filled with
smoke and water, mixing
charcoal-dust carefully, just enough
to keep from choking out the
last languourous breaths.

and it is glorious.

put it all together and bill the concierge.

2009-03-25T23:09:00.002-05:00

I may not be around much over the next few weeks.
So I shall leave you in the safe hands of the Royal Air Force, as personified by Armstrong and Miller. Ausgeseichnet!

oh boy

2009-03-23T23:05:00.002-05:00

This is so sappy.
but this song is exactly how i'm feeling.

and ryan adams is teh sex.
you know, despite being a deaf midget struggling beneath the weight of his own ego.
he sure can write songs.

such a smart girl!

2009-03-22T19:43:00.003-05:00

uh.
i just realised that my piercer looks like jemaine from flight of the conchords, only he's fair.
it was bothering me the whole time i was talking to him.
oh.
and there ain't no tea party like my nana's tea party.

Flight of the Conchords - Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros from Flight of the Conchords

boom click back tick

2009-03-20T22:22:00.003-05:00

Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
Seriously, this is going to be bad. Wait for it...wait for it...
I watched Enchanted the other night.
Yes.
Oh, yes.
It was brilliant.
Well, James Marsden was brilliant.
The bit where he screams, 'Giselle!' and rams his fist into his mouth. Seriously. My little heart flopped over. Or would have if my stomach weren't so busy doing the same.
He's freaking HILARIOUS. Stole the show. It makes up for the fact that his forehead takes up about the same percentage of face as Tom Cruise's smile takes up on his (that is, about two thirds).
And then I made the mistake of watching X-Men 2, and for some reason...don't ask me why...I kept expecting him to come rushing down the stairs of the mansion squealing, 'Logan!'
Uh. Yeah. The subtext is totally there. And it is steamy.
Hugh Jackman is still the only man I love who is allowed to have big rippling muscles.

tick tick hash.

2009-03-17T00:48:00.002-05:00

Turkey bacon is...not...quite...it's just...I can't...
It's gross.
Mondo gross.
And I know I sound like a ruddy valley girl, but them's facts, me luvs.
You can't have a proper bacon sandwich with turkey bacon. It doesn't sizzle, it just...burns and goes all...narsty and smugh.
Yes.
Smugh.
You know what's stupid?
I can't sleep.
And my piercing itches like a bastard on a stick.
Cause they're very itchy...erm...bastards.
On sticks.
And...I had a seriously crack!head dream last night.
It involved Jason Statham and Marilyn Monroe, an old-fashioned steam-engine,
and The Chronicles of Narnia.
Yeah.
No kidding. It was so messed up.
Uh.
Insomnia is a pest and a half.
Especially when someone who will remain unnamed very unhelpfully volunteered a mental image of drippingwethughjackmaninatowelonly, and I am unable to go to sleep to make proper use of said image.
Perhaps I shall try to take over the world.
Now where are those lab rats?

wakka wakka bang splat.

2009-03-14T22:37:00.003-05:00

Uh...I probably shouldn't be broadcasting my adoration of Vimes any more than I have to...but...I was listening to Thud! today and my little heart just about beat out of its chest. Multiple times. Specially when he was tearing down the street and hijacking the carriages of little old ladies in order to get back home and read Where's my Cow? to his son. The most cuddled book in the world. Heh. Seriously, if I were a fictive, Sybil and I would have a serious throw-down for her husband. (Only I like Sybil too. Whole bunches. She's such a bloody rocker.) She'd kick my butt, of course, but it'd be...you know...wossname...worth it. Yeah. To get called an idiot by the Commander. The only bloke I go weak in the knees for. Give me a moment to swoon. Thanks.
*Ahem*
ANYHOW! Now that's out of the way, we can move on to more important things. Yeah. Like...oh, I got my nape pierced finally. I win at life! Hurrah! Thanks to Chris at Electric Art who coached my whiny ass like a shiner.
(I actually didn't whine. I moaned a little, but not so much that anyone could hear. Bragging rights, yo.)
I shall give piccies when I have pritty jewellery to show. Right now there's just a healing bar barely sticking out of the skin by about three milimetres. I've discovered that the edges of band-aids cut me (fragile blossom that I am), and that a warm-bordering-on-hot saline soak for ten minutes in an upended shot glass makes all the ouchies feel just that much better. It's mondo delish.
Buglit. I has runned out of things to say to peopulz.
No fear. I'm not actually speaking lolcat language. Cause trying to sound cuter than you actually are is a hanging offense, and I'm terminally (ha bloody ha ha) aware of my level of cuteness. It's limited to banging on about cynical, fictional Watch officers more than a half-century old.
Uhhh...my back hurts.
And I have found the only sexy trolley boy in the world. He has big gauges and dark eyes and a great smile.
And he's probably about seventeen.
Great.

Tis a Pity He's a...

2009-03-10T09:57:00.001-05:00

little boy.
But it helps that he has an adorable accent and messed up teeth.

Watch 32 Songs in 8 Minutes on CollegeHumor

Heart Healthy

2009-03-09T13:32:00.003-05:00

Always eat a good breakfast the morning of a body modification.

Just in case

2009-03-09T00:16:00.001-05:00

I haven't mentioned it before,
there's nothing quite like being told that your dress is cute
by a boy from Oz.

Like Porcelain

2009-03-06T11:20:00.002-06:00

The first narcissus (narcissi?) of spring are growing outside my house. I still have memories of Massachusetts, the garden where they drew knee-high to me (when I was much smaller), with their long necks and pale yellow chiffon petals.
Heh. poetic, much?
Well, I'm not much for flowers, but they're pretty. I like the leaves best, succulent green, the sort of spring-flavoured green earth and flake white with yellow ochre that manages not to be an earth colour, somehow. Buh-zzare.
Erm. I'm still doing rubbish sketches. I got the Vetinari eyebrow-lift perfectly, but still can not manage Sybil for the life of me.
Bah.
My destiny calls, and I go.
Or is that the carpool?

Goodness Gracious

2009-03-01T18:23:00.008-06:00

I have been doing so many trashy sketches. Observe. Sorry about the blur.

