Letters from the Other Side of the Rain.
DISCLAIMER: All poetry found herein is, like all poetry, based on true fiction.Friday, April 21, 2006
Dear Humanity,
In my infinite procrastination for updating my crossovers, I'm back on the poetry.
Nature
I'm going out behind the shed
Where there's a fountain flowing from the gutter when it rains.
I like to watch the tiny lumps of green that form there, under water,
'Till another rain rips them from their place
And they drip down the shed's wall
A greenish, gangrened wound.
Behind the shed there are no flowers
I've yanked them out, the ground is bare
I like to watch the stinkbugs and the ants, sometimes the rats
'Till those who own the shed put out the poison.
I always know when they do
Rat families come to be for support.
Under rocks behind the shed
There is the offal of the earth, the slums, the projects,
Worms, stretched pink and long, the carcass of a road killed squirrel I buried,
'Till it rains, and the gutter floods like Noah's world
And the blood of the road killed squirrel turns clear
And all is washed away.
This, then, is nature -
My nature.
Mold, dead things, worms, insects are my nature.
I guess you say they stink.
I say, I guess they do.
I may just give this to my English teacher for out Poetry journals. Something tells me he won't like it very much. That's why I want to.
Love,
Kat
In my infinite procrastination for updating my crossovers, I'm back on the poetry.
Nature
I'm going out behind the shed
Where there's a fountain flowing from the gutter when it rains.
I like to watch the tiny lumps of green that form there, under water,
'Till another rain rips them from their place
And they drip down the shed's wall
A greenish, gangrened wound.
Behind the shed there are no flowers
I've yanked them out, the ground is bare
I like to watch the stinkbugs and the ants, sometimes the rats
'Till those who own the shed put out the poison.
I always know when they do
Rat families come to be for support.
Under rocks behind the shed
There is the offal of the earth, the slums, the projects,
Worms, stretched pink and long, the carcass of a road killed squirrel I buried,
'Till it rains, and the gutter floods like Noah's world
And the blood of the road killed squirrel turns clear
And all is washed away.
This, then, is nature -
My nature.
Mold, dead things, worms, insects are my nature.
I guess you say they stink.
I say, I guess they do.
I may just give this to my English teacher for out Poetry journals. Something tells me he won't like it very much. That's why I want to.
Love,
Kat
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Dear Humanity,
I blame this officially on the good folks at PPN. You know who you are, damnit. :) In other words, a thousands thanks to the Papen people. Ghostwritten, Polly Moopers, who seems to show up in my blog over and over and I don't know why, and of course Skeleton Horse, who made the manip that pushed the Irish fairy over the edge in terms of writing the Charlie Brown/PotO madness.
Attention: I do not own either of these adorable tales. No I don't. Also, please don't take this story seriously.
Please.
Also, the references to a "Faust brand," are jokes on some of the older Peanuts comics, in which Charlie Brown was obsessed with the popular Davie Crockett franchise. (It was big in the 50s, apparently.)
Dramatis Personae
Erik Brown, a sweet young Phantom who can't seem to do anything right. He resides beneath the elementary school auditorium in a small town.
Gingersnap Giry, his friend and confidante, who tends toward the sensible and straightforward - sometimes to the point of rudeness.
Linus "Daroga" van Pelt, the student council representative determined to change Erik's antisocial ways. His nickname, daroga, meaning "policeman" in Farsi, comes from his somewhat inexplicable fascination with the Persian culture, as well as his tendency to keep Erik in line.
Carly van Pelt, the loudmouthed fussbudget of the block, determined to grab the spotlight in every possible situation. She also might have the teeniest crush on Erik, constantly leaning on his organ when he's trying to play.
The Little Yellow Headed Girl, or is she The Little Brown Haired Girl? It's certainly odd the way it seems to change. The girl Erik admires and adores from afar. What is her name? Perhaps Erik can find out from Carly - if she ever stops talking.
And who could forget. . .
DeSnoopy, Erik's drama king faithful dog and sometime rival for The Little Yellow/Brown Headed Girl's affections, and of course Philstock, DeSnoopy's bird friend. Some say they're almost like brothers.
Chapter One
Good Grief
Erik Brown found himself in a difficult situation. He sat, hands neatly folded in his lap, in the dugout, watching Joey "Pig Pen" Bucket foul tip ball after ball after ball. He knew he would have to go up to bat soon, and there was a terrible problem with this. Poor Erik Brown. He was a mere seven years old, and having to deal with such complex problems as he did troubled him greatly. Erik lived, you see, beneath the elementary school. It had occurred to him soon after beginning elemenaty school himself that other people might find this remotely odd. Erik did not find it odd in the least. For as long as he could remember, he had lived alone in his little lair, dressed in his yellow striped shirt and black cape, cloaking one side of his face with a white mask.
Every morning, Erik Brown would wake up from his Louis Phillipe bed and make his way to the kitchen, where he would devour his favorite Faust brand cereal before taking DeSnoopy and his bird friend, Philstock, for his morning walk around the labyrinths. From 8:30 to 9:30, he practiced his organ playing. Erik loved to play the organ. He had a small organ, for his small hands. At 9:45, Erik popped through the elementary school floor to arrive at school. School was a sore spot for Erik. He couldn't seem to concentrate. Whenever he tried to focus on the board, the white letters would turn into musical notes, and he would hear music in his head.
At 12:00, he would proceed to his special seat at Lunch Table 4 1/2, where his friend Gingersnap Giry, the lunch monitor, and sometimes her little cousin, Megsy, who always called him "Monsieur," would talk to him. Gingersnap Giry was nice to him, he guessed, if a little unsubtle. Sometimes he let Daroga L. Van Pelt the student council representative sit with him, but Daroga L. was a bit too moralistic for Erik's tastes. The way Erik saw it, it didn't really count as doing something wrong if no one really minded, did it? It couldn't, could it?
And besides, mostly no one minded.
Also, Daroga L. had the misfortune to have a sister, Carly, who was determined to take the floor and then saw it open so that everyone else fell through. She kept fluttering her eyelashes at Erik and saying things like, "If we ever got married. . ." Erik wondered what she meant by that. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of "marriage." He was sure that he didn't like Carly.
