We all have wings

But some of us don’t know why




I am merely the beginning. There are so many more of me. Some of us are asleep. Some of us may as well be asleep, because they have forgotten. And most disheartening, many abandoned this mission long, long ago.

I am merely part of the Whole. The way is clear, even if I am not.

And if I have lost my wings, at least I know why.

Then again.

Perhaps it is as a beautiful soul once suggested: Our wings are in place just simply not visible to our glass-and-grit-filled, foggy, human eyes.



What is in a title?

Come out of the garden, baby

You’ll catch your death in the fog

Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs

~ Diamond Dogs, David Bowie

Did she heed his words and come inside, sit by the fire with a cup of tea and an appropriately ladylike novel? Of course not. But then they knew that about her. They had counted on it.

Eudora Everton went her own way, which was generally the way of the Devil’s Advocate. Someone needs to advocate for him. Why shouldn’t it be Eudora?

Too many hearts were granted her at birth. She shot them into the sky, never knowing where they might land. Many were lost…but she didn’t mind. She had plenty of hearts. What else was to be done with them, anyway? Keep them in glass jars in some morbidly moldy basement? Not Eudora.

After the “incident” in the garden, life has become flat. The remainder of her hearts have all flown away, gently, slowly, painfully while the winter dims her face. If that sounds slightly grim, you’re probably right.

A bundle of aches, Eudora slipped inside the weathered, revered garden wall and peers out at a tired world. Before the crumble set in, she scratched a last message into the wall. Words of advice or warning? Neither, I think. A title, perhaps. The rest forever unfinished. What the hell is in a title? What could possibly be the point? Along with an entire Universe, you may often find nothing in particular.

Lets Try Love

Madam Marie

To stretch beyond our own Wild Imaginings is what we all most wish to do.

~From Tales of Non-Sense, by Intricate Knot

If you look closely you can see both the joy and the wound.

If you look closely you can see both the joy and  wound.

All the best characters are flawed. To be perfect holds no fascination. We are drawn to the imperfect, the slightly askew, the weirdly mystic.

Madam Marie is flawed and fascinating. Her story is unbelievable and completely true. In order to make it even a gasp of plausible, we must spin a faery-dark-tale.

Does it sound like I am contradicting myself? Oh no dear, I am not.

Surrounded by Thorns and Black Hearts, Madam Marie conjured a spell to make them useful. Forming them into a screen, she hung them to be televised for all to see. For if we can see the danger, it surely does follow that we can stop it. Or can we?

Because they are forever devious and adept at trickery, growing, multiplying, and changing so quickly, she had to keep her eye on them forever. Forever. Never ceasing. Constant vigilance. My, how utterly exhausting.

Wise(ass) beyond all boring expectations, she unwrapped a sticky sweet sucker of a solution and plucking out her Third Eye, Madam Marie placed it on the Winged Hand. The tireless temperate telling Winged Hand.

Now she can be ever vigilant…without having to sit in obscene obeisance.

Madam Marie is bright and wistful and naturally wanted to grow beyond her beginnings, for the place she had chosen was far darker than she’d imagined. That’s all right because this part of her tale was easier than she’d ever dreamed, though infinitely harder for her to believe.

All she had to do was sacrifice one of her hands.

With barely a hesitation she stretched out her left hand and it grew to be less of a hand and more of a vine.

Yes. It hurt. The hurt of it pierced her heart. Marking it evermore.

But to let Thorns and Black Hearts overrun the Land cannot be allowed. And to stay small and forever un-witnessed?

That would be unbearably sad.


Princess Muertos and The King’s Head

Princess Muertas

Drawn together completely by accident
And that isn’t a pun.
He wasn’t her father
Just tyrannical scum.
Princess of another land
She drew her hypothetical sword
And soon he was dead.
Off with his head
Then she went straight to bed.
It isn’t that hard to sleep like a baby
When you’re a fierce lady
Who is not afraid to be terse
From one end of your heart
And weep from the other.

Dreaming the Moon

…Even the man in the moon disappeared
Somewhere in the stratosphere…

~”Second Chance,” Smith & Bassett of Shinedown

Dreaming the Moon

Dreaming the Moon

Sleepy Cat Mermaids who trust their spells above all, suspicious-and-rightfully-so Sunflower Elves, and stoic Slit-Eyed Bats who never complain about anything.

Baffling Pagan Eggs, not yet ready to hatch, are protected by the buoyant, uncanny, knock-out slumbering Demi-Weird Sun.

Fortunate Stars with Stars-in-Their-Eyes gaze out longingly, and beaming, crafty, mask-wearing, Beak-Billed Clowns float under sunflowers, awaiting their moment to seize.

Absurdly elegant, hungry, yet Full-of-Incongruity Flowers who are too keen on removing themselves far and away from the ground, creep up into the scene, but fool no one.

Apple-flavored, jumbo, exceptionally edible, Carrie-frosted (Carrie does all the frosting here) Sweet-Silvery-Savory Cupcakes sit surrounded in charm, while a few of the audaciously sneaky peer-out as unnamed, unfixed faces, throwing themselves in for good measure. Because of course we all need an audience.

At the Center ebbs-and-flows the much longed-for, oft dreamt-about Mister Highflying Dreaming-the-Moon, whose very presence compels one to ask,

Are we dreaming him or is he dreaming us?

