Barbed Wire and Windchimes

THE ECONOMY--ROUGHER THAN WE THOUGHT!

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 05:31:49 GMT

Flat broke? Don't panic--http://www.catsforgold.com/ can help!

You Can Help a Fellow Tribester Win Funds to Support Her Pet Rescue Work!

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 16:04:43 GMT

Care 2 is coordinating a contest to give $10,000 to some deserving Pet Rescue organization. The two lovely little black angels above are half Siamese, and I have them to love because of Tribe. They came from two different litters who would have had no homes to go to if it hadn't been for the work of my Tribe friend, Amma, and her sisters: http://people.tribe.net/ammanaga They run Three Sisters Pet Rescue in Cincinnati, Ohio, and they have saved HUNDREDS of dogs and cats from being euthanized in pounds because they weren't wanted. Can you imagine? ? ? Well, my little black meezers and I would like to recommend that you find Three Sisters on this link, click them, and vote for them to get much needed financial support to continue their wonderful work in these hard times. Thank you so much! http://www.care2.com/animalsheltercontest/search/?state=OH&city=Cincinnati

Near Fall

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 21:22:20 GMT

I asked the August dawn, Gold palmed, had pale stars all withdrawn The whole of their account From yawning vault, improvident, And scooped the dusty fount? I asked, and dawn, Profligate to the dale and mount, Left me for a mendicant. I asked the August noon, Heedless with goldenrod all strewn Hand over fist, subprime, If time were money: confident Money likewise was time. I asked, and noon Sovereign at its shadeless climb, Said time wanted not a cent. I asked the August dusk, Of green receding to the husk, “What have I left to spend?” And the unheeding firmament, With summer at an end, I asked: and dusk, Seedy of cloak, “Nothing to lend!” Rasped in coinless covenant. I asked the August night, Careless of silver at the height, “What is there left to buy?” Of moths and moons, of moneyplant, With summer passing by I asked: and night, Silver, remote, flung its reply Down in Perseid vanishment. Copyright Briar Rose 2009 Image--"Sun at Dusk" Copyright Briar Rose 2009 The line "of moths and moons" is gratefully borrowed from a line in a story by New England author Scott Thomas. When the story, "Burnshire, the Shrunken Coxswain," finds its way to an anthology, I will update you. Meanwhile, here are two other stories of Scott's, from an older anthology, to read online: http://www.infinityplus.co.uk/stories/wickhampton.htm http://www.infinityplus.co.uk/stories/marcywaters.htm

Temporal Lobe Fragment

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 06:22:58 GMT

And say of yourself: I am a thing and no thing A confluence of things and more than the sum of things I have never not been and never will be I have always just begun, I look back on the end I am time out of no time, I am the end of time, And pretender of time, I am all of nothing, Some of never, Approximately always Forever And say of that other self: A thing and no thing, A confluence of things and less and less of things, Having never not been, never need be, Having always begun, always just ending. Time out of no time, who ends time portends time, All of nothing, Some of never, Approximately always Forever Copyright 2009 Briar Rose Photos: Neuron in brain; computer simulation of universe. Mark Miller, Brandeis University; Virgo Consortium for Cosmological Supercomputer Simulations, www.visualcomplexity.com, The New York Times.

Vegan Corned Beef and Cabbage. . .

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 01:17:06 GMT

. . .for your iconoclastic dining pleasure. 2 medium onions, cut into wedges 1/2 head cabbage, finely chopped or shredded (I used red cabbage this time) 4 carrots, cut into 2-inch lengths and quartered 2 ribs celery, thickly sliced 4 cups vegetable broth 1 teaspoon thyme 1/4 teaspoon rubbed sage 1 teaspoon dry mustard 1 teaspoon mild horseradish 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste 6-8 ounces vegetarian "beef" or seitan or reconstituted TVP chunks (like Lightlife Strips) 2 tablespoons whole wheat flour 1/4 cup water 1 tablespoon red wine or cooking sherry (really adds great flavor) Sauté the onion in a large, non-stick pot until it starts to brown. Add the remaining vegetables, the broth, and the seasonings. Cover and cook over medium heat for 15 minutes. Add the "beef," cover, and cook for 15 more minutes, until vegetables are soft. Use a slotted spoon to remove the vegetables and "beef" to a serving plate and keep warm. Return the broth to the heat. In a small cup, combine the flour, water, and wine. Gradually stir the flour mixture into the simmering broth. Cook and stir, scraping the bottom of the pan, until the broth has thickened, about 10 minutes. Pour the gravy over the "beef" and vegetables to serve. Makes 4 servings. Each serving, using the Lightlife strips, contains 117 Calories (kcal); trace Total Fat; (3% calories from fat); 10g Protein; 20g Carbohydrate; 0mg Cholesterol; 336mg Sodium; 7g Fiber. Recipe is from this site: http://blog.fatfreevegan.com/2007/03/vegan-corned-beef-and-cabbage-roasted.html (And I must say, that is the stupidest looking harp, not to mention harping technique, I have ever seen--but what do cows know?)