Now, however, the idea of marriage was becoming more appealing. And yet Erik Brown feared that he'd mess everything up if he couldn't get a hit at bat. Why? Well, you see, there happened to be a little girl watching the game from behind a tree. She looks shy, thought Erik. Boy! I'd like to be her friend! I wonder if she wants to be my friend? He was about to call out to her, but then his mouth was full of sawdustyness and his legs felt like strawberry Jell-O. Erik thought for a moment, and decided that this, then, was the "love," thing he'd heard the grownups talking about. She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He decided to call her The Little Yellow Haired Girl. Or - was her hair brown and curly? Somehow, it seemed to change. It was cute anyway, Erik thought.
So firmly, firmly did Erik Brown vow, as he stepped up to the batter's box, that he would knock this one out of the park. He tried to knock the dust off his sneakers, like Joe DiMaggio, but succeeded only in hurting his feet. He tried to tap the bat against the plate to produce a menacing sound for the pitcher's benefit, but misjudged the distance of the plate, and made no sound at all. He heard a giggle from The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl. He felt a little piece of himself die. Behind him, from beneath his catcher's mask, he heard the encouraging, reasonable voice of Daroga L. Van Pelt.
"Don't worry, Erik. You'll hit this one a mile." Erik was suddenly full of confidence. He hefted his bat and swung once, for practice. It felt good. He hoped The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl had been watching. Then the pitch came, and Erik Brown swung with all his might.
WHOOF. BIFF.
The sounds of a ball blowing by and hitting a catcher's glove. Erik suddenly realized that he had closed his eyes. The second strike came before he could anticipate it, and he had to restrain himself from ducking. I didn't even swing, thought Erik, mortified.
Okay, he'd do it this time. Erik could feel Daroga L.'s encouraging eyes on his back. He shouldered his bat, full of pride, and then - he saw the pitcher's face for the first time.
Carly Van Pelt.
She fluttered her eyelashes, and in that moment Erik knew that he was doomed. He shut his eyes and counted to three. When he opened them, he was lying huddled on the ground of the batter's box, sobbing. Daroga L. Van Pelt was looking rueful and patting him on the back. "I really don't think you have anything to worry about, Erik Brown. Here, have some of my sandwich. It's foie gras on rye, your favorite. Gingersnap Giry made it."
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Erik took a bite.
"You'll be okay, won't you, Erik Brown?"
Erik sniffled. "No. I know nobody likes me. Especially not The Cute Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl." He blushed a bright red under his mask.
"Who?" wondered Daroga L.. "Oh, the shy girl. I think she went off for a stroll with DeSnoopy. She seems to really like him."
Erik's eyes got big, and he felt the foie gras on rye stick in his throat. "I. . .I. . .oh no, Daroga L.."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing takes the taste out of foie gras quite like unrequited love."
Daroga L. sighed. "Good grief, Erik Brown."
Phew.
Much love,
Kat
I blame this officially on the good folks at PPN. You know who you are, damnit. :) In other words, a thousands thanks to the Papen people. Ghostwritten, Polly Moopers, who seems to show up in my blog over and over and I don't know why, and of course Skeleton Horse, who made the manip that pushed the Irish fairy over the edge in terms of writing the Charlie Brown/PotO madness.
Attention: I do not own either of these adorable tales. No I don't. Also, please don't take this story seriously.
Please.
Also, the references to a "Faust brand," are jokes on some of the older Peanuts comics, in which Charlie Brown was obsessed with the popular Davie Crockett franchise. (It was big in the 50s, apparently.)
Dramatis Personae
Erik Brown, a sweet young Phantom who can't seem to do anything right. He resides beneath the elementary school auditorium in a small town.
Gingersnap Giry, his friend and confidante, who tends toward the sensible and straightforward - sometimes to the point of rudeness.
Linus "Daroga" van Pelt, the student council representative determined to change Erik's antisocial ways. His nickname, daroga, meaning "policeman" in Farsi, comes from his somewhat inexplicable fascination with the Persian culture, as well as his tendency to keep Erik in line.
Carly van Pelt, the loudmouthed fussbudget of the block, determined to grab the spotlight in every possible situation. She also might have the teeniest crush on Erik, constantly leaning on his organ when he's trying to play.
The Little Yellow Headed Girl, or is she The Little Brown Haired Girl? It's certainly odd the way it seems to change. The girl Erik admires and adores from afar. What is her name? Perhaps Erik can find out from Carly - if she ever stops talking.
And who could forget. . .
DeSnoopy, Erik's drama king faithful dog and sometime rival for The Little Yellow/Brown Headed Girl's affections, and of course Philstock, DeSnoopy's bird friend. Some say they're almost like brothers.
Chapter One
Good Grief
Erik Brown found himself in a difficult situation. He sat, hands neatly folded in his lap, in the dugout, watching Joey "Pig Pen" Bucket foul tip ball after ball after ball. He knew he would have to go up to bat soon, and there was a terrible problem with this. Poor Erik Brown. He was a mere seven years old, and having to deal with such complex problems as he did troubled him greatly. Erik lived, you see, beneath the elementary school. It had occurred to him soon after beginning elemenaty school himself that other people might find this remotely odd. Erik did not find it odd in the least. For as long as he could remember, he had lived alone in his little lair, dressed in his yellow striped shirt and black cape, cloaking one side of his face with a white mask.
Every morning, Erik Brown would wake up from his Louis Phillipe bed and make his way to the kitchen, where he would devour his favorite Faust brand cereal before taking DeSnoopy and his bird friend, Philstock, for his morning walk around the labyrinths. From 8:30 to 9:30, he practiced his organ playing. Erik loved to play the organ. He had a small organ, for his small hands. At 9:45, Erik popped through the elementary school floor to arrive at school. School was a sore spot for Erik. He couldn't seem to concentrate. Whenever he tried to focus on the board, the white letters would turn into musical notes, and he would hear music in his head.
