Wilhelmina

Wilhelmina was finally at peace with the world. No one could deny her ability to persevere, what with all the calamitous circumstances. Life had run its course through hers, but she had come out the winner. Best of all, she could always whip out, with no ingredients to speak of, a hell of a cream pie.

Periphealites

AVERTED VISION
REVEALS PERIPHEALITES

It has been conclusively determined by God knows who that mirroids do indeed exist. If one is to stare into one's own eyes as reflected in yon mirror, one will soon detect movements at the edges of the glass. These are gremlins and are dangerous. Take heed.

More recent studies by some such scientists as abscribe to hintable theories have it that periphealites dwell not only in corners of polished glass, but in actuality. They're all around us, but off to the side. A hundred eighty degress to the left and right alike. Always.

It now seems if one is to turn, say, to the right in order to confront one's snoids, those on the left will rapidly close in to cut off one's breath. This will not do. The only way I repeat the only way to confront peripheality is to ignore it altogether. Do not look askance, look straight ahead. They will eventually tire of waiting you out and vanish.

Should will power be absent, it may be necessary to wear blinders.

Radio Pit

So I ask you: Does this look like the studio of a 100,000 watt radio station?

My Trip

I've been away for the past ten days on a fact-finding mission to the Phlegmish Republic of Hoccchhistan. I found no pleasant facts there. The facts I found were, in fact, alarming and disturbing as all get out.

For instance, the streets of Hoccchhistan are lined with a sticky secretion of amphibian goo, which is the pre-larval stage of the Hoccchhistanians themselves. Each male inhabitant takes the time to gently caress the puddles he passes with an appendage which modesty prevents me from describing, save telling you of its green bulbous flexible nature and length twice that of its tail fins. This no doubt plants the proverbial seed, for a bit further down the road miniature "Hoccchhers" writhe to free themselves of the muck. They eventually do, and go about their pointless existences.

It would seem the chief occupation of the Phlegmish population is to eke out a living - if you could call it living - performing meaningless tasks and in turn, being rewarded with small spherical chits to which they ascribe a value that is difficult to fathom. This eking of chits, rather than satisfying some need, simply spurs them on to eke more chits and then more chits on top of the chits they've previously eked. Never do they pause long enough to realize they're drowning in chits. It's quite sad.

Still, the Hoccchhistanians do manage to occasionally gather for karaoke. They're better than you might think, preferring country-western to pop. They also bowl a 175 average, which is not bad for a species lacking fingers, hands and arms. And they're fond of reality TV as well, especially Survivor.

Their most annoying habit is killing and devouring strangers. Upon visiting the Phlegmish Republic of Hoccchhistan, one must constantly be on one's guard. If you go, try to blend in. Learn the language, use lots of make-up, and remember not to breathe. They hate that.

Thor, Loki & Sif

It was Thursday and Thor was tired. He'd been up for 23 days preparing for battle. Lesser gods were coming by at all hours to demand they be fitted for armor, thrusting their bent and broken shields toward him, tossing coins on the table. There was a time Thor's hammer only produced lightning, while Thor's booming voice made thunder that shook the heavens. That was before that confounded knave Loki stole his thunder. These days he's lucky to throw off a few sparks and embers while slaving away in Odin's overpriced rental smithy.

And what has Loki done with the thunder? He's used it to create diversions to cover his nefarious deeds. A little rolling peal, the gods look up and never notice he's turned into a salmon and is heading downstream after stealing the breath from their children. The gall of the cur. There will come a time Loki will go too far. He'll slay the god of light or some such thing. The agony he'll endure as a result will cause earthquakes and he'll wish - just wish - he'd made off with Thor's hammer as well.

So along about noon here came Sif, her hair shorn to nubs and tears flowing. She moaned to Thor how Loki had posed as her hairdresser and proceeded to relieve her of her golden locks. That did it, as far as Thor was concerned. He set out to find the trickster in order to teach him a lesson. Sif retired to an Uppsalan cave to await regrowth.

Thor found Loki engaged in fornication with a griffin. He parted the two and throttled the one. Loki gave in and Thor demanded restitution. What could Loki do? He could turn into a bat and fly away, but Thor would have to turn loose his neck to do so, and that wasn't likely to happen. He proposed a deal. He'd hire dwarves to weave a golden wig, each strand of which would be imbued with magic the like of which had never been known. It would be hair truly worthy of the gods.

"What about my thunder?" boomed Thor. At the same instant occurred a crack of thunder so loud as to jolt the grip of Thor, and Loki was gone.

Festering

Before we go any further, I have to warn you about something. It has to do with the reason why I keep all the lights off in here.

Long ago, before the missives were hidden, there was a cemetery here. This was no ordinary boneyard, mind you; this was the final resting place for assorted and sundry parts no longer needed by the university's surgical school and animal testing laboratories. All manner of limbs and organs from every conceivable living thing was buried here. No thought was given to separating the remains. All were thrown into pits, some lime tossed in, followed by more entrails, more lime, some hands, tails, snouts, more lime, until the pit was nearly full, at which time it was capped with no more than two feet of sandy soil. Not clay, oh no.

Well. It's funny what happens underground when parts that were once vital to an organism's survival are expected to rot and then turn to dust. When the functionality is not yet fully spent. When the company they keep is fated similarly. It's not unheard of in such cases that sinew and guts, bone and brain find each other, intermingle, trade fluids. Cells multiply. Eventually, a spark ignites. Higher ground is sought. The end result is all around us. Not evolved as yet beyond belimbed protoplasm, but somehow... aware. Watching. And waiting. There's one particularly nasty nest underneath the sidebar. Don't go there.