Debunketty bunketty bunk. . .

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 19:43:11 GMT

. . .another myth is sunk: http://txtwriter.com/onscience/Articles/patsnakes.html

And I Will Not Forget

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 08:28:20 GMT

~On Williamson’s 65th~ It was a dream I had, A moment captured in a blink, Spring green or autumn russet-clad Balanced on the brink All in a synapse span, The while mute constellations turned Beyond, and where the plovers ran, Scryless ocean churned. I named it after me, Drew out the light and it was good, And to the dark a boundary, Fixed and understood, To mean what I decide; Now clotted knotwork runs of rhyme Make and unmake, leave and abide. Syllables mark time. A decade for a day, And on the seventh day to rest, No God but I, who scribe in clay, At the words’ behest. Copyright 2008 Briar Rose This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses...c-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. ~Title gratefully borrowed from a recurring line in "Five Denials on Merlin's Grave," by Robin Williamson Photo: Celtic Pen

November Takes the Field

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 07:14:52 GMT

The thistle is all done. The dogrose bows beneath the sun, The greenest tree the gravest Skeleton. The bravest has been slain. A crown has lost its Aquitaine, An amber jewel its setting Yields to rain. Besetting cold is near, Thrusts blue to bone like any spear, Parts flesh and bone and gristle. Winter’s here. Copyright 2008 Briar Rose This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses...c-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. (The illustration is called "Dead Roses" and is by a London artist called Mayko-- http://thelittlechimpsociety.com/kuroneko/mayko/)

"Fire it up! Fire it up! Fire it up!"

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 05:22:28 GMT

STILL my favorite movie in all the world. Happy Hallowe'en, everybody!

Next Door Neighbors

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 09:05:46 GMT

Dawn the dew slips cold to footfalls, Called to work or called to school. Take a pen or take a shovel, Every calling has its tool. At mid-morning hear the teacher Drill the chronicles of strife. Through the window hear the preacher Drone for everlasting life. And the carver’s echoed chip, And the arid scrape of chalk, Tell a birth and date of death, Tell the ticking of the clock. Noon is not resigned to autumn, Fan blades whirl, sun pushes down. Summer shuns to reach the bottom. Fall’s a verb and fall’s a noun. Dusk, the rusty maples yielding, Dusk, the ember, ash and frost, Dusty script the sun forsaking, Dusty couplets of the lost. Leaves that plaster to the glass With the autumn wind and rain Leave disaster when they pass, Leave with summer in their train. And summer kicks us to the curb, And summer plays us for a fool; And "leaves" is both a noun and verb— At least that’s what I learned at school. There’s a schoolyard and a graveyard, Slate leads in and slate leads out. Chalked or chiseled, all the same, Slate is what it’s all about. Copyright Briar Rose 2008 This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses...c-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