At 12:00, he would proceed to his special seat at Lunch Table 4 1/2, where his friend Gingersnap Giry, the lunch monitor, and sometimes her little cousin, Megsy, who always called him "Monsieur," would talk to him. Gingersnap Giry was nice to him, he guessed, if a little unsubtle. Sometimes he let Daroga L. Van Pelt the student council representative sit with him, but Daroga L. was a bit too moralistic for Erik's tastes. The way Erik saw it, it didn't really count as doing something wrong if no one really minded, did it? It couldn't, could it?
And besides, mostly no one minded.
Also, Daroga L. had the misfortune to have a sister, Carly, who was determined to take the floor and then saw it open so that everyone else fell through. She kept fluttering her eyelashes at Erik and saying things like, "If we ever got married. . ." Erik wondered what she meant by that. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of "marriage." He was sure that he didn't like Carly.
Now, however, the idea of marriage was becoming more appealing. And yet Erik Brown feared that he'd mess everything up if he couldn't get a hit at bat. Why? Well, you see, there happened to be a little girl watching the game from behind a tree. She looks shy, thought Erik. Boy! I'd like to be her friend! I wonder if she wants to be my friend? He was about to call out to her, but then his mouth was full of sawdustyness and his legs felt like strawberry Jell-O. Erik thought for a moment, and decided that this, then, was the "love," thing he'd heard the grownups talking about. She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He decided to call her The Little Yellow Haired Girl. Or - was her hair brown and curly? Somehow, it seemed to change. It was cute anyway, Erik thought.
So firmly, firmly did Erik Brown vow, as he stepped up to the batter's box, that he would knock this one out of the park. He tried to knock the dust off his sneakers, like Joe DiMaggio, but succeeded only in hurting his feet. He tried to tap the bat against the plate to produce a menacing sound for the pitcher's benefit, but misjudged the distance of the plate, and made no sound at all. He heard a giggle from The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl. He felt a little piece of himself die. Behind him, from beneath his catcher's mask, he heard the encouraging, reasonable voice of Daroga L. Van Pelt.
"Don't worry, Erik. You'll hit this one a mile." Erik was suddenly full of confidence. He hefted his bat and swung once, for practice. It felt good. He hoped The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl had been watching. Then the pitch came, and Erik Brown swung with all his might.
WHOOF. BIFF.
The sounds of a ball blowing by and hitting a catcher's glove. Erik suddenly realized that he had closed his eyes. The second strike came before he could anticipate it, and he had to restrain himself from ducking. I didn't even swing, thought Erik, mortified.
Okay, he'd do it this time. Erik could feel Daroga L.'s encouraging eyes on his back. He shouldered his bat, full of pride, and then - he saw the pitcher's face for the first time.
Carly Van Pelt.
She fluttered her eyelashes, and in that moment Erik knew that he was doomed. He shut his eyes and counted to three. When he opened them, he was lying huddled on the ground of the batter's box, sobbing. Daroga L. Van Pelt was looking rueful and patting him on the back. "I really don't think you have anything to worry about, Erik Brown. Here, have some of my sandwich. It's foie gras on rye, your favorite. Gingersnap Giry made it."
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Erik took a bite.
"You'll be okay, won't you, Erik Brown?"
Erik sniffled. "No. I know nobody likes me. Especially not The Cute Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl." He blushed a bright red under his mask.
"Who?" wondered Daroga L.. "Oh, the shy girl. I think she went off for a stroll with DeSnoopy. She seems to really like him."
Erik's eyes got big, and he felt the foie gras on rye stick in his throat. "I. . .I. . .oh no, Daroga L.."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing takes the taste out of foie gras quite like unrequited love."
Daroga L. sighed. "Good grief, Erik Brown."
Phew.
Much love,
Kat
Monday, April 17, 2006
Dear Humanity,
For the longest time
People have been telling us
That so many things are irrelevant.
But we say,
"Why don't you look at the woman next to you
The woman in the red dress
Her white teeth are trying to tell you something
Why don't you turn and listen to them?"
A glance from a woman in a red dress had a chance at changing your life
Forty seconds ago.
That's poetry, because it's true.
And when that is true, nothing is irrelevant.
I turned on the TV last night
And a comedian said "Maybe they just have short legs and long arms."
And then everyone laughed.
I don't think I get it.
Cookies,
Kat
For the longest time
People have been telling us
That so many things are irrelevant.
But we say,
"Why don't you look at the woman next to you
The woman in the red dress
Her white teeth are trying to tell you something
Why don't you turn and listen to them?"
A glance from a woman in a red dress had a chance at changing your life
Forty seconds ago.
That's poetry, because it's true.
And when that is true, nothing is irrelevant.
I turned on the TV last night
And a comedian said "Maybe they just have short legs and long arms."
And then everyone laughed.
I don't think I get it.
Cookies,
Kat
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Dear Humanity,
Pleased to report, Polly isn't my father.
My soul hurts. I have a villianelle to post, and several rondels, but I'm lazy.
Traveler's Lodging - Accompanying Rondels
The Traveler Spoke:
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
The sleet rain's coming down like frigid fire
These are the consequences of desire
But I've somewhere to run, and I don't care.
What was the phrase? Beauty without compare?
Without compare's my lady, lovely liar.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
I lost myself in a beautiful mire.
Did I come to her that night? Did I dare?
I did, and now we're fleeing from her sire.
My lady trips, her cloak's snagged on a briar.
I'll leave. Frostbite will take her, or a bear.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air.
The Lord's Daughter Spoke:
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
Lips to full of warm red for just a child
Put wanting into men, and made them wild
And I covered my face, for Mama's sake.
I ne'er knew men could give, but only take
Or have two eyes so blue, or nails so filed
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake
I'm running, with my lover, undefiled -
My cloak's snagged. And the briar will not break
Stop your mad dash, my love, all snowflake styled!
Come back! Am I not fair? Have you not smiled?
Oh love, I see you were a snow storm snake
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
And ski lift poetry, that is a metaphor for. . .um. . .I don't know. Something, prolly. My first free form for a while. Whee, alliterative.
You wait in line
Then shuffle frantically forth
And you're swept up by the cold leather seat
All scattered over snow.
