A Recipe For Endings

A Recipe For Endings

Picture her in your mind.
Caress her with the evening’s charcoal sky.
Gather the laurel in the beaded dawn.
Follow her footsteps to Delphi.
Cast the wreath at the oracle’s sandals.
Take the name the smoke gives you.
Chant her name as you return home.
Spread the seeds wide around you.
Clothe yourself in air under the pinprick sky.
Build the fire from the branches of your heart.
From a bowl of rain, dress yourself in clouds.
Circle the fire until you have planted the seeds in you.
Cast her name into the fire.
She will come with the fingers of the sun.

Realize you are done.
Burst into flame.


With acknowledgements to D. Ackley.


This will not be a regular feature, but I plain ran out of time to get a ficlet done.  I had a car to buy, a wizard to play, Catan to settle, and Guilder to frame for it all.

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Three variables of humor

That’s me, the bad data point … right there.

I generally don’t have much use at all for dating sites or online quizzes, so this is in no way a blanket endorsement … but I do recommend “The 3-Variable Funny Test” as a way to think about humor -in general and your own approach to it.  Go take it and come back, because after the cut are spoilers. Continue reading

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And a Star to Guide Me Home (324)

And a Star to Guide Me Home

The night never falls here. Shadows shift, grow longer and shorter, but never entirely fade. It’s a strange world here, in the dusky times. I miss the stars. I came here for a job, stayed for a woman, but I remember the dark of vacuum and space.

So sometimes, when the shadows stretch their arms out across the whole city-world, I find myself on the top of the tallest building I know. It’s cold up here, so many stories above the streets, but there’s almost no glow from the lights below. I huddle in a dark grey jacket. In my pocket, I can feel the metal in my hand slowly warming up. My neck aches with staring upwards.

Somewhere up there above, beyond the cloudless sky, are the stars.

Every summer when I was a kid, my mom and I staged the same fights. Every year, she wanted me in bed early, but I’d never come home until I saw that first star in the twilight. I’d stay out later if I could, and in the winters I would watch the constellations roll by from my window, but waiting for that first evening star was where I drew my metaphorical line in the sand. Until the year she bought me the telescope and everything changed. Until a month later I found out it was a farewell gift and she was gone.

I’ve watched these skies so many nights, looking for that twinkle.

So many twilights I’ve planned, thinking about the words to convince her that she should come home with me. So many long shadows I’ve stayed here until I fell asleep on my feet. So many times I’ve asked my V’lenna to watch with me.

A month ago, she left me her own farewell gift, small and silver.

Somewhere up there, where the shadows never die, are the stars. All I ask is to see that first star, so I can go home.

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We interrupt your regularly scheduled post …

This isn’t the post I was going to make today.

I have a whole post written up about why the best humor is like a burrito, complete with a new design release, and I’m pushing it back a week because I’m going to write about the King instead.

No, not Elvis … I mean the King of Filk – Weird Al Yankovic.

I know, you’re all wondering why him.

Consider that he’s built a highly successful, decades-long singing career on song parodies.  Ok, that and accordion shenanigans, but it’s the song parodies that make him one of the best-selling musical artists that almost never gets mainstream radio play.

You say song parodies, I say filk.

You’re probably also wondering why now.  It’s because I just got to see him in concert again.  [EEEEE!]

Yes, I’m a bit of a fangirl.  I mean, I was there for the Albuquerque show after Running With Scissors.  That’s the time my (now ex-)husband told him we were going to name our children Nathaniel and Superfly.

I think he was kind of disturbed by that. [1]

“Hey, you’ve got weasels on your face.”

There’s three folks who are in my mental Musical Hall of Awesome: Sting, Madonna, and Weird Al.  All three of these folks have spent decades writing and singing new works while evolving musically.  Say what you like about Madonna, but she’s managed to reinvent herself a dozen times or more, almost always successfully.

Weird Al can do a dozen musical styles, is a gifted lyricist with a wicked sense of humor, and can write multi-part complex harmony in addition to polkas.  For the last item, I submit “Hardware Store”.  For the middle item, I submit “Wanna B Ur Luvr”[2], “It’s All About the Pentiums”, and, well, really, his entire discography.  He largely points his parodies at inconsequential targets (food, TV,  eBay, etc.), gets permission from the folks he parodies (who almost always say yes), and has incredibly sharp wordplay.

Through Weird Al, I’ve listened to musical styles that I would never have listened to (ok, mostly rap), and there’s a not-insignificant number of popular songs that I heard the Weird Al version of well before I ever heard the original.  (“Oh, so that’s where that came from!”)

He also does incredible concerts, complete with costume changes and playing the effing accordion like a rock star.

“What kind of chip you got in there – a Dorito?

