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.

A Skull, a Christmas Tree, and an Octopus in a Sweater…

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
Like dreamers do

~Harline & Washington

I thought you weren't done, but you are. That's never happened before.

I thought you weren’t done, but you are. That’s never happened before.

I can’t make up my mind, so I’m wondering if I should get rid of it. What’s the point in keeping it around (my mind) if it can’t be made up?? Then again, why do we place such importance on making up our minds? Why not just be loose and free and make it all up as we go along? Like-Dreamers-Do.


The path to our dreams doesn’t necessarily get shorter if our minds are made up. If possible, the path may even grow longer like Pinocchio’s nose. That’s only because we think we know what direction we’re going in and often, that’s not true at all. Lots of times we end up far and away and way out of our way (whatever “our way” is).

I’ve already Wished Upon Star. I may as well see where that takes me.

So…maybe I won’t get rid of my mind. I’ll hang onto it for a bit longer and see how it goes. Happy New Year, Mind o’ Mine. We’ll let it be a good one, shall we?



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