CATS

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 06:20:21 GMT

On August 20th, my sweet old white polydactyl said, "Well, it's been a lot of fun, but I think it's time to cross the 9th Life boundary." She was almost 18 1/2, and had done very well for years on medication for hyperthyroid, greatly exceeding the average survival expectancy for that feline ailment. In July her blood cells started showing changes consistent with certain more serious diseases, including cancer, although we didn't pursue the Big Serious Testing that might have yielded a more definite diagnosis because. . .well, jeez, she was over 18, you know? Our vet said whatever the tests were gonna show, the news would have been bad. We showered her with love for three more weeks or so and then when she stopped eating her kitty food, we gave her Nutrical and indulged her with deli roast turkey slices and--her favorite!--fresh corn cut off the cob. (Yeah, all cats love SOMETHING you wouldn't think a cat would eat. . .) When she stopped eating altogether, we let our vet gently put her to sleep. Nature and cats don't like empty spaces, however, and just as we were beginning to think a house with only four cats was a pretty sensible arrangement, along comes a friend of mine who says a friend of his has had two cats palmed off on her by a friend of HERS, and. . .well, she has the cats two weeks and ends up in a rehab hospital and comes home in a big old heavy leg brace. I hasten to add that her hospitalization was not prompted by the cats! Nevertheless, now she reckons she has about enough energy and wherewithal to take care of ONE cat, so she's keeping the nine year old cat without eyes (that's another story) and needs to find a home for the 2 1/2 year old cat who steals the eyeless cat's food. Guess who's ended up with the 2 1/2 year old cat? Well, she's kind of a long haired kitty--that kind of coat's totally new to me! She comes with no mats at all, so I'm hoping she won't be high maintenance--I may luck out; I suspect her somewhat casual care two owners ago didn't include constant brushing. She'd never been seen by a vet and has never been spayed; never even been in heat, is what I get second hand. Well--that seems a little unlikely! Hell, for all I know she may be in a coy, demure version of "heat" now--she doesn't yowl and roll, but she does head-butt and hiss at the same time. Stands on her back paws to thrust her little head into a waiting hand, purrs and mews--and when she's had enough, hauls off and whacks your hand. A magnificent little bitch goddess! We went to visit the nice Kitty Doctor yesterday and Samantha tested blissfully free of nasty contagious cat diseases and got some shots, and we have a spay appointment in a little over a week. I walked out of the vet's office with the cat carrier in one hand and the box containing Akasha's ashes in the other. Jeez--full circle! We always end up doing Baptism of Fire cat introductions in this household. Samantha's mainstreaming with the other cats now--and tomorrow a doggie comes to visit. If cats had thumbs, they'd thumb their noses at planning. Well, actually, Akasha *had* thumbs, so I guess I know who to blame.

Here Till Here Is There

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 21:42:05 GMT

BACKGROUND AND CAVEAT: In 1987 a singer by the name of “Licorice” McKechnie disappeared and remains missing today, presumed dead. My title is borrowed, with gratitude, from a song by the group The Incredible String Band, which she had left in 1973. Obscure as the lady herself, certain references in this poem are likely to be opaque to all but Stringheads. The retrospectives sometimes miss her name, Whether she was Chris-tee-na or Chris-tye-na— That German sites have christened Caroline.— But fey, she frolicked on the album jackets, And cradled a fat toad or baby bird In pale and slender hands. We saw her soar Breezy and carnationed in a swing; In wood and meadow, saw her in velour, In liner notes, the candy soubriquet. Pitched up in schoolgirl euphonies we heard Her sing what merry Robin penned, “Papa Would take me to the park to see the swans. . .” Rose-browed, but whispered bare neath her chiffons, Whirled through by dusts and potions, so they say, A butterfly beneath the waking sunlight, Moth at the dreaming sweet, black sticky flame. And if some sandalwood and silken summer Of plucked sitar, the spun to silver web Of beads and bells sang different beckoning, The coil of jasmine round about that wound her Drew her to some other song, say the wren Before the robin or before the heron? Would still the girl mulleined and leafed in muslin And Sunday school soprano, furred and cloched, Have gowned like Guinevere and flower-crowned Her glazy visage, sung off-key at Woodstock, And mourned with “Darling Belle” in widow’s weeds, Once reeked to soot in grey Midlothian reckoning, Her woolens sluiced in housepaint and woodstain? The narrative is hindsight at its best, An August thing of maybes and what ifs, How chance the Thetan grasp that more than tithed. Or after copter flight past blocked off roads, How mudding tent and torrent that first night Of hidden stars and candles in the rain Displaced gold Robin’s band and staged them up Next day between Canned Heat and CCR To underwhelm the half a million strong, With coy sweet songs about “This Moment” whose Legatos might have joined the shooting stars But for the blotting clouds and weeping muse-- Not quite the meteoric rise to fame, But just enough for three more years of tunes, And then the spotlights yield to western sun, The service trays and crockery, public bus, Robin’s painted guitar. Inclined to sing, Declined to teach “Old Songs and Cottages.” E-meter’s golden tethered tantalus?— Too high the plumping fruit, too low the water. How did the rest evade their dotages? One to nostalgia circuit bowed, and one A mayoress, and one a Cardiff bard-- And three dismiss to death even her name, Though unclaimed royalties may wait to yield Solace for Perseid nights that passed unstarred: To hell with Hubbard and with Yasgur’s field-- The children of star seed and beggars’ weeds Had never loved her like the bud and blotter. The folklore even disagrees on this: Whether the last who ever knew her found her Footprints nudging the Arizona dunes, Giving the slip to Hubbard’s church. What if They never find a ragged shawl or diary? A scorpion in a skull, a tarnished chain? A final letter, mailed in nineteen ninety, From Sacramento, to a Scottish sister, Was three years’ leave to fray the stitch of rumor-- "Shared open mikes in London in the nineties"/ "Impromptu a cappella Wiccan chants"/ "Asleep in batterer’s yard"/ "From hard park bench, Pulled nameless to the steam of LA streets"/ "Took serious drugs and wore no underpants"/ "Abducted by space aliens in the desert With Captain Beefheart"/ "Let a cult subsume her--" I think we cut our cloaks to August promptings. This month can hunt you down, pull you up short: I think on August nights of men like Manson, Who think on August mornings of blood sport. I think, when summer’s hit the downhill sands, I know a doomed thing when I see or hear it, And downward wave’s as deep, so I suppose That if, some brocade noontide, coppery bands Of sunlight drew her west to other strands, An island beach embroidering her clothes With knots of sea wrack, blue-green stinging seaweed’s Matty floss as richly might have gowned her, As gauzy veil of Morpheus around her. Copyright Briar Rose 2008 This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses...c-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. Collage: August Night Sky

