Monday, August 28, 2006

bite sized bits

OMG (ohmygoddess)! Look at Crimsoncrow's Enid story! Hit "comments" under my "biting commentary" post and you can read it. Very good! You gotta love a naked she-vamp in a chocolate jag (as long as she's already eaten). ;)

I think I will let crimsoncrow's ending stand. I have a different direction in mind that will make it a much longer piece. But I'm definitely keeping the Jaguar!

biting commentary: help me finish this fic!

Hello, readers. It's !!$#$ Monday and I am at @#$%!! work. Not that I shall let that stop me from having some fun. Even though the blogger is &()()_!!%%(_)(&)**(& SLOW today!

Below you will find an adventure of Enid Mare, my favorite voluptuous vampire. It is not a finished story. I want your ideas. Then I'll finish the tale and post the whole thing.

Happy &)&)()*_) @#$% reading. (PS: Thanks to my dad for the "biting commentary" bit). ;)

* the !@#$%^ things are classy ways of saying things like "shit" and "fuck" (or very, very occasionally, "Sod off you cacker" re: the Dictionary of English Slang). I hope that my uncharacteristic classiness hasn't caused much confusion.

Enid looked at the women around her and felt her mouth turn down into a sour sort of snarl. It was only her second visit to the GetFit Body Center, but she already regretted paying a mandatory six-month fee. She doubted that even her frugal tendencies – or her concern about her diet regimen – could induce her to return to this hole.
Enid had never been particularly vulnerable to the medieval strains of theological thought, but she began to believe in Hell as she looked around the women’s dressing room.
The dressing room was a glorified version of what might be found in any public high school. Enid knew. She had worked as a guidance counselor for about eight months in the early nineties (nineteen nineties – though she had been alive for two and a quarter millennia, now).
Guidance counseling had been a very productive gig – being anointed as shepherd for a flock of plump and emotionally wayward teens. Enid sighed from the memory of better days.
At GetFit, the lines of mirrors, lockers, and shower stalls were dressed up with pale rose carpeting. It did make the room a bit less depressing (despite the sound of some waif vomiting in one of the two toilets), but carpeting was not a great idea in a gym.
The smell of sweaty feet had been steamed into the fabric by the line of eternally-running showers. The passive-aggressive scents of deodorant, shampoo and talc could not compete with a healthy olfactory ego like that of foot-induced mold.
Now another naked waif was parading down the isle of benches. Enid leaned back as if afraid she would be hit by a swaying breast. She scowled and took a sharp mental note of which locker that woman used. One-seventeen – Enid would remember that. The skinny bitch was just asking for it, and Enid had a sense of fair play.
Not that the waif’s naked sashay was unusual in the GetFit context. The thinnest women never wore a stitch in the dressing room. The ones who were worried about this or that patch of cellulite would wrap the offending area in a towel. The women who actually needed a gym in the first place never changed clothes in the open. They generally stayed in the toilet stalls (except when they were needed for vomiting, of course). Everyone’s status was established by the one and only thing that mattered – the very first glance.
This left Enid’s aforementioned sense of fair play considerably rumpled. She herself was at her peak when she could wrap herself in black leather and purple silk – tastefully accentuated by heels and French-tipped nails. What animal couldn’t strut around naked? The beauty regimen sets one apart.
The locker room culture of these health-crazed times just made Enid shake her head. It was a throw-back. It was savagery. She could remember a time when people understood that status was best flaunted by a wide girth and shockingly overdone clothes. Anyone could fucking-well sweat.
Enid shook her head again and got up from her bench. She had to stop this bitching. She had joined the gym of her own free will. She had been overdoing it in the food department. She considered it stress-eating.
Sign of success or not, Enid herself was unhappy with how wide her girth had become. So here she was. She had paid the dues. It was time to put her mouth where her money was.
She headed toward the door – right behind the woman whom she now thought of as “naked tit parade lady” – “tit lady” for short. She eyed locker one-seventeen and considered going through it now.
No. Too soon. She would follow tit-lady to the gym and watch her a while. She may as well use one of the damned machines. She had paid enough for the privilege.
The room that tit-lady walked into was full of treadmills, stationary bikes, and elliptical machines. A muted television flashed headlines from CNN. There was a vase of lilies in one corner – next to a stack of towels. The beautiful flowers were so out of place, it was mildly offensive.
Enid shuddered as she looked around. The room stank of sweat and roared with the sounds of grinding gears and wheels. Worse, still -- every wall was covered with a giant, gleaming mirror.
Enid cringed and let her gaze rest on tit-lady’s back. She hated mirrors. She had forgotten how bad it was in here. The dressing room glasses were all cloaked by steam.
There was an empty bike behind tit-lady’s back. Enid jumped up on it. The handlebars were sweaty and she was so repulsed, she almost gave up entirely. Yet she was made of tougher stuff than this. She grit her teeth and started to peddle.
Tit-lady was chatting up the steroid-ripped guy on the Bowflex next to hers. The few snatches of the conversation that floated back to Enid involved “two hours a day,” “free-weights,” and “South Beach.” The homicidal rush of adrenaline that this gave Enid made her bike go up to 3 miles per hour. Briefly.
Enid looked at her feet in their black-and-pink Nikes. She had thought they looked good in the store. On her feet, they looked like total shit. She was not made for this sort of nonsense. Every aspect of it was degrading.
She hopped off the bike. Her sneakers gave her something to look at as she felt her way out of the room – trying to avoid all those damnable mirrors. She passed through a rose-colored labyrinth of hallways before diving into the relative comfort of the dressing room.
She never would have considered this sort of smelly cave to be her refuge, but Enid was more than a little grateful to enter the darkness of the steam. She walked to locker one-seventeen and ripped it open with a vengeance.

