Knights without Armor

The Old Code

A Knight is sworn to valor.

His heart knows only virtue.

His blade defends the helpless.

His might upholds the weak.

His words speak only truth.

His wrath undoes the wicked.

~From the movie Dragonheart


Faces Tribe - Unfinished My son's girlfriend spied this doodle on their last visit. She loved it, which embarassed me a bit, though it pleased me as well, of course. Both she and my son thought it would make an excellent tattoo. An interesting notion. It's awfully crowded in here, what with clowns, priestesses, ghosts, and aliens. It wouldn't surprise me if in this cast of characters a tattoo artist hides out, too.

Faces Tribe – Unfinished
My son’s girlfriend spied this doodle on their last visit. She loved it, which embarassed me a bit, though it pleased me as well, of course. Both she and my son thought it would make an excellent tattoo. An interesting notion. It’s awfully crowded in here, what with clowns, priestesses, ghosts, and aliens. It wouldn’t surprise me if in this cast of characters a tattoo artist hides out, too.

My favorite line from The Old Code is the last. His wrath undoes the wicked. Isn’t that a comforting thought? I believe this is the purpose of wrath.

Anger is much misused. So much so that we have forgotten that it has an actual purpose, as well as both a time and place when it must be expressed. That was my mood when I drew these tribal faces. I’ve never done anything like this piece in the past. I hope it becomes a trend, as I quite like them.

Should your life and spirit be in jeopardy, I hope that the knight who lives within you will speak up (or draw her sword) on your behalf.


© 2015 Intricate Knot


Mistress Mace Flutterly

You don’t see me but you will
I am not invisible
I am here

~Bono “Invisible”

Don't get your panties in a knot, Mistress IK. This work is merely in progress. And the tale? Plenty of time to get weirder and perhaps creepier still.

Don’t get your panties in a knot, Mistress IK. This work is merely in progress. And the tale? Plenty of time to get weirder and perhaps creepier still.

She never realized, nor dared guess a hazard, how utterly, simply, refreshingly, strangely compellingly easy it would be to live without a face.

Once you’ve gone faceless, you never go back.

(Hmm…does that sound creepy or is it just me? And how many adverbs can I squeeze into one sentence? These, along with dozens more questions will not be answered in this tale.)

Like the many others who are not included in this doodle, Mistress Mace Flutterly has no face. Or per asp (ha! hah!) I should say, no true face of her own. She collects them, you see. Keeping them in closets, drawers, hatboxes, candy dishes, or wherever else may captivate her fancy. Sometimes she hangs them with satin ribbons, tying them into bold, beautiful, belligerent bows, making these flipping fine faces into marvelously meticulous, mythically macabre masks.

“Masks are quite useful,” Mistress Flutterly says to no one in particular, as there is no one, Dear Reader but you and I. “You never know when you might need a dozen or so.”

Not one to be wasteful, she makes use of the faces she collects: wearing this one, then that, depending entirely upon her mood.

“It is so very difficult to decide,” She sighs with mild aggravation.

So she changes them often, as another lady might change her bonnet or scarf.

“And why keep them as they are? They’re already changed from their previous form. I’ll just add a touch more elegance or perhaps a dash of glitzy bling.”

Switching from mask to mask can be great fun, but decorating them is what really fills her heart with a red velvet pleasure.

“This one deserves a slash of silver glitter across her forehead,” She may chuckle to herself.

It could be silver is not her colour of the day. Mayhap she’s in the market for a few ruby red sequins, and will painstakingly pin hundreds, each with great care to a tiny, pointy chin. Then again she may lose herself completely and positively festoon an entire visage with rare jeweled cabochons.

And of these particularly peculiarly ornamented faces, she chooses her favourites, filing them away in an onerous armor. She could never part with a one for they’re all far too adorable.

And what say you? Wouldn’t you like a spare mask or two? Mayhap you already do.

How to acquire them, you may understandably wonder. How has Mistress Mace Flutterly obtain this copious number of the best faces that she can then wear like masks and merry spacers?

I really daren’t ask, but if a lapse in judgment I should suffer, I’d be certain from these lips the truth I’d never dream to utter.

© 2015 Intricate Knot

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.

Let the Madness Begin…

Let the Madness Begin

And may it never end.

How boring it would be

Without Madness to send

Roaring, roaring

Around the next bend,

Straight into and through my head.

~Intricate Knot

Magdalene - Unfinished

Magdalene – Unfinished                                                                                                                                                                 Where does this stuff come from? Another time, another planet, another me…

Magdalene danced too closely to the weeds and instead of dancing away, fell head first into them. He came upon her struggling, flailing, shrieking, and cursing the weeds. And he tried, honestly tried, to check his temper even when she shouted most unkindly at the vegetation.

“She’s invading their space,” Quentin thought, “not the other way ‘round.”

He offered her a hand, but she never heard nor saw him. Too busy having a tizzy, I presume. Quentin shook his head in disgust and had decided to leave her in this muddy, tangled state, when she struck out blindly at an innocent dandelion. That wasn’t the last straw though, oh no. The last straw was when she yanked the sweet, puffy dandy-lion straight out of the ground.  For no reason, none what-so-ever.

Now she merely sits at the side of the road, bundled up tightly with all the other weeds. She’s one of them, though she’d never admit it and couldn’t even if she wanted to. Her roots run deep in the earth and do not allow for dancing. Desperately she tries to hum a tune, but alas and alack she no longer has a mouth.

Cat Noir…

…a large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree…

-Edgar Allen Poe, “The Black Cat”

Yes, we all know that this tale by Mr. Poe did not end well, but then whenever did he give us a happy ending? Just wasn’t in his nature. We on the other hand, can give a happy-ending to some deserving black kitties. I won’t fill this post with the statistics on black cats and how ignorance (and worse) plagues these beautiful beasties. If you are so inclined, stats can be found here on the Kindness for Cats website:

He says, “Hey man, I don’t see anything scary about his ladder. And there ain’t nothing scary about me, either.”  —- Note: I did not take this photo, please check out the Kindness For Cats website!

The artist group I’m a part of decided to put our artsy heads together, our money where our mouths are, and put on an art event to raise money for some sweet black kitties. Click on the picture below to see our offerings and charity information.


My offerings:

Black Cat Protection Bag Black Cat Lavender Protection Bag