Tulip in charcoal

This was part of a series of doodles of a tulip bouquet, and the photo's a bit off because the sketch is hanging up on my wall and I was too lazy to take it down.

Lazy is a big theme in my life, as you might have noticed.

Winter Music

Gordon Lightfoot on the changer
and then maybe BTO
Me, singing absently to a book
He, whistling while he cleans
and we absorb those songs again
like lotion
on a desiccating day

Later
when he's off at... I don't know
fingers tease notes from a reluctant keyboard
hesitant at first
and not as well as I'd like
but these days I've only me to please
so it'll do.
I stay as usual with old songs;
've always been more about Porter than Webber
on my Broadway days
Tune over glitz
thought over box office
and I'd sooner worry some old Bill
than find the Rent

That evening
when the snow finally stopped
white played blue
under full moon light.
First one after Christmas --
I've forgotten if there's luck in that.
It doesn't sing, the moon...
but I trusted its echoes
in new snow and brittle trees
and found myself
blanketed
in
quiet
music

Illumination

One light
and only one
discovers
subtle curves
and shadow

One light
aimed with care
excludes
harsh detail
and confusion

One light
and the rest dark
clarifies
simplifies
falsifies
so the unthinking picture
can draw itself

----------

This is about sketching.

No, really. It is.

Any other conclusion you draw is your own...

Calla lily in graphite

What can I say? Another kind of weird sketch. I don't even have a reason for this one. I think maybe I was just bored one day.

It's the whole line and shape thing coming out again though, obviously. Things stop looking like what they are and just become lines sometimes.

Gah. That sounds silly even for me.

Before the Storm

Cloud-bruised sky warns of bottled panic
in stagnant summer air that is easier
worn than breathed.
No effort displaces the cotton,
mired sticky-sweet like marshmallow creme
as it entwines all flesh in humid strands
until even the protesting brain confesses itself
webbed to anxious inactivity.

So the body lies shackled:
melted to the vinyl-car-seat bed,
coveting AC or at least a eunuch with a fan;
TV off in sheer frustration
and nothing to hear
but the endless seconds of the plastic clock
or the distant moaning of a sky prepared to fall...

And a mind wails in empathy
with the thickening wind,
pleading
Take me with you in the updraft
Let me spark madly through the dervish clouds
Make me electric
Help me stroke the stars and split the sky
Use me up in the flash of a moment
For I cannot face eternity

waiting for release

----------

I often make fairly detailed notes about a poem after I've written it because I find it frustrating to read the poems later and not quite remember what brought them on. The note for this one reads only "Sometimes I just feel like my brain is going to explode..."

Ellipsis included, yes. I guess I wasn't having a great day.

I think everyone's had at least one moment of wanting to go out in a flash, though.

Oh, and I know it's weird to be posting a poem about a summer storm when it's so close to Christmas. I was flipping through my book and it just caught my eye. That's all.

Sharpening the Pencils

All the slim soldiers
in their conical hats
Must
by order of High Command
pass inspection
before joining the battle
As the regimental mind will not allow
irregularity
to disrupt communication
between the vital bases of
eye
hand
&
paper

----------

For anyone who doesn't read the other blog, just know that I'm a bit of an OLF (that'd be obsessive little freak). When I doodle at home rather than in the field I spend way too much time fiddling with my materials and making sure the surroundings are right before I get a start on anything.

It'd be better if I could get out of that habit, but I don't think it'll happen anytime soon.

Interval

Not entirely satisfied with the dream I sit for a moment
Staring blankly into nothing
Hashing out portents
Meanings of dead friends and
Lost belongings
Deciding at last that some things are only
Mental sweepings
Midnight commercials
Sugared colas
Deciding at last on emptiness
To let me sleep again

though the tears seemed real

----------

Hey, we've all had bad dreams, and I'm sure we've all spent uncomfortable middle-of-the-night time trying to figured out the reasons or the meanings.

Sometimes it's better for the psyche not to know, I think.

It doesn't make it any easier to let them go, though.

Mr. Barker's Book of Songs

Sometimes you could feel those toothless gears slip
as he embarked on his Thought Processes
(with the long E);
While he rode high on dust devils
I'd observe the proceedings,
waiting to be the audience
for his grand re-entry.
Then he'd expound a new theory of butterflies
or clockwork marbles
and it would be my place to smile and nod as needed...
He lived in cracked prisms
but unexpectedly,
that fractured beam shone clearer in his way
than all our darkened theatres
of self-proclaimed spotlights.