The Croutons of Teatime. Mr. Te-ah-ti-me.

2009-02-27T20:52:00.004-06:00

I want to paint more big, curly horns on androgynous boys.
Stay tuned for more dramatic changes in my personality.
Dun dun dun DUN!
If I were writing in Agatean pictograms, that would be a urinating dog.
Just thought you should know.
Cause things like that are important.
Also, my bizarre obsessions.
You may have been clued into the fact that I am on a Terry Pratchett Discworld kick. A serious one. I love Commander Vimes so much my stomach hurts.
And Vetinari. I would almost be a mime artist in Ankh-Morpork just so he would hang me upside-down over a scorpion pit and tell me to Learn the Words. Might even consider taking my life into my hands and be ironic at him. Gasp!
'Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don't seem to have the knack.'
He can have all the knacks in the world. If he doesn't have enough, and wants more, he could probably send someone to go get them for him.
It's probably wrong that it makes me so happy to read about him and Vimes infuriating one another.

One of the Best

2009-02-27T00:11:00.002-06:00

Evar.
Seriously. Not to outshine Lord Havelock *swoons dutifully* but this is...this is just...yeah. Please. The ladies are going to be queuing up for these gents.

Now...I'm just going to go have a little lie-down to recover from the big ugly fib I just told.

Haaavelock

2009-02-26T08:53:00.002-06:00

I made the serious mistake of watching this while eating chocolate.
'Don't let me detain you.'
WUFFLES!

Aquarelle Alert!

2009-02-25T17:51:00.003-06:00

No, really. Just a dandified androgynous little faun.

I!

2009-02-19T22:18:00.000-06:00

Shall not be around for a bit.
Kisses and sparkles!
Busy cuddling Vimes.

Hee

2009-02-15T22:40:00.002-06:00

Too bad I only feel this way about Vimes.

Pulling Teeth

2009-02-11T22:48:00.002-06:00

You can't know how desperately I want to write. I haven't written any poetry or decent prose in months. I feel like such a failure.
Buh.
It's the rubbish sketches I've been doing. They take all the extra bits.
No one is sexier than Jeremy Irons as Havelock Vetinari.
'Don't let me detain you.'
My brain went honestly to mush.
Speaking of mushy brains, I've decided not to comment on amateur writing any more. Or, rather, writing that people present as creative, but aren't really interested in improving. I've had one too many whingy ingrates who, after I have taken half an hour to dissect their work and discover their flaws, send a barrage of hatemail about how their feelings are hurt.
And yes, I am harsh, and I will point everything out that I feel isn't right, or that can be improved, but I generally will give a disclaimer. Something to the effect of: 'Don't be offended, if what I'm seeing as an error is really your style, then ignore it. Also, the more you write the better you'll get.'
Some of the most unhelpful critiques any artist can receive are composed of, 'OMG! You're like, so talented! I can't believe you thought of that. I can really feel what you were trying to say. Don't listen to people who say you've got it wrong. They're just trying to get you down.'
PEOPLE!
If you encounter a critique longer than three sentences, pointing out things that hurt your feelings, that deal with the material, and aren't some nonsensical flame, you feel grateful that whoever it is that wrote it took the time out of their life to tell you how you can improve. All those gaping plot holes they're illuminating, those are things you can re-work and improve.
As good old G.K. said, 'artistic temperament is for amateurs.'
Anyhow, all that having been said, I'm never giving a critique to anyone unless they trust that I know what I'm talking about, and I'm sure they're serious about their own work. Nothing makes me angrier than when someone I've taken time to review says, 'well, I'm not perfect.'
NEITHER AM I! No one is! My favourite authors aren't perfect! They're brilliant, not perfect, but if you're going to give up while you still suck eggs, you're not going to IMPROVE, and people are still going to laugh behind their hands when you rhyme 'love' with 'above' or 'dove,' or 'blood' with 'mud,' or call your soul black or your heart empty, and whinge about cutting yourself and say how much so-and-so has hurt you and how you'll never recover. You can write about those things, but please, please, please, don't be offended when people say they've heard these topics discussed in the exact same language.
Buggrit, this is turning into a proper rant.
As a very clever somebody told me once (after I presented a piece of wangsty garbage):
"Poetry is not saying, 'you died, and I miss you.'
Poetry is saying,
'Interred below, you live in me--
Sepulchral spiders of memory.' "
Oh. And I am drawing Vimes.
*blush*

Aristides

2009-02-08T20:20:00.003-06:00

G.I. Gle

2009-02-08T09:36:00.002-06:00

Where has all the custard gone?
Jello just isn't the same.
Buhh...by the end of the weekend, I feel particularly like a golem. Golem must have master.
Golem must work.
Help me, Dorfl!
I want chocolate biscuits.

Linda, Linda...

2009-02-04T20:47:00.001-06:00

She is evil. Is Linda Bergkvist.
Also known as Enayla.
Buh.
Go look her up on dA. Or google her.
She makes me so happy.

Vimes!

2009-02-03T17:06:00.004-06:00

Vimes!
Vimes!
Vimes!
Yeah.
I'm being fangirly.
Shaddup.
(Vimes!)
Heh.
O. Uh...here's a piccy of Jono Strange. Oyez. Ginger magicians! It's a WIP.

Shiny and Neeeew!

2009-02-03T14:43:00.003-06:00

'This, Bella, is the skin of a killer!'
*sparkles*
Teehee.
Guess what, guess what, guess what?!
I read five pages of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer, and I didn't actually upchuck!
Well, it was a near thing. I felt out of sorts for the rest of the day.
Sparkly vampires.
I cannot get over that.
It's fecking hilarious.
Wait wait wait. Look at this!
Tee
hee.

Uh...

2009-02-02T01:38:00.002-06:00

Just some weekend sketches.
I KNOW Gavroche is meant to be an underfed little minger, but...but he has a cheeky smile and hollow eyes. Soh. Yez.
As for the other...well...I don't know. He has some rawkin hair, though. And a cruel mouth. Which is always good.
Uh...probably about forty minutes spent on each.

Books! Books!