You tumble upward, but the ride soon smooths
The rhythm of machinery a soft constant.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
It's one great mechanism at the top of the mountain
You're not a part of it yet
So you pull down the bar to still
The frantic feeling in your stomach
That comes from soaring unsupported on the soft snowy seat
Put up your skis (That's a load off, thankyoujesus)
And watch the white landscape running by
It's undefined and virgin, never touched.
There's something sweet about it
But too cold to be truly sweet.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
The machine-song is coming closer now
You put up the bar, straighten your hat
And put your ski tips up
And wait.
You disappear into machinery
An instant of assimilation
And then, in that embraced moment
The ski lift spits you out.
"I wasn't ready!" your mind screams
But no one ever is.
And a villianelle, possibly to act as a preface to a novel that might get written.
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades
Tapdances over my old memories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
Her wares were of a thousand different grades
Shd had a mind that buzzed like stores of bees
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She danced, stained her mouth red with sweet Kool-Aids
And brought exuberance to histories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She said she danced with Krishna, his milkmaids
She said she loved our speed, our vainglories
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She her folly late, and now she bades
Big folk to avaunt from fairy stories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She was a fool to trust, no human aids.
Fell victim to Kool Aid, late night Maury's.
A changeling crone, hair in a single shade
Once she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
KITTY WRITE SO MUCH ANGST OH NOES.
Love,
Kat
Pleased to report, Polly isn't my father.
My soul hurts. I have a villianelle to post, and several rondels, but I'm lazy.
Traveler's Lodging - Accompanying Rondels
The Traveler Spoke:
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
The sleet rain's coming down like frigid fire
These are the consequences of desire
But I've somewhere to run, and I don't care.
What was the phrase? Beauty without compare?
Without compare's my lady, lovely liar.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
I lost myself in a beautiful mire.
Did I come to her that night? Did I dare?
I did, and now we're fleeing from her sire.
My lady trips, her cloak's snagged on a briar.
I'll leave. Frostbite will take her, or a bear.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air.
The Lord's Daughter Spoke:
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
Lips to full of warm red for just a child
Put wanting into men, and made them wild
And I covered my face, for Mama's sake.
I ne'er knew men could give, but only take
Or have two eyes so blue, or nails so filed
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake
I'm running, with my lover, undefiled -
My cloak's snagged. And the briar will not break
Stop your mad dash, my love, all snowflake styled!
Come back! Am I not fair? Have you not smiled?
Oh love, I see you were a snow storm snake
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
And ski lift poetry, that is a metaphor for. . .um. . .I don't know. Something, prolly. My first free form for a while. Whee, alliterative.
You wait in line
Then shuffle frantically forth
And you're swept up by the cold leather seat
All scattered over snow.
You tumble upward, but the ride soon smooths
The rhythm of machinery a soft constant.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
It's one great mechanism at the top of the mountain
You're not a part of it yet
So you pull down the bar to still
The frantic feeling in your stomach
That comes from soaring unsupported on the soft snowy seat
Put up your skis (That's a load off, thankyoujesus)
And watch the white landscape running by
It's undefined and virgin, never touched.
There's something sweet about it
But too cold to be truly sweet.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
The machine-song is coming closer now
You put up the bar, straighten your hat
And put your ski tips up
And wait.
You disappear into machinery
An instant of assimilation
And then, in that embraced moment
The ski lift spits you out.
"I wasn't ready!" your mind screams
But no one ever is.
And a villianelle, possibly to act as a preface to a novel that might get written.
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades
Tapdances over my old memories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
Her wares were of a thousand different grades
Shd had a mind that buzzed like stores of bees
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She danced, stained her mouth red with sweet Kool-Aids
And brought exuberance to histories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She said she danced with Krishna, his milkmaids
She said she loved our speed, our vainglories
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She her folly late, and now she bades
Big folk to avaunt from fairy stories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She was a fool to trust, no human aids.
Fell victim to Kool Aid, late night Maury's.
A changeling crone, hair in a single shade
Once she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
KITTY WRITE SO MUCH ANGST OH NOES.
Love,
Kat
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Dear Humanity,
It's tiiiime for a update on The Vicious Cabaret / O for Opera. Suggestions on real title appreciated.
I suppose it ought to be stated that this is, as far as V for Vendetta goes, in graphic novel verse. Thanks to Polly Moopers for saving my graphic novel-less little butt.
Chapter Two
A Rebel's Whore
Christine Hammond felt her back press painfully into the stone wall. It pricked through her thin dress, scraped her bare shoulders. The man was red faced from the cold, grunting like an animal. He moved his sour mouth to her shoulder, and she felt his stubble raise white scratch marks on her skin. Christine Hammond couldn't breathe. She felt pressed onto the wall by a human steam roller, fleshy and strong and horrid and wrong.
An idle watcher would have cringed, pulled his coat up, and walked on. She was only another one, a prostitute, impure and faithless, most likely deserving of what she got. The watcher would convice themselves nothing could be done, that this was life, and then go home to a wife and children so preoccupied with fear of being overheard that they would not whisper words of love into his tired, workaday ears. An idle watcher would certainly not have interfered. The Fingermen from the Hand. . .what were you supposed to do? They worshiped the law, and the law was theirs, a stolen idol, a golden calf.
But one single watcher believed that, as a man in a long forgotten musical had once said, the idle brain was the Devil's playground. And he did play there, too, devil that he was, on the idle minds of the people. He loved his playground, although it did not love him. He swung on the swings. He pushed aside children to get in line for the slide, but generally helped them up afterwards. He tumbled happily on the seesaw. And now the playground bullies were acting up again, trying to steal a poor little girl's lunch money. Something had to be done, he thought with a grim smile behind his mask. Something will be done, because it must.
One thing about that idle watcher that we mentioned earlier - he might, indeed, have wondered how the respectable, pretty Miss Christine Hammond had gotten herself into this less than enviable situation. And the answer he would have recieved would have been simple. That evening, as the Voice of Fate broadcast the thoughts of the people straight into their idle heads, Christine Hammond put on eyeliner, far more than usual, as she held a general dislike of make up, bright fire truck red lipstick, and a miniscule green dress that had no straps or sleeves. You could see clean through her legs when she stood by a light. And so, thinking of Salome and famous courtesans, wondering how her luck might be that night, wondering what had driven her to this, she stepped out her door, bearing the only wares she had for all to see. Why did she do this? Because she must.