...your turn! :)

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

a day in my yard

I took a bunch of pics in my yard, yet again. A catalogue of weeds that are really herbs and vegetables that are really weeds. Go figure.



with goldenrod, of course.

evening primrose

blue vervain

Blue Vervain.


In my yard. Yay!

merlin's head!

Here is a pic of the rather anthropomorphic portion of the oak I referred to as "Merlin" before. It may take a while to see it from a photo. But the noticeable features are the nose (only part remaining) the eye and some seaweed "hair." Have fun. :)

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Merlin's Beard

It is a quiet day today – and tonite will be my last night on-call for our hotline. Sunrise brings freedom. Yay! I do have to drive up to Machias to do an info-booth at a fair (the international blueberry festival, or some such). Then I get Monday off. Yay!
Here are a couple of pics from the Deer Isle area. I go there to fill my spiritual tank sometimes. Also to get in the mood for some writing. Especially when I am writing about an island setting, it is great. Yet I even find the creative juices juicier on this particular beach if I am writing about vampires or eating disordered teens. Not relevant, but juicy. Although I suppose an eating disordered teen could be found puking just beyond the tree line – with a vampire waiting to eat her when she’s done. Hmmm. Nah.
The tree trunk that looks like a sea monster in this shot is an old guy I call Merlin. I have known this oak tree since he was in the ground. I used to sit on a boulder and lean on him. He always had an especially extroverted, loving energy.
What am I talking about, you ask? Here’s my theory. Most trees keep to themselves. They have a life-force that is so different than the human one, we usually can’t pick up on it and relate to it without altering our own state through spiritual perspective and imagination (and probably meditation). But this guy meets us halfway (or more than half, considering how dense humans are).
When he fell, I cried. I can still sit on his trunk from time to time. I took a lot of pictures. I’m in a race with the tide. Merlin is a very loving tree. He is very, very cool. He’s okay with being down and starting to decay. He’s partly there – but he’s fine with being gone. I’m the one who has trouble with it as I watch him break up and float away.
I carried pieces of him home. I asked. He said it was okay. I have a granite stone that was caught in his root-ball. I planted that under an apple seedling in my backyard. It doesn’t feel quite right, though. I think I will have to take it up and go find an oak.
I also have a piece of his trunk. It contains a very anthropomorphic face. I’ll try to take a pic of it, but I’m not sure it will translate.
That’s about it. I’m looking forward to a quiet day. PS: I’m okay with my haircut now. I know you are relieved.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

bats will start eating the sun

quote of the day:

“Bats will start eating the sun,” I expanded. “Horses will be born with tails on their heads, and cubes of frozen urine will land on our roof terraces offering us cigarettes.”

Helen Fielding, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason.

*** it's the literary greats that keep me going.

This reminds me - I had a bat in my living room the other day. Poor little thing was being tracked by at least six cats before I caught it. It landed (very sensibly) on a wooden halloween sign that I never bothered to take down, last year. It stayed perched on that while I removed it, bat'n'kaboodle, from the wall and took it outside. Then battykins flew off into the dark recesses of the woodshed. I love our many batty friends. They eat the mosquitoes.

** pps: crimsoncrow informs me that the "frozen cubes of urine" fall from airplanes. EEEEW!

dig it!

The Onion

Archaeologist Tired Of Unearthing Unspeakable Ancient Evils

HASAKE, SYRIAĆ¢ -- When archaeologist Edward Whitson joined a Penn State University dig in Hasake last year, he did so to participate in the excavation of a Late Bronze Age settlement rich in pottery shards and clay figurines.

(click on the title of the onion story to read the VERY funny article) **

Did I ever tell you that I once participated in an archaeology dig? If you only know me through my blog, then no! Well, then....

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it was a bright, 120 degree period of weeks. Visions of dirt, charcoal, and toxic porta-potties are dancing in my head.

It was in Meggido, Israel in 1998 (I think). It was largely fun. Of course, it was very hard work. We got up at 4AM and dug until about noon. Then we went down to the kibbutz and did "pottery scrubbing and diagnotstics" for a while. Then we ate. Then whatever. I, in particular, spent a great deal of time putting ice on my hands. My left thumb was particularly painful. It is still tender to this day. When it comes time to stack the firewood every year (this time of year in Maine, in fact), I have to ice it again. Very small price to pay for a very cool thing like a real archaeology dig. I was proud of myself for not giving up and being relegated to some sort of wimp-detail. I stayed in the dig site every day - using my little trowel and brushes. My best pal at the time, who dug with me, called our spot "the pit." She was less enamored with achaeology than I. She told friends when we returned to Nashville - "Every morning at 4 they throw us in the pit. At eight in the morning, they throw cucumbers and tomatoes down at us so we can eat." Not quite accurate, but vivid. We actually got to leave our site to eat. Then we had to clean the eating site. I would have preferred having the food thrown at us in the pit. Of course, that would have compromised the stuff (the magical stuff!).