2009-02-01T23:27:00.002-06:00

Oh, boy.
I just finished Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.
Before you judge me, I've had it for nearly a year, and I only picked it up on Friday.
It's so sad.
Ginger men with long noses. Eep.
I spent the entire book wondering when the Raven King was going to make an appearance, and was terribly disappointed when...
when...
when Norrell turned out to be right.
Damn him.
Old men whose noses are always in books generally are, sadly enough.
Even when they're selfish and obstinate.
Particularly when they're selfish and obstinate.
Buh.
That isn't what I started this post to say, actually.
I love--love--the idea of a man being a book.
Also, I may have to do a sketch of John d'Uskglass in the midst of my many, many studies.
I'm doing a nude after Michelangelo. She is very muscular--one of the statues from the tomb of Lorenzo di'Medici.
I have a confession to make.
I love H pencils.
And I desperately want another tattoo.
Craving some b-mod.
It is bad.
As is my addiction to caffeine.
And Sam Vimes.
Please
stand
by.

All Knowledge...

2009-01-29T22:57:00.002-06:00

...is worth having.
Probably about an hour of concentrated work, spread finely over a weekend, a devo or two, and a meeting. Nekkid bishi with art nouveau hair!

How Very Traditionalist of Me

2009-01-29T22:15:00.002-06:00

I have a new fictive crush.
His name is Sam Vimes.
Yes. The copper.
He's cerebral and clever and has way too many bad habits, including being a natural knurd.
I need to get away from liking reformed alcoholics.
Heh.
HUB-serve!
Are you my cow?
'Buglit!'
Tee hee.
If you get my knee-deep fic-references, you are as bad as I am, and SHAME ON YOU!

Losing No Faith

2009-01-27T23:33:00.004-06:00

In case you were wondering.
These are for you. In order, we have:
1. Study after WJSolha's 'Study in Gold,' only, without the beard. Seriously, have you ever tried painting facial hair in watercolour? It is a pain. As evidenced by
2. The Tricolour. Yes. I would like to say it was influenced by some real feeling of revolutionary right, as moved by something pontificating like The Rights of Man, or even by Les Misérables, but I think we all know that I just really, really like Enjolras. *blushes* Next we have
3. a WIP, the preliminary sketch of a study after Michelangelo Buonaroti (sic?). It will, eventually, be in oils, if I am not entirely embarrassed by it, more WIPs may be forthcoming. If I can be arsed. And, speaking of studies after Renaissance masters, I figured
4. this would be in order. It's a study of the hand from Leonardo da Vinci's Lady with an Ermine. This is also a WIP, first underpainting. Trust me, you are much better off for not having seen the abysmal sketch. And lastly, to scorch your eyeballs, is
5. something with no title. Also a WIP. This is the last underpainting layer (the fourth), and from here on out we will be experimenting with glazes. Wish me luck.
Soh...that is mostly what I've been busy doing, beside being influenced (unfortunately) by mah Betsy, whose big arse fetish is rubbing off (yeesh, bad phrasing) on me. I sketched the little cutest little Cirque de Soleil type bird with a puffed sleeve bodysuit or something. And the rawkingest headdress. Or hair. Not sure which to make it.
Anyhow, just so you know that I'm not entirely through with drawing and painting androgynous boys. Cause I'm sure that's very important to the lot of you.

We Apologise for the Inconvenience

2009-01-27T09:03:00.001-06:00

I realise that I'm dangerously obsessed with boots and pretty little dresses in delicious fabrics, so it's only normal that I dream about them. And dream about lovely ships with hot showers and shower gels that smell of jasmine, and rich suites with enormous beds...but Owen Wilson?
Really?
Ew.

I was a clever 11 year old

2009-01-22T21:38:00.002-06:00

Okay. Seriously. Marius is a fucking retard.
I want to kick him in the shins.
Possibly after giving Valjean a little nudge in the ribs for being a bit of a short-sighted moron, but SERIOUSLY!
Marius is a twat.
I think I wrote about four pages to this effect when I was eleven, after bawling my eyes out at the end of a 1400-page book.
I forgot how much I hate that little Pontmercy tosser. His name is even poncy.
BAH!!!
He makes me so ANGRY.

Seriously.

2009-01-20T13:21:00.002-06:00

Look at this.

And this.

And this.

I'll have another, please!

2009-01-12T21:08:00.002-06:00

Apparently, Nicky's version of 'revenge' is kisses and free coffee.
Also, I forgot how magnificently delicious I look in black.
I am going to be wearing a great deal more black.

I've never...

2009-01-06T00:17:00.001-06:00

...thought of Edmond Dantès quite like this.
Go watch Gankutsuou. It is very, very deeply acceptable.

you're the edible what?

2009-01-03T10:28:00.002-06:00

Milk and cookies are divine. Even if it's skim milk and cheap Christmas shortbread. It's the breakfast of champions. Particularly taking into consideration that I'm not drinking caffeine these days. Well. Not today, anyhow. I made the mistake of drinking a cup of coffee at four-ish yesterday, and I was awake till three.
No matter. I had a fabulous dream I didn't want to wake from.
Yesterday, I went looking for a pair of motorcycle boots. And I realised something horrific. Women's motorcycle boots don't bloody exist. It's quite bad. Well, I mean, they do, if you want to pay two hundred dollars for them, and you probably should, if you're going to be wearing them for motorcycling or hiking or whatever pursuits you're looking into, but!--if you're just wanting to wear them with a little frilly dress so you can spare your poor toes the pain of being shoved into teetering stilettos, or your legs getting cold in the wintertime (don't even begin to talk to me about the inadvisability of wearing little dresses in the winter. It's not going to help anything.), there's no point in breaking the nonexistent piggy bank, quite frankly.
But!

