No, I’m not bitter… why do you ask?

From curling roots to slender neck, it bore
Exotic blooms of purest milky white
So beautiful; it cared for nothing more
Than earthen pot and water, air and light.

I watched this trusting orchid weeks gone by,
Its glory crowned with brisk vitality.
Now vicious Time proves naive trust a lie –
Our simple joy could not forever be.

Call my heart this fragile, dying flower:
Your hand its petals crushed and tore away.
The troth I’d pledged you brought it grief this hour;
In dawn’s harsh light I rue our yesterday.

Could I undo the gift of love I made!
I’d sooner be an orchid carved from jade.

This one is an expression of the burst of feeling one has, when one goes back into the presence of someone missed, and loved.

Unconcerned, all year they slumber deep –
Their wine-dark branches cradle empty sky.
No pressing cares or needs do break their sleep
As past their trunks the rest of life flows by.

Now rising sap of spring breathes silent call
To subtle buds of green that raise their head
Then burst to life, one supple bough and all –
White blossoms on the trees that once were dead.

Would I could demonstrate, when you are here,
The riot in my soul where you could see.
A maelstrom of joy when you are near:
All fetters burst, from winter’s prison free.

A veil of falling petals, sweet the rain –
And I, undone, stand at your side again.

The cord when stretched desires for the blade,
And to the sound of scissors near it list’s.
So tight was twine’d since day that it was made.
Such tension more akin to pain than bliss.

Now I with violet hook do further spin
And form to patterns beautiful in woe
The yarn, with freedom yearning there within.
How longs it for the shears of Atropos!

So too my soul is caught with hook to line;
Bound up so close with no surcease in view.
My thoughts, all knotted, seek to flow with thine -
My tangled dreams are filled with only you.

Unknot, untie, unravel me, cut free!
You will not love? Then by gods, let me be!

—E

What’s the difference between an artist and a craftsperson? A craftsperson gets paid *before* they die.

I’ve been busy of late, as I’m sure is obvious from my lack of posts. Sometimes it’s difficult to post because every minute my hands are on the keyboard means my hands are NOT on my crochet hook. I just recently finished up an entry for Threadknits (more on this later) that I hope will do well. Currently I’m working on a Seth and an Anubis from Egyptian mythology, also a commission based on Anubis. This weekend I hope to finish up Pyramid Head’s knife (yes, the never-ending commission Pyramid Head), slap some red paint on him and his “victim”, take pictures and get him off to his new happy home.

I’ve decided to start getting up at 7AM in the hopes of getting more done. No more lazy mornings, no more snooze button — all an attempt to get more done and finish some commissions that need doing. Hopefully some pictures soon.

Also, I’ve updated my etsy shop with a lot of dolls that I’ve wanted to sell. Give it a look, if you will.

But now I’m better. *twitch*

Anyhoo, since this blog is all about saying things that I want to say (other than those that will scare horses and permanently scar the family members that I like) I thought I’d review the opening themes of two anime series that I enjoy.

First on my list is “Inner Universe” by Yoko Kanno — the only Yoko as far as I’m concerned:

Angels and demons were circling above me
Swishing through the hardships and milky ways
The only one who doesn’t know the happiness
is the one who couldn’t understand his call

Morato Vultis, Morato Vultis
Aeria Glories, Aeria Glories

The song is one full of longing and loss, and is a gorgeous melody. Written mostly in Russian (I’ve included the translation here), the language is strangely beautiful as arranged. The Latin here roughly translates to “Gentle Longing, Heavenly Glories”.

I really identify with this song, on many levels.

My second song is from one of the saddest animes I’ve yet to find, called “Gunslinger Girls”. I’ve got the full series on dvd (all 12 eps, short series, probably because the producers were crying too hard to make more) but I can only watch it rarely since it’s hard on my stock of Kleenex.