-----

These eyes are my limitation,
and not for the first do I regret
having chosen microscopes when there are stars in the sky.
We moles know nothing but tunnels,
and though they be marvels
they can't protect us from our disbelief
and fear
when we remember that our fathers knew the Moon
and worshipped her.

-----

Dogs know:
Dogs know, and maybe cats.
They found out long ago that everything
is food and sleep
and mutual grooming on a chilly night.
Dogs know that words mean little,
bodies more;
but given a chance, above all else,
a good nose sees the world.

-----

Don't take your troubles to the water,
for they have clarified the wonders of that muddy home.
Cement rivers, cement rivers,
all tamed and wrapped in conduit;
rivers leashed and strangulated,
obediently vapid, never venturing to dance.
I have seen rivers:
Rivers lined with sharp sedges
like the down on a woman's arm;
changeable and wild as a woman's soul.
I have seen exuberant thunderings of spring:
Rising, tossing bridges like old stockings,
straining at the corsets until they're undermined;
washing everything at last in true release
cleansed of restrictions
and ready to travel in new channels.

-----

It saddens that I've seen so many trains in life:
They clatter on blindly to places they've seen before,
screaming out their names to avoid encounters,
only living speed and destination.
What good are unnamed mountains rushing past without a pause?
We understood things when we walked:
Every path just slightly different
every trip an unexpected
every scene the warm familiar
or thrilling unknown
every step an effort
and every face, every being
valued as true companion
on the road.

-----

I've seen that smile, my dear.
I've seen that smile and can only hope
that you who know everything
can smile when knowledge fades.
The world is a teacher of the old school
taking pleasure in the rod,
and its lessons are sore and long...
Yet...
The words it will give you are beautiful
and if you will hear
it will measure your heart with purest sound
and after all
and everything
you will smile.

----------

This is a weird, weird poem. Weird enough that, even though I know where my head was when I wrote it, I'm not going to tell you anything about the process or the reason or (heaven help us) the meaning.

Yeah, let's just leave it there. Probably best not to poke it with a stick, either.

Tulip petals in graphite

I was going to post some poem or other today, but I seem to be having brain/finger coordination problems and I think I'll wait until it'd be a little less frustrating to fix all the typos.

Don't ask me how many there were in that last sentence.

Anyway, you're stuck with dead tulip petals as a result. Ignore the badly shaded vase in the background; as usual, I got bored by that part of the sketch and stopped looking at what I was seeing.

Hey, it makes sense if you're in my head. Or if you've ever done any still life work.

Or at least let's pretend it does.

Azalea in chalk pastels

Yeah, this one's pretty weird. It started out as an honest attempt to do some colour work (I'm much more comfortable in graphite, to be honest) and... well, then the purple background happened because I got bored.

Short attention span, yes.

The problem is that I tend to get interested in one detail (in this case, the flower), put a lot of work into that detail, and then don't feel like finishing the rest. I have so many half-finished sketches.

The whole artist-ADHD thing is also why a lot of my plants have decent flowers and leaves but the stems suck. I'm perfectly capable of drawing a properly fleshed-out (so to speak) stem, but by the time I get to that part I'm ready to do something else.

I'm such a five-year-old.

Autognosis

If these words aren't yours they will not stay --
They sift through your hands
Like dust in the shadow of a dune.
When you are ready to see,
They will wrap you in their softness
And sing in your silence.

Look at your being --
So covered in the jagged scars
Of self-created anguish
And abscesses of indecision.
They have rooted you to barren ground,
But this knife cuts clean.

Come,
Abandon the dried husk,
Show your wings to the wind --
And when you find the fertile soil,
Spread joy under the greening trees
And give your spirit to the sun.

----------

The knife is self-knowledge. If you're not ready to really know yourself, no amount of words will help matters. When you reach the point where you can look at yourself, like yourself, and accept yourself, you become a samara... one of those winged "helicopter" seeds you find on maples and ashes. Catch the wind, plant yourself in happier, more fertile ground, and let yourself grow.

Not an easy trick, really, but I'm a lot closer than I used to be.

Cyclamen in Conte crayon

Another bit of cyclamen weirdness from a few years ago. Pretty obvious that I was exploring shape rather than going for anything that actually resembled a flower...