Beware

2008-12-28T15:55:00.002-06:00

This is probably going to be a phenomenally sappy post.
I came across a quote from the Winnie the Pooh books by A. A. Milne today, and it said this.
'If you live to be a hundred, I hope I live to be a hundred minus one day, so that I'll never have to live without you.'
And I got all stupid and choked up about it.
I've been thinking about friendship a lot lately, and what it's made of, I suppose. I've come to the definite conclusion that candy floss isn't actually involved.
Anyhow, I'm not going to wax poetic about how lovely my friends are. I don't have a lot of them, mainly owing to the right swot that I am most of the time, and the cynical shrew I am the rest of it, and also because I just sincerely don't like most people, but the ones I do have are the sort of people I couldn't possibly get rid of.
There are the brilliant ones, the ones I love because I admire them, who won't stand for mediocrity, but somehow manage to put up with me, who give a half damn and don't know why. There are those who know exactly why they're in my life, and how they got there, and still aren't terribly interested in giving me up.
And for all the bits of me that have been scattered all over the globe, all the little shards of heart and guts and unsightly emotions, you're still a part of me.
So there, and good luck getting rid of me.
Damn it, my chest hurts now.

every now and then

2008-12-27T18:53:00.002-06:00

i want to go blind.

Syncopating my Repotaph

2008-12-20T22:42:00.002-06:00

It has been an eventful week, mostly owing to Stephen Spielberg.
It's the last weekend before Christmas, and I'm only just starting to realise exactly what that means.
The Dreaded Holiday is upon us.
Not that I don't like Christmas, and certainly not that I don't like the event of the birth of our Lord, but quite frankly, people are simply past bearing during these lovely times.
I'm sure you've been following the news. Wal-Mart greeter trampled to death on Black Friday et al, and I just wonder sometimes what people are thinking.
I'm going to stop myself here before I start ranting about the sheer idiocy of consumerism.
I'm going to be happy because I'm going to cut my hair on Monday.
Yippee.
I'm also drinking a grape powerade. It is foul.
In case you were wondering.
I ache in places I didn't remember I had.
And remember, kids:
Import all the best boys so the Swedes don't get them!

the trouble with exhaustion...

2008-12-15T22:57:00.003-06:00

...is that I find myself writing these brilliant bits of imagery in my head as I'm drifting off to sleep, and I vow to myself that I'll get up in two minutes and write them down.
But I never do.
So if you were expecting long, loving lines about how I am the sieve through which the world is spun, look elsewhere.
Sorry.
In other news, I'd like to apotheosise cough syrup. Particularly when I have a bad cough, and need to go Christmas carolling.
Oh.
I'm getting the best gifts ever this year.
Happy Christmas, Fafi.

okay seriously

2008-12-15T00:24:00.002-06:00

Am I the only person who thinks David Tennant is mindbendingly sexy?
Yah. Mkay. I needs help.

Erised

2008-12-12T12:57:00.002-06:00

I'll be there
as soon as I can,
but I'm busy mending all the
pieces of
the life I had
before.
Before you.
--Matthew Bellamy
Isn't he just the sweetest?
Okay, so I'm reading Kurt Vonnegut's Hocus Pocus, and I get to the part where he gets busted by the retarded girl for saying obscene things and being a commie, and I start thinking, that girl should get punched in the ovaries.
Not literally, of course, but she should at least be sat down and given a stern talking to.
Really unloving, what she did.
Cough.
I am so happy right now. I've been enjoying one of those butterscotch lollies from See's candies.
Last year, the sample-girl was a mindbendingly hot thing called Makayla, or something. She had pretty blue eyes, and she couldn't make up her mind whether to flirt with me or my roommate. It was epic.
I'm off the save the world!
Oh.
Have a pretty piece of poetry, from a man that both Seamus Heaney and I love.

Relic

I found this jawbone at the sea's edge:
There, crabs, dogfish, broken by the breakers or tossed
To flap for half an hour and turn to a crust
Continue the beginning. The deeps are cold:
In that darkness camaraderie does not hold.

Nothing touches but, clutching, devours. And the jaws,
Before they are satisfied or their stretched purpose
Slacken, go down jaws; go gnawn bare. Jaws
Eat and are finished and the jawbone comes to the beach:
This is the sea's achievement; with shells,
Verterbrae, claws, carapaces, skulls.

Time in the sea eats its tail, thrives, casts these
Indigestibles, the spars of purposes
That failed far from the surface. None grow rich
In the sea. This curved jawbone did not laugh
But gripped, gripped and is now a cenotaph.

Ted Hughes

Black Friday

2008-11-28T07:49:00.001-06:00

Remember me, Lord, when you come into your kingdom.
Today, thrown into the toss-up between Sheryl Crow's 1998 hit singles, and Michael Bolton's remake of 'Santa Claus is coming to town,' pray for me.
This should be fun.

This post is going to be out of it.

2008-11-24T17:31:00.003-06:00

Why are you so worried about self-identification, you fucking yuppie bastards?
The fucking 'new me'? Are you SERIOUS?
OH MY GOD!
'My self esteem is so low. I put myself out there, and I failed. Wah bloody waaah.'
You drive me up the wall. I want to pull out my hair, but I won't, because my hair is lovely and shiny.
Again.
Oh.
My.
God.

Just Figures

2008-11-24T08:37:00.002-06:00

It makes sense, I suppose, considering my neglect of the Muse over the past couple of months (look...I asked him very nicely to consider looking like Daniel Craig, and he got offended), that when I really need nothing more than to sit down with a ruler and a blank canvas, and chuck some high viscosity oils (thank you, o great and powerful Winsor and Newton) in a pleasing fashion onto double acrylic primed 100% cotton duck, I am alone with my watercolours and the worst paper in the world.
Note to artists: DON'T buy 'reflexions' paper. In fact, don't buy any artist's paper you can't touch, or see the colour of, or smell the fibres of. Just...don't. Back to Strathmore and Canson with me. Oh, and A4 printing paper for presketches. Woot!

Round and Round and Round and Round

2008-11-22T09:35:00.002-06:00

There is no bookstore in this town.
How do people get their things to read?
I suppose everyone's on the internet, but that doesn't make it any easier to cope.
The café that plays jazz and has a superannuated entertainer, and proprietors from back east make it a little more bearable. Particularly as they have mint-chocolate cookies.
O. No. I need some ice cream. Dreadful.

Ohai Hugh!