THE LAMMAS MEN

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 21:28:05 GMT

The Lammas Men come jumping, bumping. Booming and zooming, the Lammas Men. Sparks in the sky, peaking, then streaking To dark again, know the Lammas Men. The Lammas Men from late July Grasp summer as tight as ever they can With opposable thumbs, cruising and boozing, When sunset comes to the asphalt night. And the Lammas Men are certain they Might make the hot sweet summer stay, If they put up a fight. The Lammas Men with shiny cards Are all twenty-one, and proudly exempt From hastening fall and narrowing day, And the corn is sweet in the southering sun, And the stalks are tall, though leaves display Heavy and dusty, beetled and galled, Their edges rusty. And summer’s looking A little unkempt but the Lammas Men Make a valiant attempt, in mobs, to throbs Of drum and bass, to stand their ground Or mark their pace. The Lammas Men catcall and brawl Near dark, for a lark, rolling ambered with cheer. And the Lammas Men lay a rough black arc, And then another, of rubbery squeals, To evening’s finale, from dirt road to alley, The spray can, the ball bat, the downed mailbox tally, With wagers and dares, and boasts and appeals, And trying on death just to see how it feels. And the Lammas Men’s jibes as the katydids call Are the dialogues of the alpha dogs Saying, Summer will always, will always be all! Copyright Briar Rose 2008 This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses...c-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

ONE

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 08:11:02 GMT

Gates should be of wind chime and barbed wire, Gardens of attar be of dewy green and bone, Hearths should be the tinder and the fire, Hearts be the alone. The heart’s content is anything alone, Hayloft or cave for home, or empty mill suffice; Garret or seaward light raised up in stone— Worth whatever price. The bird who sings in dark before the dawn, Warbling interdicts, pleasant with every tone, Casts gracious boundaries about the lawn: Happy on his own. Though windward bell you hang out and intone, To raggy trespass twist a rusty circle wide Around the quiet center of the lone, However many bide. Copyright 2008 Briar Rose Illustration: Glass-topped stone garden wall in Brazil-- http://flickr.com/photos/85941395@N00/695774244/

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? AND CAN I BORROW A GEIGER COUNTER?

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Sat, 24 May 2008 00:39:25 GMT

I discovered this eccentric, mutant-stemmed dandelion while I was out clipping the weeds in the neighboring vacant trailer lot. Beats hell out of the peculiar white-leafed clovers you sometimes find alongside house foundations. Perhaps I should look out my window when it's completely dark, to see if the seedheads glow?

Well, we did it. More or less.