Oh, and if you notice a bit of odd variation in the paper it's because I had this one matted and mounted on my wall at one time. I'm in a south-facing apartment, and things bleach out pretty badly from the sun exposure.

That Which You Seek

Within the fortress,
Hidden by sarcastic turrets
Pithy cannons
And cold steel doors;
Behind trip-lines
Landmines
And razor-wire
Is a box
Hardly worth the adventure --
For cradled inside
Is a small china cup,
Handle off and chip in rim;
But looking past the cracked glaze
You might see
That the hands which painted its flowers
Were delicate
And kind.

----------

We do a lot to hide ourselves. There are all kinds of barriers to be overcome if you're really going to get to know and love another person. Sometimes the walls are higher because that person doesn't see his/her own worth. The right determination can get past the obstacles, but it sometimes takes special sight to be able to find the true value of a soul.

Fast food

Blowsy blown rose
China tints of blush and pale
One seeks reward in the sun-stroked core
Yellow for yellow
Pitch rising in relief
This her only want
Rapture in fulfillment

Ecstasy misses the quiet one
Pink and white brooch
on pink and white shoulder
Arms spread in silent welcome
Calm
Patient
Waiting consummation

No jarring chord or melodrama
Slight struggle
Hardly noticed
Soon ended
This her only want
Life giving life
And the wrapper discarded

----------

The first time I gave this to someone to read I was more than a little startled by the interpretation I got back. Startled, that is, until I realised that she had no idea what it was about.

Not surprising, really. Not everyone's the spider nerd that I am.

Now that I've said spider, would you like to go back and read it again?

Yep, it's about a spider. A crab spider, or more specifically a Goldenrod Spider. They can change their colours somewhat to better camouflage in whatever flower they're using at the time.

Pink and white brooch (spider) on pink and white shoulder (rose). Catching a bee.




And amazingly enough, this is a poem I can still go back and read without cringing. For me, that's saying something.

Strawberry leaves in graphite

I started this runner study in the field and finished it up in the office.

And, if I remember correctly, sprayed with hairspray because I didn't have any fixative with me.

You do what you have to.

High bush-cranberry in watercolour pencil

This was a quick sketch out in the field, and it's long ago enough now that I can't remember exactly why I was sketching with watercolour pencils out in the field.

It's also long ago enough that I don't really have anything in the way of explanation or analysis.

'Nuff said then.

African violets in crayon

Not much to say about this, because I honestly don't remember drawing it.

Oh, and I think it looks a lot like wrapping paper.

Weird.

Myopia

And when I painted the trees
You stood behind me and admired the unclear strokes,
The quivering blend of black and green.
You beamed at the audacity
And told me you could even hear
The madcap panic of those leaves
Awaiting summer storm.
I was confused
(For I had only sketched out what was there)
But then
I thought about my second eyes
And wiped the streaks
That took the clarity away...
It made me smile
To think I'd found what you could never know:
The thing that you'd mistaken
For my Art
Was nothing more
Than accidental lack of sight.

----------

I really hate smug critics, and I hate being told what art is about.

There are a few things touched on here: selective sight in those "in the know" (how many times do they see what they want to see?), the misunderstanding or misreading of intention, the way our personal vision can't help but affect what we create... and, of course, a little bit of weirdness.

I mean, let's be honest. Haven't you ever seen a work of "art" that you could swear was made by a person who just needed to clean her glasses?

Papaver

From a distance orange and yellow float on air,
Magic cups playing at UFOs.
A sudden breeze sets them a-dance
And you see they are balloons,
Hairy green strings tying them to scrubby green leaves.
Astounding that thin, weak stems
Can hold blossoms oh so proudly to the sky...
What cheek to offer up such glaring gifts, my friends,
While all your neighbours still struggle to escape their winter greys.

You were given leave to be here years ago,
Young fingers clutching tiny seeds in new delight at playing god
And laughing in amazement when you peeked out from your bristled hoods.
But now, if wild is to be free of care,
You are free...
And if you choose to spread yourselves
In weedy pleasure 'round the yard,
Those who remember your small beginnings
Applaud your strength, and only forbid
Your claim of the pea patch.

All else is yours.
Yes, even in your drab September --
For as long as you can wave to me in May
That glorious, shining shock of orange-gold
The child can still see chubby hands that brought you here
And bend to see the sun at heart that always brings you back.

----------

Mom let me plant Icelandic Poppies in the yard when I was little. All these years later they're weeds, but they're one of my favourite flowers in the spring anyway. Dad's learned to put up with my thing for poppies and is good about leaving me a patch even now.