The title is “The Light Before We Land” , by the Delgados:

In cases
such as these I’d like a hand
Don’t wake me up without a master plan
With sight and sound becoming fragile
Don’t you understand?
When things that once were beautiful
Are bland

And when I feel like I can feel once again
Let me stay awhile
Soak it in awhile
If we can hold on we can fix what is wrong
Buy a little time
For this head of mine
Heaven for us

This song is in 3/4th time and lends itself to the image of a slow sad waltz. I’ve been in this situation before, looking for a moment of peace and happiness in a veritable shitestorm of stress and anxiety.

Anyhoo, so lately I’ve been working on 4 dolls of personal characters for one client, and tons of granny squares for next Christmas’s gifts (I swear to GODS that I won’t be stressed by getting gifts together this year), and still sweating on the Pyramid Head I still need to finish.

Today I’ve been working on the 5 foot long body for a Eastern style dragon. Two hundred joined rows of single crochet. Two hundred rounds. No wonder my wrists are killing me.

More miscellany tomorrow. Difficult to wait, huh? I know you’re just thrilled.

Note to stalker ex-husbands (all two hundred of you) and judgmental family members: I do not condone violence, Satanism, selling your soul, murder, bars in general, Old Ones, or Religion. But if it works for you, then that’s your bag.

DO NOT USE THIS STORY AS AN EXCUSE TO IRRITATE ME OR PUSH YOUR DOGMA ON ME, if you have any to push. I have been known to bite, and I have not recently had my shots.

There’s a bar in New Orleans, a very select bar. If you’ve been there before you’ll always know where it is, even when it’s in a different town, even when the same bar shows up in your own town. There’s no more than the average number of murders on this boulevard, but the manner of death will be of a more vicious and ritualistic variety.

On this street they wash the sidewalks every morning with bleach to cover the strange and disconcerting odor that rises from the concrete. Not quite unpleasant, the smell still hits the hindbrain with a signal of unease.

If you’ve never been to the bar, you must know the way in order to find it. First, you’ll need to find the boulevard. I’m leaving out the street names and numbers here – it is a very select bar. You’ll know it when you find a writing goods store beneath the sign of the crow. On the last Friday of a cold month stand across the street from the sign and look down the avenue into the sun as it is setting. Close your right eye and keep your left open. Don’t blink, for you may miss it.

As the sun touches the horizon you will see a flash of green light. Walk toward it in a straight line, still keeping your right eye covered. As you do this be mindful of oncoming traffic lest you become another of the curious statistics regarding this boulevard.

In your left hand you must have a silver piece, no denomination preferred but it must be an issued coin and not a blank. If you’ve timed it correctly you will see a dark door appear between suite 154A and 154B. The tarnished brass plaque over the door will call it 154Z.

There is a long thin slot under the doorknob where a keyhole should be. Insert the coin, turn the knob with your left hand, and walk in with both eyes open. It’s important that you see what you’ve purchased.

It looks like a normal bar as long as you don’t look too closely. Especially don’t scrutinize the other patrons beyond their comfort level. It’s best to think of them as other men and women in loose and dumpy clothing, almost all of them in wide-brimmed hats. They aren’t here to be seen. Only a few people come into the bar to gain status; they tend not to stay long. Safest thing is to sit at the bar. It may make your skin itch to turn your back to the patrons at the tables and booths, but the deeper danger is to make eye-contact or any gesture that may be construed as threatening.

The polished wood on the floor is as dark as that of the door; here in the lowlights it shines like a mirror. In that reflective surface you can study anything in the long main room of the bar – as long as your sanity allows. It’s elder wood varnished with some unknowable lacquer, and if one stares too long they may see the manner of their death. The bar itself is safer, though, because its surface appears to be maple. When staring down at it through a drunken haze the worst thing anyone has reported seeing is their own face.

The pictures on the walls are also interesting if you disregard the stains on the wall paper behind them (a quick glance will identify some as smoke, bourbon, and blood – yet leave others more mysterious). Many of the pictures are taken of happy celebrities smiling and schmoozing: Marilyn Monroe at a flattering fifty-two years old and at last comfortable in her own skin; Elvis with gray hair and grandchildren. These among others line the booths and walls. Some may be more personal to the viewer.