2008-11-20T16:37:00.003-06:00

FINALLY! Other women who agree with me about a guy being attractive. Apparently Hugh Jackman is the 'world's sexiest.'
Ch...yeah.
Have you SEEN the 'Australia' adverts? I mean...I'm not super into overmuscled blokes, but this...is...just...well see for yourself.
Boys from Oz are the best.

Sing for Absolution

2008-11-15T22:21:00.003-06:00

I had my first snow-fall of the year this morning. It was pretty brilliant...cold enough that the snow didn't melt on the asphalt, and then re-freeze. I did, however, fall and scrape my knee. That wasn't super fun. I resented myself, just a little.
Ah!
Lurve is in the air. And not, at the same time. There are loads of people breaking up with their significant others, a few red-eyed, half-weepy birds who've finally realised they just don't want to deal with it any more, and a couple of idealistic, happy young men who've dragged some poor girl along, into their lives.
NICKY! For one, is getting hitched. I'm not talking about the Nicky I'm madly in love with, who gives me chocolate croissants, which are not crescent-shaped, and free coffee with as much vanilla sprinkles as I want. I'm talking about whingey, Scorpio, confused, Joseph Fruit Nicky. He is getting MARRIED.
Insane, yes?
In the best way, I am horrified.
I suppose it's the way of things. When you're friends with hopeless romantics, they eventually pair off with other hopeless romantics, and do things like make babies and exchange vows, and rings, and all that nonsense.
Hah.
More power to the brave few.
I, like most people, am profoundly cynical, not because I don't think I have enough room in my heart, but because I have plenty of room, and I profoundly do not feel I should have to regulate my emotional temperature to suit the social climate.
Though, admittedly, my emotional temperature is decidedly below freezing at times.
It's cool, we can still be friends.
Conor Oberst told me that, though I'm pretty sure he's just another whingey hopeless romantic just wanting a woman to wash his socks and bear his offspring, and mix his coffee properly.
But I pray, most mornings, for Richard Dawkins. I'm not sure he'd appreciate it, but I hope he can at least acknowledge the thought. Maybe that makes me a little sentimental, but as slovenly-thinking as I occasionally can be, I hope he really, really follows, to the bitter end, the things he asserts, and draws the conclusions that are...right.
Even if he doesn't believe in objective right, and asserts objectively that there is no such thing. And it isn't the morning, but here goes anyhow:
Jesus, bless and keep Richard Dawkins, keep him safe. I know that You will, cause You love him lots.

ROCKETBOOTS!

2008-11-12T06:17:00.001-06:00

i wonder where he got his scars

2008-10-29T15:49:00.003-05:00

I never say how lovely tea is.
I've actually managed to have a nap (o noes! the evil nap!), and I'm perking myself up with a cuppa...and o, dear God it is one of the most fabulous things.
I just listened to your single, Nicky, and I think it's...very you. You little fruitsation, you. I had this sudden, awful, wonderful memory of you playing me those sad little punk songs you used to write about me (which were never terribly complimentary, but hey, we were sixteen). I still don't like your nasal, whingey, Blink 182 voice, but awh...you're all growed up and making music!
So, there's this graphic novel. It was written by a bloke called Gibson Twist, and the art is done (I think) by Ben Steeves, and, as it was Gibson's birthday just a bit ago, I'm going to go ahead and tell everyone I know (via blog) that he's a pretty brilliant bloke, and his work is probably the most realism you're ever going to get from a webcomic. Go look at it.
Erm. Yes. I've been trying to write poetry.
I'm not getting away with it.
I mean, it's good stuff.
But it's pointless.
If you can find a point in it, please tell me.
This one's called L'Enfant Trouvé, une femme. (pretentious? moi?)

O, Hadasseh,
daughter of the
morning, did you fall
to earth like lightning?
Did you make a
storm of absinthe in your
sugar-jewelled tea-cup?

The fairest broken
nightingale sings tinny
lullabies, harmonised
to delicate, edible
suede-soft whispers
in the dread of
summer nights.

I am the child of
promise, leaked,
by aneurysm, onto your
shoulder, haemhorraged
grey matter, composing,
composing, the ode
to joy, deafly.

This is your volatile
tenderness; a vacuous
seduction, a holocaust;
the tanned-tissue lamps
are given to Diogenes,
with my heart thrown
wide open, just for you.
(fin)
and scales.
Also, TERRY PRATCHETT!

nous sommes les etranges

2008-10-27T14:20:00.004-05:00

Ack. The weekend came and went, and I had forgotten just how lovely it is to crank up the hotel's heat. Guh. It's freezing in my house. *grouchy face.*
Oh. You guys.
I really shouldn't be surprised about this, but yesterday morning some retards at IHOP mistook me for a man.
It was epic.
As if I don't feel wretched enough on Sunday mornings.
Anyhow, the server thought it was hilarious, but she gave them the evil eye for me. Downright decent of her, I say.
Oh, and I'm looking to do a study of a Bougereau, just with some gender-tweaks.
Stay tuned!

speaking of which...

2008-10-24T10:22:00.002-05:00

I think it was the watercolours' fault, but I had a dream last night that Josh was giving me a real dressing-down about something...I may have bent him over the bar again and started flicking quarters toward him, or maybe I was flirting with Monica, but he went off like a tiny little hot-man firecracker, and my spine snapped straight and suddenly all I could think of was him pulling my hair.
Yes. I need help.
But how random was that?
Oh, and pray for me. The weekend approacheth.

last today, i swear to sweet little baby jesus

2008-10-23T22:06:00.002-05:00

i really, really regret not asking josh to sit for me.
that's all, really.

okay, okay, okay!

2008-10-23T20:17:00.004-05:00

I had a look at my blog and realised that in order to find shallower posts, you'd have to bang up Paris Hilton's webpage, but in all honesty, sometimes that sort of nonsense is required for me to make it through very cold days.
Maybe long, warm boots and Hugh Jackman's chest are the only things that evoke that sort of very deep, emotional response in me.
Well, not really. I like puppies, whole bunches. And new pictures of Drake make me go to complete mush. I'm surprised every time I realise he has Betsy's doofy grin, or that their eyes are the same shape, and he has Julia's ears, or that the kid is two fucking years old, and I'm missing him being a toddler.
It's cool...I'll just have to make it up to him when he's old enough to remember, and I'm not skint as a Weasley.
Guh.
I am knackered, and properly, too.
Oh. Wayne Barlowe really, honest-to-god scares me.