And yet, at the same time as I was bouncing in my seat and signing along with the concert, I periodically found myself feeling a bit uncomfortable.

The downside of the costume changes is needing to fill up that time with something entertaining.  Mostly, this is episodes of AlTV – short clips of pop culture references to Weird Al or faked “interviews” of other musicians.  The “interviews” are spliced out of real interviews that those folks did with other people and him making up questions to … well, to make them look really stupid.

You can see how this might make me feel uncomfortable.

I’m pretty sure those folks aren’t being asked to approve these, and I don’t think they would – they’re being taken out of context and flat out mocked. It’s not even like they’re being made to look silly – in some cases, it was flat out making them look stupid.

Lots of folks will just say “you gotta learn to laugh at yourself”, but I think there’s a line between “laughing at yourself” and “laugh while others mock the heck out of you”, and on the far side of that line?  Not so funny.

More on that next week.


[1] Just sayin’, in case he ever sees this[3]: I didn’t have any children with that guy and we’re divorced now so the world is safe.
[2] “Your love is like diarrea, I just can’t keep it in.” Who else is gonna sing that with a straight face?
[3] And in that unlikely case, I don’t suppose you might reconsider the “interviews”, eh?

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I was a child gamer.

I was a child gamer.

Much of the blame (and props) for me being a giant freaking nerd lies squarely on the shoulders of my parents.  My mom is a giant nerd who devours books on everything from Zen Buddhism to football to computer science and studies foreign languages for fun; she is a Star Trek fan and a member of MENSA.  My dad is a giant nerd with a Ph.D in plasma physics and (not-very-)secretly enjoys being a pirate; he builds accurate scale models of historical ships … when they’re not sailing their actual sailboat or backpacking.  He’s also one of the best AD&D Dungeon Masters I’ve ever had the chance to game with.

When I was six, they helped me build my very first character so that I could play in the weekly game with the adults. His name was Cargo and he was a dwarven fighter.  I suspect my dad still has the painted pewter figurine somewhere, along with his 1st edition Deities and Demigods and campaign notes.  He had whole sets of house rules.  The other players in the campaign were my mom and my dad’s PhD candidate friends.

Yes, I grew up playing AD&D with a group of wickedly smart, highly educated, funny as hell people.  It was pretty awesome.

Especially that one time he did a one-off Halloween adventure and halfway through it I realized he had based it on the fourth book in the Wizard of Oz series.  (Yes, there were over sixteen of them.  The fourth involves falling into the center of the earth during a San Francisco earthquake.)

Anyway …

This week, I happened across a link that sent me to a blog post that sent me back in time to my childhood.  Someone found and scanned a pristine, uncolored copy of the Official Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Coloring Album.

You can get your copy at: http://monsterbrains.blogspot.com/2011/10/greg-irons-advanced-dungeons-and.html

I printed out a copy, found my coloring pencils, and brought them all to my Wednesday night AD&D Encounters group over at The Portal.  Everyone was amused, at least three other people recognized pages from their childhood, and I colored in this:

A wizard faces down a djinn

I brought a color sketch of my new wizard character!

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A Song for the Gallery (346)

A Song for the Gallery

The gallery stood nearly empty when we arrived, warm air welcoming us in from the night.  The owners were up at the front, waiting to greet arrivals like ourselves, and near the back, we could see the artist lurking by the remains of snacks.  A few others drifted amongst the sculpture.  We pretended greetings with the owners; they urged us to take glasses and enjoy ourselves.

A few feet into the room, you vanished like smoke.  You and everyone else in the room.  I heard voices dimly, and nothing more.

She was the only thing left in the vast gallery.  She and I.

You wouldn’t ask me to describe her, would you?  Eyes deep like the bottom of the ocean, skin of purest alabaster, tresses like silk … all the superlatives in the wide world would seem but to profane her beauty.  Truth and love shone out from her like a warm summer day.

She was waiting for me … had waited all night.  So many nights she had been waiting.  Not that she blamed me, she would have waited forever for me.  How could she blame me now that I was here, with her?

All I needed was to reach my hand out to her and she would be mine.

One step I took toward her, then another, across the empty room.  So little space between us remained, compared to the whole world that had kept us apart.

Until I bumped into someone.  I nearly fell, and I lost sight of her for just a moment.  Just a moment!

“Please do not touch the statues.”

The artist held my arm in one hand while I regained my balance.  The chatter of other people hit me like a wave. His other hand, gnarled and scarred, extended towards the one I had been walking toward.  “Beware that one most, my friend.”

Her hands clenched on knives, the siren reached out before her, teeth bared to bite.

His gaze firmly on me, the artist kept his hand on my arm and sighed, “Only be glad you cannot hear her song as well.”

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