After you come into the bar, you must buy a drink. The bartender will accept any currency with no sign of dismay or surprise. The prices will be more than reasonable. If you go I suggest the absinthe cocktail, which is what I was drinking this evening. It gives you the strangest dreams.

“Now that’s one of the saddest stories I know of,” the bartender said to me on this occasion, indicating with a flick of his eyes the other human-shaped man at the far end of the bar, closest to the back door. (Do not go to the bathrooms in this bar, neither male nor female – some things tempt fate too much.)

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“It’s a long story. You got the time?”

This is a cue; while the bartender also looks fairly normal he is more than what he seems. If he says this to you and you answer yes, you will gain a powerful piece of information about the non-mundane half of the world.

Of course I answered yes. The bartender puts away the glass he was polishing, ran a hand back over his sleek brown hair and leaned companionably in against the bar.

“His name is Edward Harris. Would you believe me if I told you that he is immortal? He sold his soul to Shaitan.” I expressed polite surprise and silently noted the unusual pronunciation of the name.

“It was back in 1886; the man Edward there was on a tour of Europe when he found a strange book in an old shop and purchased it. On his way back across the Atlantic to America he began to work on a transcription.

“The book was apparently written in 1642, and from a description within it was bound with the leather of at least one human victim, and the pages were parchment made from the skin of several others. It had a faint odor of cloves.

“The text was composed in the Early Modern English common at the time, and hand-written instead of printed, of course. If any authorities had been aware of its content, the author would surely have burned along with his work. The entirety of the book was devoted to the dark arts, culminating to the secret of eternal life gained in a pact with Shaitan.

“When Edward had reached the States again he was already beginning to master the simplest of tricks listed in the book… things like turning water into blood and killing lesser animals like birds and rodents with a look. There were intermediate and journeyman spells that turned his stomach with their perversity so he ignored them and instead involved himself in the last and greatest work. He memorized the chants required as he rode a stagecoach into the West.”

How horrible, I thought but didn’t voice. Passing judgment aloud in this room was unwise to say the least.

“Edward settled at last in Las Animas, Colorado, where he put down roots as a carpenter and day laborer. Although he had originally been an accountant he no longer had the will to do anything cerebral – his every waking thought was on the book and the learning and completion of the spell that would give him everlasting life until the end of the world.

“The spell grants total immortality; not just life but immunity from death. No sword can cut, no bullet can pierce, no disease can shake, no rock can crush the man or woman who has sold their soul to Shaitan. Such a person could lay at ground zero of a nuclear holocaust and rise up from it naked and unscathed. And such a man or woman would go on in this way until the Revelations come and the world ends. After that, their soul would join the infernal hosts as Shaitan’s slave for eternity. But who knows how long away that would be, or if it would ever even occur?

“The only trouble is that, among its many other dangerous and disgusting ingredients required, the spell called for the death-blood of nine young children. Each innocent life spilled would be the key to a still deeper circle of Hell. All locks must open until you can stand before the Dark Lord himself and offer him up your very being.”

Here the bartender paused, and quirked the corner of his lips in a half-smile. I begged him (respectfully, of course) to continue.

“Some say Edward went mad. Only madness could describe what next occurred, or so they think. Edward carefully prepared the ingredients of the spell as far as he could, then burned his notes and packaged up the book. He put it in the mail with a fake address in a far distant city. Then, he went to church.

“It was a Sunday night in a town somewhat civilized yet somewhat frontier. All the good men and women of Las Animas were standing in the little wooden church singing ‘Just As I Am’ according to reports, when a scream rose from the nearby building – the church nursery and meeting hall. A mother had walked the short distance to check on her children only to find them and several others dead. There were infants still at the bottle up to boys and girls ten or eleven years old. Exactly nine children were in the nursery that night, no more and no less. I suppose Mr. Harris thought it was serendipity. The woman watching them was knocked unconscious, bound, and stuffed into a closet; when they found her she was still out.