I will have to scan some of the pics before I can post them, since I took them with a crap camera. Still, it sounds like this guy on the onion has a lot more excitement than we did. We would hum the Indiana Jones theme while we bussed dirty plates at the breakfast site. That was our peak. Seriously, though - it was great to spend some time in Israel (and even travel through Lebanon) at a time when things were a little different. Seeing the carnage of towns that I have been to makes me even sadder when I watch the morning news. Plus I actually have family (a cousin from Maine) living in Tel Aviv. Sigh. It is a beautiful, beautiful place.

Anyhow - off I go. PEACE!!!

Monday, August 14, 2006

hairy weekend

got my hair cut. fun. am i the only one that can't get the right style? oh, well. i like it okay. it's not my most disasterous do. i'm just eternally uncertain of whether it is my stylist or my personal foiled attempts to follow thru on the grand design that i should rethink.

oh, well. may as well work it. be afraid. RAWR!

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

The Empathizer2006

Did you see the robot-receptionist on the news? Check out robo-geisha. Fascinating. I had a scenario-hemorrhage. Brace yourself.

Robots could totally replace victim's advocates. They have lots of advantages:

1) HAHAHA! No need for lunch breaks!
2) HAHAHA! No need for caffiene! (my god - what must that be like?)
3) They are built for human consumption, so they will obviously have lots and lots and lots and lots of sex, but HAHAHA! No emotions!
4) The Empathizer2006 is a postmodernist upgrade (the preceeding models like the Collectivist1980, the BraBurner1965, the HungerStrike1920, and the Bloomer1850 having been scrap-heaped by mainstream consumers).
5)The Empathizer2006 is NON - I repeat - NONTHREATENING TO MEN! She has over three-thousand soothing voice-activations like "Oh, you poor thing. That sounds very castrating." "Feminists are nasty. They are just ugly women who can't get laid." "You've got the whole world on your shoulders. May I rub them?" "Your ex sounds like a dyke." "White men are the victims of the modern age." "Tell me - were you breastfed? Would you like to be?"

Okay. So far she has us totally beat. But let's try a day-in-the-life scenario and see how long it takes for the battery-operated-bitch's head to blow off:

Hello. How may I assist you?
I'm sorry. We don't have any gas cards today.
I do not know.
I do not know.
I do not know.
He called you a what?
How did that make you feel?
Yes, men can be victims, too. It does sound like he had a difficult childhood, but that is not a reason to....
I'm sorry. We don't have any gas cards today.
His mother said what?
Your mother said what?
How did that make you....
I do not know.
I do not know.
I do not know.
How did that make you....
(shrill beeping)
I'm sorry. We don't have any gas cards....
He hit you with a what?
How did that make you feel?
Then he said....
Could you spell that?
How did that....
I do not know.
I do not know.
You don't deserve to be treated that....
Alcohol isn't really a....
I do not know.
I do not know.
Yes, his childhood sounds very horrible. Yet his drinking and his past don't....
I do not know.
He's a what? I'm really not sure that it makes any....
I do not know.
The police said what? How did that make you....
I do not know.
I do not know.
I do not know.
(sizzling sound)
I'm sorry. We don't have any gascards-gascards-gas....

HAHAHA! Only a human can take this shit day after day and live to tell the tale. So, please 'scuse me. Have to go burn my fucking bra.

ancient ruin

a.k.a. my back yard. weeds, shmeeds. i love it!

down on the island

pretty! first thing morning am. not talking goodness. until yet.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

the fairie tree

there is a triangle of birch trees in my back yard with this beautiful thorn tree right in the middle. it is definitely a fairie door. they wave the branches whenever you say hello.

don't believe me? try it and see!

monster babies

I love cats. Cats love me. My nature abhors the state of cat-lessness. Maine Coons are the best breed ever - and that's not just me being a Mainer. They are big, smart, tough, funny, and loyal. They follow their people around - inside and out. They are my monster babies. Meow.

deer apples

Hello, there! Monday has come and gone in a blur of Excedrin, Cokes, and sisterhood. Yay! Downeast Maine is no longer suffering from stifling heat - bearing in mind that eighty degrees is "stifling" to our kind.

Lots of deer beds out in the back yard. It isn't apple season quite yet, but this pic was taken last year. They do love their apples, the little deeries.

Friday, August 04, 2006


barred owls

ladyhawke (red-tailed hawk)


good morning, campers! it's another friday and i am at work - doing something suspicious with office internet resources. i'll try to be quick. at least it is cooler today, so my brain is (while hopelessly damaged) not currently being poached like an egg. that'll come sometime after noon.

it took me a while to get these pics off the camera, but let's give it a try. they are from the local bird sanctuary that i often blog about. peace, gentle beings - and have a great weekend.