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 03:52:37 GMT

Closing was today, and officers of the board signed the mortgage papers that put this mobile home park in our hands and under our management. With the knowledge that we've saved our homes and gained more control over our destiny, I expected to be more excited, but it's been a nightmare year of anxiety and factions. Believe it or not, some residents did not *want* us to save their homes; and we had to assume a couple of disheartening burdens in order to save any for anybody, but the acquisition is a done deal. About a dozen of us sat around my living room and kitchen this afternoon with coffee, sparkling limeade and Asti, toasting the accomplishment--well, all except for our eldest resident. Ann's 93, pretty sharp, and sits on the Board, and she came back from closing too pissed to toast anything. Ann just sat and looked glum while the rest of us raised our glasses or mugs. She thinks we gave up too much to the former park owner, and I agree. For starters--the woman who inherited the Park, mismanaged it for decades, invested nothing in it, jacked us up for more and more rent to cover water bills and property taxes she never paid, and came within a day of losing the Park before signing a P&S with developers who were going to kick us all out. . .gets to live here RENT FREE for a year! We had to give her that because that's in the original Purchase and Sales with the developers, which we had to match for Massachusetts to uphold our right of first refusal. And we ALSO have to pay to have an empty, uninhabitable trailer SHE owns hauled away. (She's actually scored a double play with that one--she already took advantage of a desperate couple full-timing in a little silver Airstream: THEY paid the heavy equipment guy who moved the big junk trailer to the back of the Park in the first place. Their campground was closing at the end of the season and they were willing to do *anything* for a lot to park their little home on over the winter.) So already we're down one home's lot fees for twelve months in our make-or-break first year, when we know we're almost certainly going to run up against a few habitual late-pays who are going to test our eviction resolution even as they continue to thumb their nose at collection attempts by their former landlady. Who should have evicted them in the first place. We've heard she's put liens on some of the homes. Between her liens and our liens, I'm envisioning a contentious future! We'll be fighting over who owns how much of what home in here long after their inhabitants have been booted. But the paperwork just says we have to let her live here free. It doesn't say we can't make her rue the day. Like when we show up with crowbars to take down her bigass tall stockade fence from that little private fiefdom she created so she wouldn't have to look at all of us hoi polloi. "Goooood morning, Marilyn! What? These? Why, we're here to dismantle the fence. It's against our Rules. We have given you a copy of our Rules. Surely you've read our Rules--'No perimeter fences will be allowed and all existing or proposed fences must have approval by the Board of Directors.' Your six foot fence [crrrack!] has *not* been approved [pryyy!] by the Board of Directors. Sorry, Marilyn, you're one of the hoi polloi now." Or like when we show up with cement contractors to pour a foundation pad between her home and her best friends' home--the friends who lived here rent free and ran a garage here rent free for decades, and had all their electric usage, like the owner's, paid for by the rest of us all that time. They had somebody's home taken out at one time to give both *their* homes a bigger yard. "Goooood morning, Marilyn, hey GUESS what! Great news! You and Mel are gonna get new neighbors. They're bringing in a doublewide. Oh, hey! I know you and Mel love those bushes and flowers, so why dontcha think about digging them up and transplanting them across your big *back* yard, as a privacy screen--we're gonna be taking some of *that* next week for resident parking." When we started down this path a year ago, prompted to save people's homes and preserve affordable housing, I figured just *getting* the property would be a long shot. I've never had any illusion about the hard work ahead of us to hang onto and rehabilitate this neglected, ill-favored little neighborhood. But somehow, I thought I'd at least feel a greater sense of relief and accomplishment on closing day. Triumph isn't like you read about.

Lines of Sixes Concerning Five Cats

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 12:31:10 GMT

(They were writing life stories in sentences of six words in one of my tribes. I thought my cats were more interesting subjects than my life, so I had at it.) Pistol is a thief of paper. And the old one is Akasha. Lina's tail comes to a taper. Rosie is torpid, like a pasha. Rodents are a snap for Dara. Pistol I brought in from outside. Clawless in front--when'd that happen? Back-clawed, he'll lacerate your hide. His namesake's really not his weapon. But truly mar a digit? Dara! Lanky and lithe, jet-black, Siamese. Well, half--but what a heritage! The kitchen mice advance and freeze: She plummets off the counter's edge. And times between--ahh, tutors Lina! Another black one too, a cross. Half Siamese, half who knows what. Dara's great gain was someone's loss: What one rejected, this one sought. Ever suppose he knew, poor Rosie? He's the past-tense alpha male. Used to throw his weight around. His glower met with puffing tail. He'd claim the warmest spot, hidebound. Now the meezers are his teasers. Akasha's white and soft and clean. Sumptuous like ermine from the Spiegal. Imperious she, a cat once queen. To jostle her was once illegal. But Rosie's jousting was her ousting. Pistol too, he chased and cowed. Though Pistol too his ego flattered. Akasha ran, and Pistol was proud: A little bossing's all that mattered. Then Siamese terrors leveled these errors. And now Akasha's just a peon. A trade--but something's very clear: Gents are subdued many an eon. Ladies stick up for ladies here! They make of boys comical toys. Copyright Briar Rose 2008

AN EARNEST REMINDER!