Not exactly the poppy one thinks about on Remembrance Day, true, but I still like the poem.

Waiting for the Sky to Clear

There's something electric in dressing by moonlight:
Threading abandoned streets
at raw Wolf Hour when families tremble behind blinds,
I search for the patch of darkness
that will let me see.

This is my solitaire,
and I have plotted moves to eliminate the city
and again find the fingers of dust
that paint the sky...
Later, when the strategy seems blocked by cloud and tree
I'm granted an opening
and at last find the stars.

The chaperone moon did not permit
the same show we danced to last, you and I,
but if you had been with me
we'd have shared Jupiter
(cancerous orange on the Crab)
and ran wildly unfettered with the Hunter's dogs
across the endless blue-black fields
until the sky closed upon us again...

----------

Hey, gang, the Leonids are upon us again (or at least shortly will be).

This was a fragment written very early in the morning (in 2002, for anyone trying to figure out when I was seeing Jupiter in Cancer) after driving out into the country by myself to watch the Leonids. It was a pretty crummy night for viewing overall, but I lucked out and got a brief window of clear sky for an hour or so.

It's a weird thing, I suppose, to be driving out to the middle of nowhere and leaning on your car out in the cold all by yourself, but it has its merits. Gives you a chance to think, for one thing.

I wish I'd written down in my poem notes what else I was thinking at the time, but I imagine I was in a hurry to get back to bed at that point.

Snail shell in graphite

I thought you might be getting tired of flowers. There'll be more, though.

I don't have much to say about this one. I was just working on shading.

The funny thing, I suppose, is that the original shell was just over an inch long. The sketch? About twelve inches long.

Even my drawings turn into macros, I guess.

Stargazer lily in graphite

Same lily as below, but before it opened. When I'm in the mood to draw flowers I'll often buy a cheap grocery-store plant and draw the changes as they happen.

I like lilies. Nice, strong lines. Fun to play with the shading.

Life, the Universe, &...

Well past midnight in a cold November
We bundle up to stare at the skies
Stumbling out into the darkened yard
Two urban souls pretending country eyes

How many times I've tried to teach this show
Using all those stories there
To hide the things my eyes can't know
But tonight --
ah, tonight my world is waltzing through the glow
deliriously happy in the crackling air
The shapes come out like scattered Christmas snow
And I am being taught things older than old.

Above me reigns the vain Queen Cass
With weak-willed Cepheus as dull as he deserves
Nearby the dippers circle through forever
Divided only by old Draco's wand'ring line
(I think I find the dragon dim with shame
to be denied our axis once again
and see it granted to the Ursid's tail --
Too bad, my friend, you find our fickle earth
wobbling over to embrace its newer pole.
Oh well, we've never been that loyal...)

And now for Orion, that hunter bold
Placed in the sky by the grief of the moon.
And what in return for her gift?
Only the whining of a bored sportsman
in need of entertainment
(let's face it -- today the guy'd be glued to Monday Night Football).

And so we add the bull, the dogs, to keep the master fit
While Lepus shivers underneath in hopes he won't get bit.

Betelgeuse, Rigel, and the rest
Stars named by an Arab watcher in a time
When my kind forgot to think.
Strange to imagine a Dark Age
While such bright heralds still exist...

It's still too early for Sirius
although he's likely sparkling through the trees
And so I turn to Taurus.
The sky's so clear that even I can find the Pleiades.
"The Seven Sisters!" I exclaim.
You grunt, still busy fiddling with your toys --
you can't be bothered seeing something that will still be there.

And just like that I'm taken out of stories.
The sky is just the sky --
It's cold and big and dark.
The pictures made of suns so far away
the light was born too long before we met.
I stare and stare
but all that reaches out is space.

Then, "come see," you wave
and reluctantly I head toward that lens
the thing you've pointed at a light I couldn't place.
I look and, to my shock, as clear as hope
A circled disc appears to dance before my face.
"Saturn. It's really there," I whisper, "and so close..."
You ask if I can see division in the rings -- and I --
I say I just can't find division here tonight.
I feel your grin as you take up my hand
Encircled so much warmer than that world.
We stand in stars together, you and I
And once again I tell you of the sky.