“But first they found Edward. Dear stupid Edward.” He chuckled and lowered his voice, his faint hint of an accent tugging at my ear. “Edward was sitting naked with his eyes rolled up into his head, covered in blood, in the middle of a massacre, in a room spattered with blood. Signs and sigils were written over the walls as required by the spell, also in the children’s blood. As guilty as a fox in a hen house! Luckily for him he had just finished the chant and came back to his body as the men of the town grabbed hold of him. In the strength of his panic he was able to fight them off and make it to a horse that he had hidden.

“Although he drove the beast to the brink of death Edward was at last cornered in a gully. Here at least he was smart: he’d packed the horse with a change of clothes and enough guns and ammunition to take out the whole town. In the course of an eight hour shoot-out he obliterated the townsmen who had followed and was able to escape. He washed up in a stream, took himself to the nearest town over, bought a new horse and rode away feeling pleased with the whole event.

“Here’s the truly unfortunate part of the story.” I lifted my eyebrow but took another sip and said nothing. “One of the people Edward so freely murdered that night was not only the preacher but also the law man of that city.”

With his right hand in the condensation left on the bar by my glass, the bartender drew first the five pointed star of the sheriff, then over it the sign of the cross.

“And God – or whoever or whatever in this universe that opposes Shaitan – raised the spirit of the law man and gave it the power to follow Edward, without tiring, without ceasing, into eternity itself. Edward’s crossed oceans a thousand times; the lawman follows walking in the darkness under the sea. Edward’s driven cars and ridden fast planes and done anything for more speed, more distance, but the lawman follows and never stops, never sleeps. I suppose that Edward *might* escape him if he was on a rocket into space, but even then I wouldn’t be sure. And should the law man ever catch hold of him, Edward’s body will crumble like Dorian Gray’s and his soul will be sent wailing into the empty wastes until the Dark Lord comes to claim it at the end of time.”

At this last the bartender leaned back and resumed his professional distance. Edward at the end of the bar stood up, laid down his money, turned up the lapel of his trench coat and snugged his hat over his brow.

“Can I use the back door again?” he said. His voice was small and meek; yes, the voice of a nervous pencil-pusher, not a psychopathic killer or a Satan worshiper.

“Of course, Edward.”

Without further delay, he hared off into the darkness past the bathrooms. I shuddered to think what could lie dormant and skulking in the back room of this very select bar. Could there be anything safe in this place, other than the sturdy maple under my palm?

“Did anyone ever find the book?” I asked.

“If they did, I’ve never heard of it,” the bartender answered. “I like to think that it’s circulating in the mail through all the cities of the world, its address perpetually misread, cycling over and over. Maybe opened, imbibed, then repackaged and sent on its way. Like a virus.”

Again, that odd half smile. I thought of another question, then instantly forgot it with the opening of the black elder door.

I could hear the stamp of boot heels on the mat just inside; the jingle of spurs along with them. I looked up and saw the translucent form – the long duster, the gun belt with its pistol on each hip, the open shirt, the tall hat with the bullet hole through it. The eyes of the figure were two shadows beneath the wide brim. The star on the lapel gleamed like a last hope.

He strode up to the bar, an inevitable fate on two legs. I leaned down over my drink with hunched shoulders, praying not to be noticed – I hadn’t killed nine children myself, hadn’t done anything nearly as bad as that, but who among us feels completely innocent in the presence of the authorities, either religious or judicial?

Imagine the shudder up my spine when he paused right behind me.

“He went through here,” the deep rough voice of the lawman said to the bartender. It wasn’t a question. The bartender met his eyes gravely.

“Of course he did.”

“Know you this,” the ghost grated. “I’m not here for you today, nor tomorrow. The Lord may never see fit to put me on your trail. But your doom is coming just as swift and sure. You are a vile thing no better than the one I follow.”

And with that, the ghost spat onto the bar only inches from my elbow and stalked past us into the back room and beyond. The bunched and shrouded figures at the tables watched him go.

His spittle was smoking where it ate into the harmless wood of the bar. The bartender sneered as he donned a rubber dishwashing glove and picked up a clean rag to wipe the slime away. He turned the glove inside out around the rag and threw both into a nearby waste bin.