Australia!

2008-10-23T19:57:00.001-05:00

I forgot how happy Hugh Jackman's chest made me.
I think I'm actually getting a little choked up.
It's been so long, Hugh...hold me.

YAY!

2008-10-23T12:55:00.003-05:00

I don't think I've ever been so in love.

2008-10-21T10:48:00.002-05:00

Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so to make it finite.
G.K. Chesterton said that. The trouble is, it reminds me of something Douglas Adams said, and so makes me giggle. I don't think the point of Orthodoxy was to make me giggle.
Erm...I did, however, manage a really brilliant character study when I'd finished the first three chapters and a bit of the fourth. I'm not sure why, I think Chesterton's style of dictation is just so diametrically opposed to mine that it woke something up. Nasty little habit, that.
Also, I'd just gotten a new moleskine note-book, and those things demand to be talked into, in whatever way you want.
People should trade their therapists in for a book deal and several hundred moleskine notebooks.
There would be a huge ruddy upswing in the lit market.
Oh. Yes. I've been thinking of selling out to the Strathmore trading card movement. Come on, it's such a cute idea!
O God...I've found the boots I want.
http://chineselaundry.com/indShoe.asp?type=b&store=c&id=3514&sess=10210859835717728

Hey, Baby!

2008-10-16T18:19:00.003-05:00

Oi.
So I've got a couple of days away from home before the big weekend comes charging along like an enraged rhinocerous who's had a decidedly uninviting run-in with Steven Segal's hair cream.
Figured I would give an update to the old coughalong blog, despite its cirrohated condition as of late.
I can't say I've got anything, really, to post. Just the usual. I've been considering starting to read a lot (and I mean a ruddy LOT) of nonfiction, cause my bookshelf is overpopulated with self-gratifying nonsense by Sacher-Masoch and Jacqueline Carey. Sensing a pattern, here?
So my first foray into the whole shambling nonsense was going to be Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but I got sidetracked by The Feminine Mistake, which I, personally, think, is hilarious, even though puns are against my religion. It's not strictly a pun.
Oh, and I've decided, tentatively, on a title for my novel. What do you think of Drink up the Sea. You could do a whole lot with a title like that. And no, it's not Biblical, I'm afraid. It's from Nietschze's parable of the madman.
In other news, I hate my neck muscles. They're all cramped along my right side.
I've been looking for a link to give you, but I can't find one. So, I guess I'll leave you with nothing.

Enschuldigung, ich bin ein Amerikanner

2008-10-14T14:44:00.002-05:00

I desperately want a nape piercing.
Get better, Chris, or I will personally induce your third back surgery.
This is very, deeply annoying. I went to my bookstore yesterday, specifically to find and buy a moleskine notebook, pocket-sized, squared paper, and they didn't have one. It was, to say the least, ridiculous. Of course, I did, somehow, manage to buy myself a dress and a pair of adorable pedal pushers, but that's beside the point. How am I going to be creative on the go without my favourite notebook?
Maybe the Lord's trying to teach me a lesson about buying overpriced journals.
It's getting colder, and for some reason, my dry-cleaning hasn't been picked up. This means, of course, that I am going to have to finish painting the miniature that I've started, for some reason or other.
I am sick to death of abstractism (she said, in her rambling way).
Actually, I was thinking of poetry.
I was sitting, two weeks or so ago, beside a thoughtful young man who was quoting a poem, and I, very guiltily, half-listening, realised that I've forgotten all or nearly all of the poetry that I used to know by heart. Even William Blake's 'Tyger.'
Well, we'll have to just deal with it, shan't we?
I wrote a flash fic the other night. It's very, very short, and doesn't have an end, so I'll type it up here.
Warning: contains profanity and uber-fluff.

She was very, very thirsty when she got out of bed; so thirsty that a litre of water wouldn't help. Neither did tea, or juice, or beer. She tried it all, and slunk back to her room feeling rather defeated.
He was still asleep, broad back solidly toward her, ink-strewn right shoulder traced by the light flickering sneakily through the drapes. The sun had come up outside, but it was still very dark in her room. It was meant to be.
She didn't want to disturb him, of course, because logically, that would be very unkind. He would growl nonsense words, and be rather cross, even if he did curl a possessive arm round her and pull her decisively into his very warm chest, and kiss her closed, dry mouth with his soft cherub's lips. Obviously, she wouldn't do that. She very much wanted to, though.
Instead, she sat at the edge of the bed, fumbling for the cardboard box on her end table, and match (she didn't hold with lighters), and struck up a Davidoff. She could only just make out the bold lettering pasted on the front of the box, 'rauchen ist tödlich!'--and the little skull and crossbones. She couldn't read the fine print, though, in the dark.
She inhaled deeply, feeling tar and nicotine spread through her choked, shrivelled lungs. She liked this very much; it was extraordinary, relaxing. Never as good as him, of course. She'd admitted this not very long ago, and only to herself. She liked him more than smoking her long German cigarettes, more than she liked swimming in a cool tropical ocean, more than eating shortbread or drinking beer brewed by Trappist monks in Belgium.
'Stop fucking smoking that utter shite.' he growled, almost unintelligibly. She couldn't help smiling. 'I'm going to tear every single fag up, and feed them to my mother's goldfish. She's going to be very upset with you when they take ill.' her smile deepened.
'And why,' she luxuriated in one more long drag before stubbing out the hardly started cigarette, 'would she be upset with me, seeing as you've fed them my fags?'
He turned round, grey green eyes glowing just faintly, phosphorently, in the near darkness. 'Because, obviously, you've compelled me, with your filthy habit,' he took her round the middle, with embarrassing effortlessness, and dragged her down beside him.