----------

This was written quite a long time ago, and the feelings it describes are much older than that. It's very uneven, but it's interesting to me to see how my style's changed since then. According to my notes I was purposefully alternating more poetic rhymes with free verse to give the impression of alternating between being swept up in the wonders of sky mythology and being brought back to earth. Erm, so to speak. I'm not sure now that it works, but you've got to give points for the effort.

The man in the poem? Someone I dated. Ages ago. No idea where he even is now. He was convenient for the poem, though, because when we'd go out to look at the sky together he really would be fooling around with some toy or other. I always thought he was missing the best part of the show, but to each his own.

One other thing: in case you couldn't tell from this very wordy poem, I'm extremely nearsighted. That'll explain some of what's in there.

Fire Fog

Sliding amoeboid down the river's bend
It spread tentative wispy fingers through abandoned yards
'Til, gaining purchase in silent alleyways
It gathered:
Rooting through the leaf piles
Playing maypole with lampposts
Swallowing sound
And quilting empty streets in smoke-tooth amber;
It fed on chimneys
Grew stronger in steeples
As gaudy store-neon drowned in the cats-eye cloud
And lent a jack-o'-lantern glow to the blackness.
We watched the cotton sea from the hillside,
Waves lapping higher on each landmark
As it claimed even the sky...
And we swam at last,
Lost in the choking ocean
Throughout the haunted darkness
Until the sun could find us again.

----------

A weird mood brought on by weird weather combined with smoke from a fire that was trapped in the river valley a few years ago. It was a very odd thing to watch, really. Under those windless circumstances the smoke really does look like some bizarre creature sending out pseudopods to eat the world. After a while all we could see of the town from the hill was the strange glow of the muted street lights and store signs.

I don't think I've captured it especially well, but I suppose it was one of those had-to-be-there moments.

Stargazer lily in carbon pencil

I love carbon pencils. I love the smoothness, but I also love the depth of colour that you'll never get from graphite.

I should end this post right here, you know. Otherwise I'm just going to start muttering on about texture, and... well, what the heck. One of the main reasons that I don't usually paint (besides the fact that I have the brush skills of a five year old) is that touch and texture is a huge part of the doodling experience for me. I can easily spend an hour in an art store just fondling paper.

Yep. Not kidding there. I fondle paper.

The texture of the paper, the feel of a good pencil; the whole thing's pretty visceral for me. When you combine decent paper with something like a carbon pencil I'm completely in art geek heaven.

I don't even care that the sketch is nothing to write home about.

Well, I don't care much, anyway.

Going Up

4th floor
middle-aged office clerk, hiding a
small schnauzer in her
brown trench coat

6th floor
lab tech, spends the day
cutting up dead things
writes life into them at night

9th floor
single mom, teacher
finds time to sing Motown
while doing dishes

10th floor
exchange student, wonders why
all look so intent on
not looking

11th floor
young suit, accidentally caught
a glimpse of his roommate in the shower
accidentally enjoyed it

12th floor
would-be astronomer, has mapped
all the Mares and Mons of the
business major across the street

14th floor
poet, passes same nice guy
in the hall every day
always genuinely surprised to pass him.

----------

I was intending to post something completely different today, but when I was flipping through the notebook looking for the one I had in mind this one caught my eye instead.

This poem is based very loosely on the apartment building I lived in when I was in university. It's hard not to see the same people in the elevator every day without wondering just a little bit about what goes on behind the blank faces staring at the door and pretending not to pay attention to anyone else around them.

We act so strangely in elevators. Don't you think?

The floor number choices are, for the most part, arbitrary. I did put the happy person on (cloud) nine on purpose, and the poet definitely needed to have her head in the clouds. Oh, and there's no floor thirteen just because my building didn't have one.

And yes, I sneaked myself onto that elevator as well. Which floor? Well, one or two people out there might be able to guess. It doesn't really matter in the end, though.

Max Likes a Fire

The wood stove door is
apparently
Cat Television
and he will sit for hours
watching the saga unfold in
tropical orange
with occasional sapwood cherry bombs
to punctuate

(he tried the front row
to hear the story better
just once
now he prefers a seat in the circle)

and then
as the song begins to fade
he wraps the warmth in
a perfect ball
and hides amongst the sofa cushions

the true model of
artistic
satiation

----------

A bit of fluff, really. I'm getting these out of a notebook I finished about four years ago, and it's interesting to see how much variation there is in the poems. I was working out a lot of things in my personal life at the time, and some of the stuff I wrote was so very bitter (and, frankly, pretty bad). Then you get things like this one, which is nothing more than sketching a moment. Then... well, there are some slightly more philosophical entries that I'm debating on whether to resurrect or not. Some of it's pretty weird.