I shook myself firmly (showing weakness also being unsafe) and remembered my question at last.

“Do you know if anyone else has made use of the book, sir?”

He picked up another glass and worried at it with a new rag. “Oh, about a few dozen, I’d say. Probably no more than fifty total.” His tone was conversational.

“They’re not all terribly bad people; just willing to do anything to live longer. The world is full of many mysteries, many beautiful things and many worthwhile hobbies. I knew of one gentleman who was a stamp collector… so obsessed with the little things that the worth of nine young lives was nothing compared to being able to see what stamps were made a hundred years from his birth.”

I drank the dregs of my cocktail, and politely waved away the offer of a second one. “You’d think that more of these people would get caught in the attempt, though,” I mused. “Nine missing children, nine bodies… wouldn’t that be difficult to hide?”

“The best way to achieve immortality is by being clever and patient; our unfortunate young Edward was neither.” The bartender looked up at me under his brows; I saw for the first time that the brown iris of his left eye had a red cast to it. He smiled the half smile that didn’t part his lips and I was glad of it – suddenly I feared to see what teeth were in that mouth.

“For example,” he continued, “when I wrote that book so many years ago, London did not keep so strict a count of its orphaned street urchins…”

And this straight white man said, right, because it’s Christmas. It’s not “the holidays”.

I said: Do you know to whom you speak, all the time? Perhaps they’re Jewish, Kwanzaa celebrants, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Pagan, Agnostic, Check-marked “Other”, or Just Plain Don’t Care.

He said: This is a Christian country, and it’s a Christian holiday, and so we should say “Merry Christmas.”

I do so love straight white men with their easy sense of entitlement and their occasional bouts of astounding ignorance. Especially if we define “love” as “find myself mortified, embarrassed, belittled and enraged by”.

We (the Christian White Men) were here first, he said. I replied that I didn’t know he was Native American. He responded that even the Native Americans got here from Russia/China. I didn’t know that the Native Americans massacred and displaced a indigent population to take over this continent, but I kept *this* thought to myself.

And the first 13 colonies were Christian colonies, he said. Trying to keep more and more quiet, I thought yes, maybe, but they weren’t the RIGHT Christians in the eyes of the lands they left (amazing how often that happens) and so many people came here in search of religious freedom. Other popular reasons to come to America were love of money and conquest, and because you didn’t have a choice (referring to the English criminals who were planted in the prison colony of Georgia, and all slaves of all colors).

As for Christmas being a Christian holiday… really. Even though Jesus’s birth can be placed by the scripture ITSELF as being July/August due to the fact that shepherds don’t have flocks out in the fields during winter? This reminds me very much of Eostre — oh, excuse me, EASTER — where the ignorant but devoted celebrate Jesus’s triumphant return out of a chocolate egg laid by a rabbit. No, not at all pagan.

But in the end I received a flurry of denial from the straight white man about how this is how he thinks, this is how he’s going to do it, this is how it should be done, directly from the Great White God to his ear, and that’s all there is to it.

Let’s pause for a moment and imagine the welter of mortification and anger inside your humble host, Vox Mortuum. Let’s pause and consider how hotly my blood demanded a curb-stomping. Even though I should be used to such shabby treatment by those who have that *direct* line to the Big Invisible Sky Judge, it still comes as such a shock to experience it. “Never surprised, continually amazed” is my motto.

It wears me out, too. I’m hyper-vigilant and easily provoked, as are most of the people who share one of my many psychological conditions. As he was muttering his rant forcefully under his breath my hackles raised, adrenaline coursed through my veins and I prepared to fight or run. Being at a civilized office environment, however, means that one can do neither. Even if your feelings and sense of self are belittled or lessened by others.

But still I demurred, as a well-trained Southern Woman is bound to do, and backed away from the topic. There’s no convincing the ignorant, the red of neck and belligerent of mind. I’m sorry that I did it now, that I rolled over and didn’t stick to my guns. I’m sorry also that I don’t have the bravery to report him to HR. I don’t want to make my workplace hostile, and when you are a minority of whatever flavor that is sadly always a possibility.