In Idleness We Forget

2008-10-07T12:22:00.003-05:00

I realise that I haven't been very active on here. But let's face it, I have approximately three readers, all of whom are Andre. That's life. I'll deal with it.
Anyhow, I was reading Psalm nineteen this morning, and a phrase from verse four leapt out at me. I'm not all that into Biblical poetry, but this was stunning, and I realise that it was the only phrase that could ever be the title for my great novel, to be completed before I'm thirty. Which means I have about nine and a half years more. But anyhow, the verse says,

Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun.

And I was thinking, wow. A Tabernacle for the Sun, M. Deutsch, would look really fabulous on a leather spine in bold black ink. So I googled to see whether it was an available book title, and guess what. Some bird called Linda Proud has already snatched it up. For some bolloxed novel about a Venetian runaway. How lame is that? I mean, honestly. Mine would at least have been contemporary and transgressive and borderline gonzo. Let's face it, I write compellingly.
Giggle.
None of you have ever read my serious fictional work, and we're going to leave it like that until I'm thirty, all right?
Anyhow. So that's all through with, and I was thinking and thinking about another title, cause nothing sums up what I want to write about as much as that phrase.
It's like Hebrew names. I love Hebrew names, and should I ever have babies (they will be with David Tennant, or Daniel Craig, let's not mistake things), they're going to have good Hebrew names, even if I end up with a little girl called Mannaseh and a little boy called Devorit.
But, yeah, I've come to the conclusion that whatever novel I write, the title's probably going to be something out of the Bible, and not because of this nonsense trend that's come out about writing faux-shocking things about religious canon (take that, Dan Brown!). It probably won't have anything obvious to do with the Bible, and you're going to have to squint very hard to see the very deep philosophical and social statements I'll be making, but oh, trust me, they'll be around. Hidden in long, langourous scenes about lovers touching one another with their finger-tips as they asphyxiate in tombs, or a screaming old man making sacrifices to Baal-Jupiter, kneeling in the brick-red Arizona desert, sucking water from aloe vera plants and cutting his feet to ribbons on the Mojave rocks.
Oh, yes, you will squint.
And you will be wrung out like a dishrag.
Move over, Ian McEwan, I'm going to make people cry like you've never dreamed!

On the Metro

2008-10-05T23:30:00.004-05:00

You might remember, if you've known me long enough, how a long, long, time ago I was madly in love with a tall, slim brunet with big blue eyes and a flirty wink. He was called 'Drake,' but I determinedly called him my Adonis.
Well.
He has been effectively replaced.
By a skinny little man who gives me free coffee and shortbread.
I love my Nicky.
I will fight you for him, Aimee.
Also, David Tennant.
Here, c'est moi.

Completely Inappropriate

2008-09-12T11:58:00.001-05:00

Kinkature.

2008-09-10T13:51:00.002-05:00

Mood: Finger-tips hurting.
Listening To: 'The Regret' 500 Miles to Memphis
Reading: Tiger in the Smoke, Margery Allingham
Eating: roast beef and potatoes
Drinking: Smart Water!
I ain't ready, I ain't ready,
Don't put me in that pine box yet.
Hah. This song is totally rockin. I wanna rip out its spine and move in.
Things are a little crazy. I've been working out like a pony, and I made a silly little promise to a green-eyed boy that I wouldn't cut my hair till he does. Considering both of us look like haystacks, and he's well chuffed with my state of disarray, I think that may have been a bit unwise.
I've also developed a very unhealthy desire to watch High School Musical.

Man Candy

2008-09-09T00:26:00.004-05:00

I am sick to DEATH of people telling me I look like Halle Berry.
If I looked like Halle Berry, I would have a gorgeous man-piece like Gabriel Aubry.
So there.
Been grooving to Radiohead...actually, just two of their tracks, Karma Police and No Surprises, both from OK Computer. I've got the most depressing playlist on my mp3 player right now...it even has Blue Eyed Soul by Wilco on it, but then suddenly starts spritzing up with Delivery by Babyshambles, which, incidentally, is the catchiest fucking tune in the history of catchy tunes. Long live Shotter's Nation, mah lovelies!
Urb. I'm going to go to bed and dream about blond Adonislike gods.
Observe.
Though, to be perfectly honest, I've been less and less about perfectly chiselled good looks lately, and more about scruffylooking men with killer smiles. Weird, huh?
I accosted some poor, random bloke in the mall the other day just cause he had the most glorious beard...and he was a blond. Obviously, fair men usually have kind of patchy facial hair..but he had this fabulous full on golden beard, all vikingly, and a great smile and all dimply through it.
Oh. I'm experimenting with watercolour canvas.

Killing in the Name Of

2008-09-05T10:49:00.003-05:00

I faced off with a twelve kilo sack of half-rotten turnips the other day.
You bet your bottom I won.
I'm hungry, and I feel like having some red meat.
Grr.

Seamus Heaney

2008-09-02T15:25:00.003-05:00

I love him.
Lots.
And I really, really want to read his Beowulf, but I can't seem to find the time.
And Neil Gaiman has done his best to ruin the legend.
The tosser.
But here, have some Seamus.

Death of a Naturalist

All the year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampots full of the jellied
Specks to range on the window-sills at home,
On shalves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hadges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like snails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

Clipping

2008-08-26T14:40:00.001-05:00

You know weird things make me cry.
This did.

Button!

2008-08-21T20:47:00.001-05:00

Here's a little WIP from a miniature I'm doing. It's like...three by four inches or something ridiculous like that.

2008-08-20T20:00:00.000-05:00

the skin is peeling
off my hands
in paper-fine layers.

The Battle You Left

2008-08-20T09:07:00.002-05:00

Mood: Drowsy Morning
Listening To: 'The Siren's Song' Oh, Sleeper
Reading: venomous alibis
Eating: wish it were toast and marmalade
Drinking: peppermint tea
Today is going to be a particularly bloody-minded day. It's Wednesday, but I do get to relax marginally. Tomorrow I won't have time to get prepped for the weekend, so today, I'll be doing all that lovely stuff.
This song is sodding great, by the bye. You need to listen to it. 'Soft, wet skin' is some of the better lyrical consonance and alliteration I've heard in a while. It also conjures images halfway between a centrefold Petra Nemcova and a dementor.
Delish.