Christine Hammond was a respectable young lady, and she was shocked that she felt nothing as she stepped out the door. Nothing at all. A peculiar numbness seemed to have settled over her body, not calming her, but taking her out of the situation. The Christine Hammond who was not Christine Hammond guided her body down the streets, tied her long blonde hair uncomfortably behind her head, so that it pulled her face back, and walked along Westminster bridge, teetering uncomfortably in her high heels.
And so it happened, that she propositioned a Fingerman and was trapped there, against the wall, his friends slavering like a pack of wolves, licking their stubbly chops.
Now we have the picture painted, and the viewer has read the little square of information posted next to it. Allow us to begin.
Christine Hammond knew she must be going mad. She could hear music. She was pressed against a wall, a man with quickened sex pressed against her like a terrible nightmare, and she was sure that she could hear Dixieland jazz. Once, perhaps, or twice before, she had heard that music. The melancholy, joyful noise of Dixie. She must be going mad. But the music would not stop. Where was it playing? Why? Her father had loved that music so. It was because of him that she had managed to sneak occasional listens to its mournful laments that made her happy to be sad. It made her think of honey lemon tea, and walks in the park, and Little Lotte.
But what Little Lotte loved best, was when she slept, and the Angel of Music sang to her.
And then Christine knew she was mad, because she saw the Angel of Music. He was like a child's dream, a smiling face that never showed disapproval, only pride. He was imposing, all in black, and taller than anyone she had ever seen. His cloak whipped about him like wings. She sighed deeply, and waited for a voice to sound informing her that her wits had gone.
"Doubtful it stood," said the voice, and the world fell away. It was only her, little Christine Hammond, in her green green dress and teetering heels, and the steamroller nightmare men, with their stubble and nightsticks, and the voice of the Angel of Music. The music changed. Dixie was over. She heard the overture, recognized it. Faust.
"As two spent swimmers, that do cling together, and choke their art," said the voice, and reached out one black clad had. "The merciless Macdonwald--worthy to be a rebel -" and the black clad hand grabbed one man by the neck, and threw him away. It was the Angel of Music, and an Angel of Music needs no flaming sword. For an instant there was scuffling, and Christine lost the voice's sound in the crowd. Frantic to hear it again, she struck out wildly - and struck down the last man.
She looked on the face of the angel, and the angel spake unto her, and she knelt before his majesty.
"And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, show'd like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak," intoned the voice, and laid one hand on her terrified head. "For brave Macbeth--well he deserves that name--disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smoked with bloody execution," continued the voice. Christine looked at him through lashes coated with mascara, and he helped her slowly up. Then her feet were on a ladder, and she was on the roof of a building. A pang of terror swept through her - this behavior was inexcusable to the government! But then she heard the voice, and fear left her utterly.
"Like valour's minion carved out his passage," said the voice, and Christine turned to gaze at him.
"Till he faced the slave; which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, and fix'd his head upon our battlements."
"Wh - wh -" Christine stammered finally, getting her breath, "wh -"
"Why have a helped you, child?"
She nodded once, blue eyes bursting like with hope.
"Don't you know what day it is? My, what do they teach them in schools these days. . ."
Christine felt her cheeks color. Oh, she was ashamed. Here before her was the Angel, and she was ignorant. A slave, which ne'er shook hands nor bade farewell to him. . .
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November."
She felt goosebumps rise, told herself it was the Angel, or perhaps she was mad, either way, she was safe, look at the sky. . .look at the stars. . .
"The gunpowder treason and plot."
There were stars now, now that there was a curfew for lights. You could see the stars. . .
"I see no reason gunpowder and treason -"
Or had the stars that were London been better? More beautiful to look at, a spread of neon, purple, blue, and yellow, but mostly the white light that means you're almost home after a long day. . .
"Should ever be forgot."
BOOM. The Houses of Parliament went up in a spray of orange fire. It almost looked like orange soda, tossed in the air, the carbonation bright and exploding over and over. An arch of bright red scarred the night time sky. For the first time, Christine Hammond looked upon the vengeance of the Lord, and she knelt, and shielded her blue eyes.
"You can't do that," said Christine, her police state instincts kicking in.
He looked at her through the harlequin mask, and said simply, "I did."
And there was nothing to say, until a rocket rent the sky, and exploded into a fountain of blue fire. Christine jumped to her feet with a child's cry of joy, and watched the sparks fall. They were followed by silver, red, blue, white, aquamarine, colors she had no name for. She was awed, and she spun on the roof like a child, dizzy and happy, intoxicated with the beauty before her. Below, she could hear London awake and rediscover their childhoods too. She felt perfect and whole.
Finally, she tumbled, breathless, onto the roof, the world spinning around her, and gasped to the smiling mask, "Who are you?"
"I do not have a name. You can call me Octave."
Exhaustedly,
Kat
It's tiiiime for a update on The Vicious Cabaret / O for Opera. Suggestions on real title appreciated.
I suppose it ought to be stated that this is, as far as V for Vendetta goes, in graphic novel verse. Thanks to Polly Moopers for saving my graphic novel-less little butt.
Chapter Two
A Rebel's Whore
Christine Hammond felt her back press painfully into the stone wall. It pricked through her thin dress, scraped her bare shoulders. The man was red faced from the cold, grunting like an animal. He moved his sour mouth to her shoulder, and she felt his stubble raise white scratch marks on her skin. Christine Hammond couldn't breathe. She felt pressed onto the wall by a human steam roller, fleshy and strong and horrid and wrong.
An idle watcher would have cringed, pulled his coat up, and walked on. She was only another one, a prostitute, impure and faithless, most likely deserving of what she got. The watcher would convice themselves nothing could be done, that this was life, and then go home to a wife and children so preoccupied with fear of being overheard that they would not whisper words of love into his tired, workaday ears. An idle watcher would certainly not have interfered. The Fingermen from the Hand. . .what were you supposed to do? They worshiped the law, and the law was theirs, a stolen idol, a golden calf.