Enceladian Life Forms

Flibber me gibbet, thar's life on Enceladus. Recent telecopic perusals have revealed the place to be rife with critters. Here's some of 'em right here. The skinless flurvious was seen cavorting with a bevy of mermaid-like creatures in a lava bed near the moon's equator. Scientists believe the lack of skin is due to adverse reaction to the lava. The nurbalite is a kind of tree dwelling marsupial, but it isn't exactly a marsupial and there are no trees on Enceladus. It was found trying to blend into the algae. And the dastardly cromuflit stalks its prey at the edge of geyser pools. It was observed charging the lesser life forms and forcing them into the geysers, which both tenderizes and cooks them. Time will no doubt make known other inhabitants of this mysterious moon of Saturn.

Through Glass

I took this picture today in my studio. I post it in lieu of an actual entry.

Millicent

She wore a splash of ashen gray to a social tea.
It fit her too, that shadow hue. It fit her to a tee.
Her crimson glow thus filtered became her dignity.

Kristi's Takin' Notes

My cousin Kristi is on a whirwind cross-country tour and she's wanting to talk to you. To you, that is, if you've ever proposed to anyone (or presumably anything) or proposed to propose with the intended purpose of proposing. Marriage, that is. I don't claim to understand, but it would seem she's writing a book and it will become another tool in the kit of women who are attempting to figure men out. My advice, Kristi: don't go too deep, cause we're not.

Have a long strange trip, Kristi. See you next year in Toulouse. Vivé la France!

(And start that blog, girl, so I can keep up with you.)
Kristi's blog is up and it's here.

Beach Find

A rare dog-nosed spiny piscasaur was found washed ashore last Thursday on an Antiguan beach in the Leeward Islands. Its genus (nasocanus piscasaurus) has long been assumed extinct.

Ichthyologists from around the world have gathered in St. Johns, the capital of the small island in the West Indies, to study the creature. Although dead, the piscasaur was alive for sixteen hours following its discovery, time enough to be studied by a local veterinarian, Everton Holder. Holder, in a press conference on Friday, revealed the animal made "very unusual sounds" for some time prior to succumbing. When pressed for details, Holder said "It was panting and wheezing when I first came upon it, but as I approached, it fell silent. It looked up at me with a mournful expresion and - I swear - nodded its head and shook its fins. And it then began to... sing. There's no other way to describe it to you. It started singing a sort of croaking funeral dirge. Each time it sang a line, its tail would flop. Another line, it would flop the other way. It was uncanny."

Noted British ichthyologist, Nigel Pennythwacker, surmised the nasocanus piscasaurus, unlike its cousin, the common spiny piscasaur, is both intelligent and sensitive. On studying the song as relayed by Holder, Pennythwacker became convinced this was no Billy Bass; the music of the dog-nosed spiny piscasaur was in fact 'Down in the Bottom' by Howlin' Wolf.

Many acclaimed blues musicologists have also booked flights for Antigua and Dr. Holder's appointment calendar is currently filled up. His manager has begun arranging a tour for later in the spring.

Know Your Warning Signs

Now more than ever, it's your civic duty to cower in fear. First step, Know Your Warning Signs:
If your heart tells you one thing and your head tells you something else altogether, you know what to do. Also, beware of triangles.

Mentally challenged children are playing in the street, many without hands or feet. Drive around them please.

Do not be tempted by that bubbling stream to do anything other than drink the water. Tiny nostril dwelling parasites lurk, waiting for the innocent sniffer.

Take heed, Arkansas. These road signs are popping up all over, especially near schools and mobile home parks. When you see one, be prepared to run like hell, because a twister might not be far behind. Also, be careful not to trip over any rocks while running away.

No Saints Day 2

(continued from below)
The Dream Team was puffed out to its flounderest. The DA was Oliver Ward Cramwell, and he brooked no pond when it came to putting away the dishes. The wards all over were well crammed with his offal renderings. Under his reign, terror was down. Traffic in hopes and prayers was at a bumper-to-bumper standstill. Judy the Obscure couldn't help but feel, nonetheless, that something smelled fishy. She intended to use Luther's sad fate as bait to hook the crook she knew was somewhere just below the surface.

Meanwhile Luther was losing sleep, what with Cramwell's toothpick-eyelid method of truth extraction. No sleep means no dreams and Luther dreamless was no sight you want to behold. At his court appearance Luther -the sap- broke under crass sublimation and implicated no one but the judge in a moment he'd regret and Oliver would savor for at least the afternoon.

Boogers, thought Judy; this is amiss. Her dispatch proved thought provoking and evocative of disgruntlement. Not the public outcry she had hoped and prayed for, but better than nothing. Still, nothing lasts. It has a shelf life of two half lives, you know. Long enough to serve the time, anyway. Judy was there lo those many years later, Cramwell long dead and turned to powder, when Luther emerged well rested. I forgot the rest of the story.

No Saints Day 1

It was forever known that nothing lasts. That didn't stop Luther -that sop - from winnowing his dreams down to a fine powder and selling them on the open market. Not that they raised an eyebrow. The only buyers were catatonic navel gazers and their eyebrows were singed clean off.

But there came a day a notion patrol wendered through the stalls and that was all she wrote, she being Judy the Obscure, a Pulitzer in waiting, stuck on the city desk of the Commercial-Telegraph-Clarion-Post. All that had been Luther was chucked against curbs, scrutinized and forgotten by the denizens of that fair city. Luther in cuffs rolled up with fish guts. Such a waste.

[to be continued..]