2008-08-19T14:53:00.000-05:00

Remember the clouds that hid the trees?
That kissed my emptied eyes?
Forgetting colour, the landscape ends
Beneath the limitless skies.

2008-08-18T20:25:00.004-05:00

I have an ungodly knack for choosing the most reprehensibly depressing films on my freeday.
I just watched 'Immortal Beloved.'
Jeroen Krabbe is always mediocre at best, but Isabella Rossellini was, frankly, superb.
I shouldn't have to mention how brilliant Gary Oldman was, with his sensitive upside-down mouth and tenuous fingers, carrying voice, the strong stillness of him...but I will, because I do adore him so.
Anyhow.
I think Bernard Rose was historically off on the identity of the 'unsterbliche geliebte,' but it was a moving film, nonetheless, and mindbogglingly upsetting.
I do hate the scene where they miss one another by moments in the corridors of the Karlsbad hotel. Those misunderstandings across decades between lovers always make me a little upset.
Of course, that is because there is always a pathetic little swot who will occasionally pop her head up and say 'the world was meant for lovers!'--after which I will smack her upside said head and tell her she's barmy.
Still, she has great taste, cause she likes Gary as much as I do.

Joyeux Noel

2008-08-18T12:46:00.002-05:00

I found myself falling in love the other day.
A pair of blond boys trounced into the shop, maybe seven and nine, with their parents strolling lazily behind them, holding hands and whispering. When I greeted them, the elder of the two looked up at me with the greenest eyes in all creation and grinned a chipped-tooth smile and said, 'Merry Christmas!'
His mum gave him a scathing look and reminded him that he was a half-inch away from being grounded. He gave a suitably repentant look, but grinned back at me as he walked away.
Troublemaker.

Ozymandias

2008-08-15T11:02:00.003-05:00

You know what I'm talking about. The old Byron poem about the statue in the middle of the desert, of a king no one remembers. 'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair' and all that nonsense.
Well, I feel a bit like that, right now. I've built things that I thought were infernally eternal, no matter what I did to them, I built and built, and didn't test them, cause I was afraid they'd crumble.
And crumble they have, because I haven't had the guts to take care of them the way I should.
Oh noes!
I've buggered up again!

Drujan

2008-08-12T11:28:00.002-05:00

I am the eponymous hero
Given to a thirsting world.
Manna, manna! They speak with bristling hands
And waking eyes, all joy-stricken, and deceived.

I have delivered lark-kisses
In the seafoam surge of horror,
In the purple-embroidered night
With its diamond-facet stars.

O my Navigator, my scourgèd medicine,
Physick to my adulterous bonhomie,
Reigning, the tyrant
Over my withered iron empire.

I watch the water drying from
My jade-dog opium pipe.
Conqueror of life, the sacred fire
Burns once again in Persia's heart.

You were my gilded Auschwitz,
The death-camp of my past,
Tanning my masks into your flesh,
Beautifying your ligaments.

I hide your guiding illumination,
O brilliant Northern Star.
My compasses demagnetised
Beneath the westward grievance.
(finis)
Sunday, 3 August, 2008
9.33 Pacific.

2008-08-11T18:08:00.001-05:00

I just finished watching Requiem for a Dream.
It was god-awful. I feel physically ill.
Granted, today hasn't really been a great day or anything, but that just capped it.
I can't wait for summer to end.

2008-08-08T08:42:00.001-05:00

once upon a time
I went
nuclear--
with a cellular decon
struction
five-point-two on the Richter.
I will mend it?

drinking worm-wood bitters
from the husk of a fallen star
let.
reddened hair spilt over my pillow.
do
sit
down,
you're making me
nervous.

my darling
self
shines.

2008-08-07T21:04:00.004-05:00

Okay, mes amis, my faithful little lurve kittens!
I'm back from the other end of the globe, so to speak, with a couple more neck kinks and a couple fewer other kinks. Lucky you, I'm in the mood for a good, old-fashioned ramble.
I know I haven't been blogging regularly for a while, now, and that is, in the main, due to the fact that I almost invariably ramble, like I'm doing now, about nonsense, and occasionally post a photograph of a mindbogglingly sexy person, but I'm going to go ahead and switch it up a little.
Hand to God, you know I adore all you hardworking bassists out there, but really...the way to pick up women is to play the shaker.
I have a couple of poems in the works, but I've got to edit them pretty heavily, except for this one, and only because it's so ruddy short.
Bear with me. Here goes.

dance my quadrille,
shark-like
and sleek
beneath
my palms--
just so.
(finis)

There. Told you it was short.
In other news, I watched the Dark Knight film, and, against my own force of will and determination not to go with the swarm of people who raved about Heath's performance, I'm gonna have to admit, I liked him so much.
So much.
Hotter than ever.
And Christian Bale, for once, didn't give the impression that he was in desperate need of emergency surgery to remove whatever was rammed so hard up his colon, praise God. He was vaguely likeable.
Urb. I would love to post a picture of some deviously brilliant piece of artwork that I've just done, but to tell you the truth, nothing's been very forthcoming. I have a two-hour sketch of an unearthly beautiful man, whom I'm going to be lusting after for quite some time, despite his fictionality, but to be perfectly honest, I've been wanting to go the way of Armin Mersmann for a while now, and draw interesting faces.
Now, if I could only yakk myself over to Michigan and sit at his feet as he draws. That would be a dream come true.
Hold on, just a moment, while I lust after his godlike powers with the pencil.
*insert glassy-eyed stare here*
All right, all through.
Erm...here, though, for your consideration.
The watercolour isn't quite finished, I need some more practise with fabric, and the forearm...well...I wasn't feeling very confident with the muscles. I'll find some reference and finish it soon. It's called 'Youth with Minarets,' and it's a piece in a weird mix of styles. I was experimenting with some really cold-press rough paper, which is why the colours aren't as transparent and brilliant as I would like, but it'll have to do. I only thank God that I wasn't tempted to do it in oils. That would have been a fiasco I don't even want to contemplate.
Okay. Here you go.