Moonstruck Madness

Lunar eclipse yesterday and lycanthropy tomorrow. Could this get any more foreboding?

Strap on your prescience goggles, kiddos. I'm hording my crystal balls for star gazin'.

It's here!

please, read, listen and contemplate at your convenience.

I'm never one to toot my own horn (in fact I fear the muscle strain) but I think it's pretty nifty.

Thanks to our fearless leader R and her cohort X for being the evil (yea, again!) masterminds they are.

Er zol vaksen vi a tsibeleh, mit dem kop in drerd!

District-ites have been onioning these hot months (yes, both in smell and in aspect, my tender little bulb). My floor is full of sweaty peels dehydrating under the jet of the air conditioner. Late at night, (compelled by Al Gore or some other shadowy, yet corpulent, enviro-hero) I am shamed out of sleep to flick off the icebox and lie oozing dew into the floral bedspread. The heat keeps us wakeful and surreptitiously we put sticky fingers into our pits and sniff away, some Mary Catherine Gallagher with hay fever. Sometimes this does this trick and smell of fresh sweat stupefies us back into slumbers redolent of boiled cabbage. Other times though, we lie awake just inhaling and trying to tell the difference between our pungent bodies and the fulsome air.

But ah, tonight: glorious time warp to some 1920's April. The sidewalk was sepia with a dash of rising mist. And I looked to find trench-coated men peering into vegetable beds. Sadly, I fear all the noir detectives have moved on to sunnier climes.

A Pretty Skin to Wrap a Hobbit Princeling In

Miss R is something like the Lady of Comfort and Tears, only up the nefarious a few jots and remove the evil. There are caged things that she feeds most tenderly in her Brooklyn apartment, like imperious felines and a collection of hungry literature.

The weekend started with the exploitation of several parks. We demanded grassy submission and received back late 90's rock and a Reconstructionist Bat Mitzvah. Ah well. Close enough.

Later we chose gellato over Henry Darger and I though the trade a fair one for a summer's day.

Back home in the Batcave I wear NY sequins in a tawdry ruff. It's dirty, cheese-smelling and occasionally frighting but I've high hopes for its potency as a talisman. I fear succubi and wendigos during the cold DC nights.

Kusturica-ism!

It's like a microcosm of his entire world. I'd move there in a heartbeat.

Bildungsroman

Do matchsticks have souls? How about spice racks, beans (animus/esprit/pneuma/ruach) or flying machines? These are questions for Muppet wranglers and all other purveyors of semi-animate flesh.

Slowly it becomes clear that sprouting pricks out tattoos of fascination. All is brief pain (winds of discontent?) and blurred ink.

I apologize. If I am cryptic it is only because I cannot satisfactorily understand these things myself.

Perhaps you would care to take a stab?