Perhaps Dreaming-The-Moon ended up here in my doodle because he knew it is the one place he can play hide-and-seek with elves and bats, whilst hoovering up excess faerie dust, and gardening intently with Quentin, the Vampire Botanist. I hear Mister Moon makes an excellent punch from the juice of Merrie-Scarrie-Berries with a rumored dash of Sky-High-Blue-Jelly-Jam. I keep meaning to ask him for his recipe. I will have to remember one day.

Welcome to one of my worlds, where Anything and Everyone is allowed to be just what and who they are, for that is always more than enough.

The Sun Comes Out or: What the Heck is That??

Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows,

Everything that’s wonderful is what I feel when we’re together,

Brighter than a lucky penny

When you’re near the rain cloud disappears, dear,

And I feel so fine just to know that you are mine.

~ Lesley Gore

Though I’m not quite there with Lesley Gore, I do believe I’m getting there. In her lyrics Ms. Gore may have been referring to a romantic attachment. My romantic attachment is a calm sea in the storms of my head so, WARNING: That’s not where I’m going with this.

Yeah. It's a weird sun. But it's my weird sun.

Yeah. It’s a weird sun. But it’s my weird sun.

No, this is about my relationship to my Creativity. You know, that part of you that you just love to dance with, but at the same time gives you the Willies-Tangled-Up-With-Multiple-Heebie-Jeebies? Yeah. That’s it.

You may find yourself grappling in the darkness. It happens. The cool thing is that you can climb your way out of your funk (or oubliette, as I refer to it). And suddenly you’re hearing Lesley Gore’s “Sunshine Lollipops, and Rainbows” and you’re like,

What the Heck is That??

Ahem, speaking of my doodle. I think I’ll call it FlowerSun WeirdSun. Nice. It has a lovely Asian sound to it.

And yeah it’s a weird (looking) sun that’s peeping out it’s face at me, but I’d probably drop into a dead faint if I actually doodled something “normal.” Besides that, I don’t even think “normal” and “doodle” belong in the same sentence. Does anyone doodle “normal”?? I rest my case (if I was in court over this, which I’m not, thank goodness).

My point is (yeah, I actually have one), that everyone deserves to have their very own weird sun, whatever that may be. Yours could look completely different than mine. And that’s utterly flipping fine. The important thing is to enjoy whatever yours happens to be. And maybe you could also enjoy other people enjoying theirs. Okay, things might have got strange just now so I’ll stop and merely leave you with this:

Whatever the form, shape, color, medium, or expression your weird sun may take, may it shine out in all its glory. I think it would be fanflippingtastic to see what your weird sun looks like and if you’d like me to see, leave your link in the comments below.


Note: My title is a nod to Dr. Strangelove or: How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. Fantastic film that I highly recommend.


Everybody’s talkin’ at me

I don’t hear a word they’re saying

Only the echoes of my mind…

~Fred Neil, Everybody’s Talkin’

I have voices in my head. Wait. Don’t call the funny farm just yet.

Voices that tell me I’m not good enough.

Voices that tell me I’m never going to have what I want.

Voices that tell me that no one is interested in what I have to say, what I have to write, what I have to draw or paint. In other words all of my creativity: my stories, my mini-paintings, my intricate (hah!) doodles, and indeed my entire tiny life is crap. Not even special or interesting crap, just plain, old crap.

Voices that with an astounding accuracy and a red hot intensity know just where, when, and how to say what will wound my soul. Leaving me immobile. After I get done with myself, no one can possibly say or do anything even close to worse. How low can I go? Pretty low, I’m afraid.

I suppose I could be suffering from one of those chemical imbalances. I’m sure there’s some doctor or another that might prescribe me a little yellow, white, or pink pill. Make the voices go away. But don’t I need to argue, appease, ignore, or tame them? We’re all so ready to give over our problems/issues/challenges/what-have-you to someone else to “fix.” Who better to fix the problems/issues/challenges/what-have-you than ourselves? That’s my take, anyway. Therefore…

I struggle with these voices. Nearly every damn day. I wrestle. I push back. I sigh with long suffering grace. I moan with childish temper. I debate. I argue. I use bribery. I scream at them to leave me alone. Go away. Never come back. I’ve ignored them. And when that doesn’t work, I pay them no mind. All to no avail. These voices seem to know exactly what buttons to push to engage me in yet another pointless confrontation. For years, years, and years I’ve struggled with them fruitlessly. I beat them back, appearing to silence them into submission, only to awake the next morning to hear them in full gleefully depressing chorus:

We’re baaaack.

The significant, but actually quite small, step for me came when I realized that I must accept them as part of myself. These Negative Nellies, Whining Willies, Frantic Freddies, Nixing Neds, Broken Bettinas, Angst-Ridden Adams, and Depressing Desirees are all part of me. They are not going anywhere…unless of course, I go there too. And since I have no inclination to be thrown off a cliff, buried alive, or explode into millions of pieces, I am stuck with them. Ah, but they are also stuck with me. And I have learned ways to torture them into silence. Yeah, well the silence doesn’t last forever. If I’m lucky a week or two, but hey, it’s a start. Who knows what tricks I might pick up in the future? I might be able to silence them for months, perhaps years. That idea is so exciting to me I want to go skydiving to celebrate! I’ll settle for pie, though. A bit safer than skydiving and hell of a lot tastier.

This doodle took nearly two weeks to complete, due to my RA. Every hand and wrist cramp was worth it.

P.S. If you’re interested, though my voices say you’re long bored and left my page hours ago (if indeed you ever arrived in the first place), I plan on writing a part 2 to this post: How to Torture the Voices in Your Head Into (temporary) Submission. Hint? You’ve heard the expression, “Kill them with kindness?”It’s sort of like that.