But one single watcher believed that, as a man in a long forgotten musical had once said, the idle brain was the Devil's playground. And he did play there, too, devil that he was, on the idle minds of the people. He loved his playground, although it did not love him. He swung on the swings. He pushed aside children to get in line for the slide, but generally helped them up afterwards. He tumbled happily on the seesaw. And now the playground bullies were acting up again, trying to steal a poor little girl's lunch money. Something had to be done, he thought with a grim smile behind his mask. Something will be done, because it must.
One thing about that idle watcher that we mentioned earlier - he might, indeed, have wondered how the respectable, pretty Miss Christine Hammond had gotten herself into this less than enviable situation. And the answer he would have recieved would have been simple. That evening, as the Voice of Fate broadcast the thoughts of the people straight into their idle heads, Christine Hammond put on eyeliner, far more than usual, as she held a general dislike of make up, bright fire truck red lipstick, and a miniscule green dress that had no straps or sleeves. You could see clean through her legs when she stood by a light. And so, thinking of Salome and famous courtesans, wondering how her luck might be that night, wondering what had driven her to this, she stepped out her door, bearing the only wares she had for all to see. Why did she do this? Because she must.
Christine Hammond was a respectable young lady, and she was shocked that she felt nothing as she stepped out the door. Nothing at all. A peculiar numbness seemed to have settled over her body, not calming her, but taking her out of the situation. The Christine Hammond who was not Christine Hammond guided her body down the streets, tied her long blonde hair uncomfortably behind her head, so that it pulled her face back, and walked along Westminster bridge, teetering uncomfortably in her high heels.
And so it happened, that she propositioned a Fingerman and was trapped there, against the wall, his friends slavering like a pack of wolves, licking their stubbly chops.
Now we have the picture painted, and the viewer has read the little square of information posted next to it. Allow us to begin.
Christine Hammond knew she must be going mad. She could hear music. She was pressed against a wall, a man with quickened sex pressed against her like a terrible nightmare, and she was sure that she could hear Dixieland jazz. Once, perhaps, or twice before, she had heard that music. The melancholy, joyful noise of Dixie. She must be going mad. But the music would not stop. Where was it playing? Why? Her father had loved that music so. It was because of him that she had managed to sneak occasional listens to its mournful laments that made her happy to be sad. It made her think of honey lemon tea, and walks in the park, and Little Lotte.
But what Little Lotte loved best, was when she slept, and the Angel of Music sang to her.
And then Christine knew she was mad, because she saw the Angel of Music. He was like a child's dream, a smiling face that never showed disapproval, only pride. He was imposing, all in black, and taller than anyone she had ever seen. His cloak whipped about him like wings. She sighed deeply, and waited for a voice to sound informing her that her wits had gone.
"Doubtful it stood," said the voice, and the world fell away. It was only her, little Christine Hammond, in her green green dress and teetering heels, and the steamroller nightmare men, with their stubble and nightsticks, and the voice of the Angel of Music. The music changed. Dixie was over. She heard the overture, recognized it. Faust.
"As two spent swimmers, that do cling together, and choke their art," said the voice, and reached out one black clad had. "The merciless Macdonwald--worthy to be a rebel -" and the black clad hand grabbed one man by the neck, and threw him away. It was the Angel of Music, and an Angel of Music needs no flaming sword. For an instant there was scuffling, and Christine lost the voice's sound in the crowd. Frantic to hear it again, she struck out wildly - and struck down the last man.
She looked on the face of the angel, and the angel spake unto her, and she knelt before his majesty.
"And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, show'd like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak," intoned the voice, and laid one hand on her terrified head. "For brave Macbeth--well he deserves that name--disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smoked with bloody execution," continued the voice. Christine looked at him through lashes coated with mascara, and he helped her slowly up. Then her feet were on a ladder, and she was on the roof of a building. A pang of terror swept through her - this behavior was inexcusable to the government! But then she heard the voice, and fear left her utterly.
"Like valour's minion carved out his passage," said the voice, and Christine turned to gaze at him.
"Till he faced the slave; which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, and fix'd his head upon our battlements."
"Wh - wh -" Christine stammered finally, getting her breath, "wh -"
"Why have a helped you, child?"
She nodded once, blue eyes bursting like with hope.
"Don't you know what day it is? My, what do they teach them in schools these days. . ."
Christine felt her cheeks color. Oh, she was ashamed. Here before her was the Angel, and she was ignorant. A slave, which ne'er shook hands nor bade farewell to him. . .
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November."
She felt goosebumps rise, told herself it was the Angel, or perhaps she was mad, either way, she was safe, look at the sky. . .look at the stars. . .
"The gunpowder treason and plot."
There were stars now, now that there was a curfew for lights. You could see the stars. . .
"I see no reason gunpowder and treason -"
Or had the stars that were London been better? More beautiful to look at, a spread of neon, purple, blue, and yellow, but mostly the white light that means you're almost home after a long day. . .
"Should ever be forgot."
BOOM. The Houses of Parliament went up in a spray of orange fire. It almost looked like orange soda, tossed in the air, the carbonation bright and exploding over and over. An arch of bright red scarred the night time sky. For the first time, Christine Hammond looked upon the vengeance of the Lord, and she knelt, and shielded her blue eyes.
"You can't do that," said Christine, her police state instincts kicking in.
He looked at her through the harlequin mask, and said simply, "I did."
And there was nothing to say, until a rocket rent the sky, and exploded into a fountain of blue fire. Christine jumped to her feet with a child's cry of joy, and watched the sparks fall. They were followed by silver, red, blue, white, aquamarine, colors she had no name for. She was awed, and she spun on the roof like a child, dizzy and happy, intoxicated with the beauty before her. Below, she could hear London awake and rediscover their childhoods too. She felt perfect and whole.
Finally, she tumbled, breathless, onto the roof, the world spinning around her, and gasped to the smiling mask, "Who are you?"
"I do not have a name. You can call me Octave."
