He Was Ridiculous… and Amazing

I enjoy hand-stitching for the same reasons I adore hammers, the colors red and black, Terry Pratchett’s writing, and the sky on nights when the moon is darkest. I won’t tell you why I love those things. Not because it might creep you out—I’d probably delight in that—I won’t tell you why because we don’t need to know each other marrow deep to be friends. If we do, then we really aren’t.

The idea of jumping off a bridge because everyone else is doing it disgusts me. But if the day (or wild night) comes when jumping is the only way forward, I shall leap into the precipice without bitching about it—my thoughts, legs, and spine must be all cat.

I’ve landed on my feet, and broken a few things before rolling with the punches takes hold of the metaphor. I’m prejudiced against welcomed stupidity. People who hurt others because they know they can get away with it should spend a lot of time on their knees being thankful to a curly-haired one-eyed woman who smoked a pipe.

I write because not doing so would kill me slowly (or someone else). I love for similar reasons. Today, I woke up in a world where my best friend was alive. Now he is dead. And I’m angry. Because the world is a bit emptier and it didn’t have to be.

The whole world will miss you, my bird of terrible feathers. And I will miss you most.

One Halloween, when we were still teenagers, he dressed up as… something covered in fake chickens. I remember asking, “What in the name of Hades’ fiery balls are you?” He said, “I’m a sexy beast.” When puzzlement showed that I couldn’t follow his logic, he added, “You know, ‘Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It’s the difference between using a feather and using a chicken.’” He was that kind of ridiculous, that kind of amazing…

May your soul fly high on laughter and bad jokes, you sexy beast…

Dancing this Rotten World Better

“Genuine anger was one of the world’s great creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn’t mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.” ~ Terry Pratchett 

.
I will take the fiery
energy of my fury,
morph it into words
that sing into other souls’
flesh and bone…
and we will dance
this rotten world better.

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the wee notes…

– Revenge often gets a bad name. Perhaps, because the term tends to bring up images of anger, of wailing, of violence. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Revenge can be that magnificent mix of dismay and powerlessness, which shrouds the faces of individuals who believed (even hoped that) we would fall apart under the pressures of the world, but are forced to watch us weave horrors into wonders that add yumminess to our lives.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Read Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

“Burton Bar”, by Shelle Kennedy
(the look on Wednesday’s face gives me a serious case of the mad giggles)

Nothing Says I Love You Like a Brewer’s Dictionary and a Yoga Frog

I looked at Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, and burst into tears. Fine, I felt the burst… inside. On the outside, my eyes got hot, my lips trembled, and I found myself choked on words that turned into tears… of the bursting kind, I’m sure. My Piano Man gives the best gifts.

Don’t give me that funny look! If you shed no tear over a book that brings together definitions like Early Bird (“the Pentagon’s confidential daily news sheet, officially called Current News, which in 16 pages distils the overnight news report of the greatest relevance to the department and its followers in the White House, Congress, the military and the intelligence community”) and Bugger Bognor! (“a retort allegedly made by George V in his last illness when a courtier, seeking to lift His Majesty’s spirits, remarked that if he continued to make good progress he would soon be able to enjoy a few weeks’ recuperation at Bognor Regis, a salubrious seaside resort in West Sussex”), then your eyeballs (and heart) are made of stone. By the way, I someone told me that Early Bird will be renamed Twittering Crap, to make it seem important enough to the new administration. All right, so I made up the last bit. But the way things are going… who knows.

My Piano Man inherited his fantastic-present-giving abilities from his mother. My brilliant Mother-in-Law gave me a yoga frog. She probably heard about the incoming Twittering Crap, and looked for a gift that would make me smile. The wee yoga frog lives on my writing space, next to my bed. Every time I look at it, I can’t help mimicking its ear-to-ear smile.

The other gift I’m quite crazy about is a Terry Pratchett Diary, from my friend Y. I got it a few weeks before Yule and have been dying to use it. I love planners. And this one is full of quotes by my Knight Writer. I will use it to record my daily wordcount, plus a daily random sentence about something that stuck the day before. For instance, my January 1st sentence is: “Good friends find delight in the existence of skulls”, inspired by a silly chat with my darlings, Emma, Yvonne and Lynne. Speaking of Lynne, if you like planners as much as I do, you might want to fly over to the Insomniac’s Attic to print a copy of her marvelous (and free) monthly planner.

What was your favorite (material) holiday gift, my Wicked Luvs? What made it super special?

*happy frog, ginormous dictionary, and Pratchett(y) planner*