Now I’m sure at this point all the family members and my thousands of ex-husbands stalking mefollowing me through this journal are wondering: Just what does Vox believe? “Does it really matter?” I would respond. Opinions are like sphincters; everyone has one but usually it’s better if we don’t share them with others.

I can tell you *A* belief though; a story, a myth, a dream just like all other human beliefs.

The earth, the mother of us all, grows tired and weak after giving the bounty of the harvest. Her energy recedes. The leaves fall, the sap sinks, the grasses die, flowers fade, and the weather grows cold. She dies her annual death and on the darkest longest night of the year her god-husband sacrifices his life to revive her, lest we all perish with her.

We remember this yearly event by the arrival of the man in blood-red, bearing precious gifts in the snow. Unfortunately in this consumeristic saccharine age we’ve gelded him and his sacrifice, and we call him Santa Claus.

I bemoan this weakening of our primal heritage, at the same time I say “Could I have a Nintendo DS game?”

Merry Godsdeath, ya’ll.

Issue 06 – God Riding Shotgun

I’m going outside the damn house today. You may begin your applause now.

There’s a great quote here but it’s redacted for not being at all in anyway worksafe.

My get up and go has got up and went. Can I get back in bed now?

So I did what I always do when I’m nearly down to the wire: I cleaned like a mad woman. Today I’ve picked up, sorted, stacked, put away, wiped, washed, thrown out, and made up.

It started with organizing and moving things off our coffee table. Then I decided to pick up the floor around the table so that the husband could vacuum later. Then I started throwing things away that we don’t use often or that were damaged or beyond date. Then I picked up the books that need to go back on our (already overflowing) bookshelves to organize later.

An hour or so of hazy madness later, I have a surprisingly clean house.

I apologize if this entry’s a bit scrambled; I keep seeing things that I could adjust/organize/throw away and I interrupt my writing to do it.

All my stuff’s up off the floor; I’ve gotten rid of two bags of crap I wasn’t really needing. I’ve got a stack of books ready to be integrated. I’ve got things more organized than ever. I’m so domestic I’ve got a crockpot of no-peekie stew simmering on the counter, and I’m seriously considering making my family’s brunswick stew recipe (at 1/6th the volume; they used to make it for church lunches).

The husband’s been such a big help, as he always is. It’s so odd to have a partner who will clean and organize alongside me. I’ve just about worn him out with some serious labor today and I love him more than ever.

I do have to watch out for a tendency towards hoarding. The members of my family are prone to holding on to random and meaningless stuff, although we give different reasons for it. “Collecting.” “These might be worth something someday.” “I can’t throw it away now; I might need it down the line.”

Even a vague sense that we *are* our things. I know I once had that feeling.

When I was little I kept my room in a glorious state of clutter. No real trash and absolutely no food leavings, but my belongings were spread over every square inch of floor and horizontal surface. Even the bed was a zoo of stuffed animals.

Part of it was loving to see what all I had, to be inspired at any moment. Colors of toys or combination of light and shadow could send me off into a fugue, dreaming about everything and nothing in particular. Part of it was security device; if anyone wanted to bother me they’d have to do it over a mine-field of various slippery, sharp, pointed, loose objects.

I remember when various family members would come into my room and clean it. I remember sitting on my bed crying broken-heartedly as they patiently organized, removed, repatterned. To me it was an attack, an invasion and an assault. Other people… touching my belongings. Putting them back in an order that meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t be able to find things that I wanted until my fantastic haphazard filing method reasserted itself.

I recognize some of this as the start of mental illness.

What with better medication, better understanding of my own mind, and the love and support of someone saner than I am (or at least differently crazy) I have had only occasional clutter.

And now I don’t have even that. I have a Clean House.

There’s an Orange Clove candle burning on my coffee table. There’s the lovely smell of home cooking in my kitchen area. I’m a happy hooker.