Exhaustedly,
Kat
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Dear Humanity,
There may have been some confusion regarding the lack of my answering emails lately. The reasoning behind that has nothing to do with my disliking any of the senders. It has more to do with the fact that the girl of indeterminate identity who you will meet in this post and who you saw in the last post is going out to seek her fortune, and it is incumbent upon me to follow her. I will be away for some time, I'm afraid, walking after the girl, on the other side of the rain. Don't worry, my letters won't stop.
There has a been a bit of confusion regarding the origin of the girl of indeterminate identity. To avoid further confusion, here's an explic of the inexplicable. It's a fairy tale, so it sounds best read out loud. The voice I heard writing it was that of Mrs. P, the librarian in the elementary school. She always sounded as though she was apologizing, even when she was not.
A Story
There are stories and then there are stories. This one is a story.
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was the oldest, you see, so her story was doomed from the start. She did not have two beautiful, sweet younger sisters. Instead, she had a firey younger brother, and two beautiful, sweet younger sisters. The eldest daughter is never pretty, so the little girl was not pretty. She was too tall, and too dark, with hair like hickory wood and a smile like snake venom.
Nothing happened to the little girl for a long time. Her father was old and her mother was kinder than she could afford, and the little girl grew tired of her firey brother and beautiful, sweet sisters. She desired a different love, a less settled, more heated love, that could quicken her breath. So she found a young man, and she set her cap for him. But he was fond of a pretty girl with hair like sunshine, and the fate of the eldest daughter is to wait. And so she waited, patiently.
And soon his gaze fell on her, and she fell into his arms in turn. But after a time he tired of her, and he left her alone. The little girl (though not so little any longer, with hips spreading wide and small winter apples on her chest) grieved. She cried and tore her hickory wood hair. And then she decided to wait, for it is the fate of the eldest daughter to wait. Surely, he would return. But the young man had gone to a far land, and he had forgotten her. She loved him still, but she grew tired of waiting.
And so it came to pass that one day the girl rose from her chair by the fire and said, "I am going to go and seek my fortune." Her mother looked at her and said, "Will you go with half a loaf and my blessing, or a full loaf and no?"
"The Lord blesses me," said the girl, "and I need that loaf."
"You are cheating fate," said her mother.
"I will make my own fate," replied the girl.
So she took the loaf, her memorandum book, her thick black coat, and her embroidery ring, tied them up in a spotted hankerchief, and set out to seek her fortune.
And that is how the story began. Do you understand?
And there's also my latest bizarre project, a blank verse drama (that's like Shakespeare) written in common vernacular/Shakespearian speak that will be all about high school kids. It's a bit raunchy, I'm afraid. The raunchiness, however, is entirely blameable on the character of Stuart. To get Stuart, mix Chris Rock, Mercutio, and Jack Black. Mix well, serve raunchy. And as for Elliot, the other main character, take Mark Cohen and blend with the Phantom of the Opera, with a dash of Leo Bloom, and some Ferris Bueller. As for the MAIN main character, Beatrice, if you've ever read Much Ado About Nothing, you're acquainted with her. For more information as to Bea's identity, please see disclaimer.
Human Contact
(ACT ONE, SCENE ONE. EXT LOCKER HALL. ELLIOT ONSTAGE.)
CHORUS: Nothing begins, for nothing ever ends.
Our time is flat lined one dimensional
We cannot say our story now begins
We cannot say our story ever ends.
Our story is the story of a girl
Like that song oddly term'd, "Absolutely,"
It may not be the strains of Orpheus
But it begins our metamorphosis.
(EXIT CHORUS. ENTER STUART.)
ELLIOT: Good morrow, Stu, as Billy Shakes would say.
What hath transpired o'er summertime?
What news bring ye, to please my thirsty ear
And what's the chance we'll make it through the year?
STUART: Elliot, the chance for you is smaller
Than a H-Wood star's chest sans enhancements.
But what of summer? Whadda we ever do?
I'm just Joe Schmoe, although a fried of yours.
Your virtue, old pal, does not grant us fame.
But I am dragging on a speech that holds
No sweetness for my gossip's ear. Hold, hold!
'Tis time to speak on some more "Life Skills," things.
The guys and me was talking up a storm.
ELLIOT: (ASIDE.) A storm, I see, destined to rain on me. (END ASIDE.)
What things have I guilt of in these "Life Skills?"
I beg of you, term me not vulgarly.
STUART: Oh, we have got you now, you horny boy!
Anyone with eyes can see you're after
That blonde with the thin legs - oh, whatsername -
ELLIOT: Megan Misinski.
STUART: And what a name it is! Your tongue don't trip
On Russian syllables. If you're not crushed
I think it's time for some needed Viagra.
In fact, I've thought that for some time. What's wrong
With girls that you're holed up with your lady
All made of glass and metal, with a mouse
Cords and a keyboard, for easy input?
Despite the input, computers don't put out.
It can't replace the feelings of a girl
Get of the World Wide Web, widen your world.
ELLIOT: Lay off, Stuart. No, I won't call you Stu!
You've made me mad, fuck off, go play with guys
Who don't spend all their lives out on the 'net.
So long big guy, and as you adios,
Remember to forget to greet Megan.
STUART: I gotcha. Oooh, don't those insults burn. Not.
Oh well then. 'Twill be a bright day when there's
Lumps in the iron pants of Elliot.
ELLIOT: And so the brainded Philistine exits.
Most likely he's not thinking of the fact
That reality's just realty, waiting
Patiently for an agent to arrive.
But who here could be that thinking agent?
Rebellion is the new complancency.
Hats off to Ferris Bueller, anyone?
Someday I'll do just that, I'll steal a car
Play sick, call Stu up, thieve Megan from her class
And then just drive, like running sans the pain.
I run sometimes, it satisfies a thirst
That I can't name, and who could, after all?
Not Stuart. He has never been much help
With all his "pimp juice" and his "daddy-os."
He doesn't realize what one swop can do
When it is done with letters. Take "exits."
We all know what it means, it means to leave.
But switch the T and S and you've "exist."
And no one knows what that means. Ist to live?
No. I exist, but have no life to give.
Too much iambic for the me. Sleep now. Sleep good.
Must learn how to write a rondel.