Ah well. You'll know my decision on that by tomorrow, I expect.

Cyclamen in chalk pastels

I think I mentioned below that the whole cyclamen phase was thinking more or less in shapes rather than reality. Pretty obvious here that I wasn't going for anything even remotely resembling reality.

Yep, it was actually on purpose.

I don't work in chalks often enough to bother with getting a decent set of pastels, but sometimes I'm tempted to anyway. Cheap chalks can be so frustrating. You're going along smoothly as you please, and then you hit that inevitable hard chunk that leaves a weird streak on the page...

Ah, who am I fooling? This entire doodle was a weird streak (or several) on the page.

Cyclamen in graphite

This was done some time ago and was part of a series of cyclamen sketches I did. The flower is cut off on purpose, as I was mostly just playing with shapes. I suppose I was going for an abstract feel to the finished product.

I like playing with toned paper. It's almost more fun for me to be able to create a form by removing colour rather than adding shading. This one's obviously a bit of both, though.

When I'm in the mood to do this kind of thing I usually work in a darkened room with a single light source since it adds emphasis to the shadows. I have a three-bulb adjustable lamp something like this one (but much cheaper) that works really well for that since it allows me to choose how high I want the light to be coming from.

As always, click on the photo for a closer look. Just don't look too closely at the technique...

Luna

Old man
With half a face
Blinding out the Hyades

Old boat
Encrusted with barnacles
Pulling in its wake
Lunatics and women

You are goddess, chariot,
Artemis leading the wild hunt --
Basking in a brother's mirrored glory
Forever

Does my blood reach out to you
Like the waters of the world?
Dead, stepped-on rock
Holding our litter and our past
Frozen in stone

I know you, Queen of Wanderers --
Just a satellite
Cold companion to a marble
Wearing a stolen halo
And giving your aid to common thieves

Yet -- I dance with you
Your moods flow through me
And in the fullness of your chill grey glare
I will howl

----------

This one was written back in 2001, and I'm starting with it partly because it's short (back then I was writing a lot of long, wordy rambles) and partly because I can still stand it.

I usually cringe when I look back at my old poems.

It's a pretty basic meditation on the moon and its various aspects: male/female, mystic/prosaic; that sort of thing. The moon's been looked at in many ways over its history (or should I say over human history. I have no idea whether the dinosaurs even noticed the moon), and while it's lost some of its mystery since we've been up there and walked on it (if you believe the moon landings really happened... and yes, I do) it's interesting to me that on a clear night it can still make me wish it had some of that mythological power back.

Here we go.

As you might have noticed, I've cleared all but one of the old entries from this blog.

So what's up with that, Dee?

Well, I could tell you at length, but it's easier just to direct you to this post on the other blog where I've already blathered on about it.

Read it yet?

Yep, this place is about to get a little artsy. Not pretentiously artsy, since I'm obviously and happily a rank amateur, but artsy all the same. I've been ignoring those particular voices for a while now, and they're getting a little cranky.

Just as a note before I get into things: while my policy on the other blog is to not delete things once they've been posted (I mean, unless I decide to completely reformat that blog someday like I did this one), on this one I'm allowing myself free range as the mood strikes. Edit, delete, totally crater... it's entirely up to me. In other words, if you see something you like you should probably make yourself a copy because there's no guarantee that it'll be hanging around long.

If you do make copies, do me a favour and make sure you credit them to me. Credit to deeol if you're just using them on the internet, but if they're going to end up in hard copy somewhere you should probably use my full name.

And what would that full name be?

Oh, after I post this I'll edit the sidebar to include a contact e-mail. Drop me a note and I'll get back to you.





Are we ready then?

Not sure I am, but I'll see what I can come up with.

For those of you thinking what the hell?

If you come here regularly to find the link to the new blog because this blog's address is easier to remember, here you go. Really, though. If you can't remember pointless blather blog by now, I'm starting to lose hope.

If you came here through a search engine and can't seem to find what it was that you were looking for, it's because I've started to delete the old posts. I want to reuse this blog for... something, and getting rid of the clutter seemed in order. I'll be playing around with the look of things later as I have time.

If you came here entirely by accident, you're probably confused. That's ok. I spend most of my time that way. For a look at what I'm on about at the moment, check the link above.