Toodles,
Kat
There may have been some confusion regarding the lack of my answering emails lately. The reasoning behind that has nothing to do with my disliking any of the senders. It has more to do with the fact that the girl of indeterminate identity who you will meet in this post and who you saw in the last post is going out to seek her fortune, and it is incumbent upon me to follow her. I will be away for some time, I'm afraid, walking after the girl, on the other side of the rain. Don't worry, my letters won't stop.
There has a been a bit of confusion regarding the origin of the girl of indeterminate identity. To avoid further confusion, here's an explic of the inexplicable. It's a fairy tale, so it sounds best read out loud. The voice I heard writing it was that of Mrs. P, the librarian in the elementary school. She always sounded as though she was apologizing, even when she was not.
A Story
There are stories and then there are stories. This one is a story.
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was the oldest, you see, so her story was doomed from the start. She did not have two beautiful, sweet younger sisters. Instead, she had a firey younger brother, and two beautiful, sweet younger sisters. The eldest daughter is never pretty, so the little girl was not pretty. She was too tall, and too dark, with hair like hickory wood and a smile like snake venom.
Nothing happened to the little girl for a long time. Her father was old and her mother was kinder than she could afford, and the little girl grew tired of her firey brother and beautiful, sweet sisters. She desired a different love, a less settled, more heated love, that could quicken her breath. So she found a young man, and she set her cap for him. But he was fond of a pretty girl with hair like sunshine, and the fate of the eldest daughter is to wait. And so she waited, patiently.
And soon his gaze fell on her, and she fell into his arms in turn. But after a time he tired of her, and he left her alone. The little girl (though not so little any longer, with hips spreading wide and small winter apples on her chest) grieved. She cried and tore her hickory wood hair. And then she decided to wait, for it is the fate of the eldest daughter to wait. Surely, he would return. But the young man had gone to a far land, and he had forgotten her. She loved him still, but she grew tired of waiting.
And so it came to pass that one day the girl rose from her chair by the fire and said, "I am going to go and seek my fortune." Her mother looked at her and said, "Will you go with half a loaf and my blessing, or a full loaf and no?"
"The Lord blesses me," said the girl, "and I need that loaf."
"You are cheating fate," said her mother.
"I will make my own fate," replied the girl.
So she took the loaf, her memorandum book, her thick black coat, and her embroidery ring, tied them up in a spotted hankerchief, and set out to seek her fortune.
And that is how the story began. Do you understand?
And there's also my latest bizarre project, a blank verse drama (that's like Shakespeare) written in common vernacular/Shakespearian speak that will be all about high school kids. It's a bit raunchy, I'm afraid. The raunchiness, however, is entirely blameable on the character of Stuart. To get Stuart, mix Chris Rock, Mercutio, and Jack Black. Mix well, serve raunchy. And as for Elliot, the other main character, take Mark Cohen and blend with the Phantom of the Opera, with a dash of Leo Bloom, and some Ferris Bueller. As for the MAIN main character, Beatrice, if you've ever read Much Ado About Nothing, you're acquainted with her. For more information as to Bea's identity, please see disclaimer.
Human Contact
(ACT ONE, SCENE ONE. EXT LOCKER HALL. ELLIOT ONSTAGE.)
CHORUS: Nothing begins, for nothing ever ends.
Our time is flat lined one dimensional
We cannot say our story now begins
We cannot say our story ever ends.
Our story is the story of a girl
Like that song oddly term'd, "Absolutely,"
It may not be the strains of Orpheus
But it begins our metamorphosis.
(EXIT CHORUS. ENTER STUART.)
ELLIOT: Good morrow, Stu, as Billy Shakes would say.
What hath transpired o'er summertime?
What news bring ye, to please my thirsty ear
And what's the chance we'll make it through the year?
STUART: Elliot, the chance for you is smaller
Than a H-Wood star's chest sans enhancements.
But what of summer? Whadda we ever do?
I'm just Joe Schmoe, although a fried of yours.
Your virtue, old pal, does not grant us fame.
But I am dragging on a speech that holds
No sweetness for my gossip's ear. Hold, hold!
'Tis time to speak on some more "Life Skills," things.
The guys and me was talking up a storm.
ELLIOT: (ASIDE.) A storm, I see, destined to rain on me. (END ASIDE.)
What things have I guilt of in these "Life Skills?"
I beg of you, term me not vulgarly.
STUART: Oh, we have got you now, you horny boy!
Anyone with eyes can see you're after
That blonde with the thin legs - oh, whatsername -
ELLIOT: Megan Misinski.
STUART: And what a name it is! Your tongue don't trip
On Russian syllables. If you're not crushed
I think it's time for some needed Viagra.
In fact, I've thought that for some time. What's wrong
With girls that you're holed up with your lady
All made of glass and metal, with a mouse
Cords and a keyboard, for easy input?
Despite the input, computers don't put out.
It can't replace the feelings of a girl
Get of the World Wide Web, widen your world.
ELLIOT: Lay off, Stuart. No, I won't call you Stu!
You've made me mad, fuck off, go play with guys
Who don't spend all their lives out on the 'net.
So long big guy, and as you adios,
Remember to forget to greet Megan.
STUART: I gotcha. Oooh, don't those insults burn. Not.
Oh well then. 'Twill be a bright day when there's
Lumps in the iron pants of Elliot.
ELLIOT: And so the brainded Philistine exits.
Most likely he's not thinking of the fact
That reality's just realty, waiting
Patiently for an agent to arrive.
But who here could be that thinking agent?
Rebellion is the new complancency.
Hats off to Ferris Bueller, anyone?
Someday I'll do just that, I'll steal a car
Play sick, call Stu up, thieve Megan from her class
And then just drive, like running sans the pain.
I run sometimes, it satisfies a thirst
That I can't name, and who could, after all?
Not Stuart. He has never been much help
With all his "pimp juice" and his "daddy-os."
He doesn't realize what one swop can do
When it is done with letters. Take "exits."
We all know what it means, it means to leave.
But switch the T and S and you've "exist."
And no one knows what that means. Ist to live?
No. I exist, but have no life to give.
Too much iambic for the me. Sleep now. Sleep good.
Must learn how to write a rondel.
Toodles,
Kat
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