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 23:56:48 GMT

. . .yet another reason for freedom of choice.

Tree Worship

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 08:48:21 GMT

Where the rimed planks And toothed eaves frame The hollow chimes For dooms of unction, In a winter compline, Nailed to rain the crackle Beaded trees Whisper aves To oak and holly Turnings and veneer Round those encasked And sanctifying wraiths Pitchy with myrrh- Packed papery skin, Like wisps of bark, That greenless ones Red-sapped of limb Hammer with Holy Holies. The ones with feet Pray to the ones who Cleared the land of trees-- The ones with roots Worship the varnished Casket's prophecies. Copyright Briar Rose Winter Solstice 22 December 2007 Illustration: Casket of Mumma. Gilt copper repoussé on wood reliquary. Mid 7th c. A.D. (St. Benoit sur Loire: Abbey Church)

Some Artists Strive for Immortality. . .

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 01:30:56 GMT

. . .and others find fulfillment in the ephemeral. At a house abutting our vet's parking lot we discovered this snow sculpture yesterday when we took Lina to have her spay sutures removed. Today we went back with the camera to get some pictures--on a beautiful December day in New England.

Lina's Tribulations

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 03:49:39 GMT

"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily. "So it is." "And freezing." "Is it?" "Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately." Winnie the Pooh

The Cat in the Iron Mask (thank you, Alyn, for the title)

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 16:43:52 GMT

Lina, little Meezer #2, had her important rite of feline passage yesterday, and came home from her spay surgery with shaven belly and Frankencat stitches. She's the most forlorn little thing--moping around like Eeyore! As she walks she hangs her head, and the E Collar bobs and her rabies and ID tags go wap wap wap against it and the bell on her collar jingles. She sounds like a little cat version of Marley's ghost creeping up and down the hall. Just in time for this festive time of year. She has to turn her head sideways to get in and out of the litter box door, and she tends to shovel the litter with the E Collar, so I have to clean it every time she goes in the box. We take the collar off her when she eats, and she's eating enthusiastically, but of course cats NEVER drink when you just put them in front of a bowl, so we're putting extra water in her canned food and hydrating her mouth several times a day with water from the plastic part of a syringe. Dara gave us several days before we had to resort to the E Collar--this one went to worrying her stitches the minute she got home. She was only gone from morning to evening, but I missed her terribly--welcome home, little Lina!

Heh heh heh. . .

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 05:40:51 GMT

Guy in jail I write back and forth to sent me this. I'm copying it out verbatim. I don't know where he got it from. Dear Abby, My husband is a liar and a cheat. He has cheated on me from the beginning, and when I confront him, he denies everything. What's worse, everyone knows that he cheats on me. It is so humiliating. Also, since he lost his job six years ago, he hasn't even looked for a new one. All he does all day is smoke cigars, cruise around and bullshit with his buddies while I have to work and pay the bills. Since our daughter went away to college he doesn't even pretend to like me and hints that I may be a lesbian. What should I do? Clueless Dear Clueless, Grow up and dump him. Good grief, woman! You don't need him anymore! You're a US Senator from New York running for President of the United States. Act like one!

DARA 1, MOUSE 0

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 18:14:59 GMT

At eighteen months old, Dara came into the formidable glory of her Siamese ancestry yesterday, and the soul of a small rodent who entered our abode alongside a propane line now passes through the pearly gates. I have had cats since 1979, and this is the first mouse kill. I couldn't believe the carnage! It covered a foot of rug. Alyn offered to bring home a can of "Acme Corpse Remover," but I did a pretty good job with the lavender cleanser from the Hispanic market. I pulled out the stove and an adjacent cabinet, cleaned up mouse feces and lost cat toys, repaired the backing on the cabinet, and am going out to get foam sealant to spray in the rodent super highway. Thanks, Dara! (And still she's crouching there waiting for another victim, too. Goooood little meezer!)

Boo Radley

briarroseTHESCAVENGERMYSTIC — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 19:14:01 GMT

The tree was burled, Small treasures shone. The fall wind skirled. Small fingers clasped. The dry leaves whirled. Carvings of bone? No, peels of soap uncurled As branches rasped. The walk was long. Tough branches rasped. “Footsteps?” “You’re wrong-- Just Hallowe’en.” A taunting song. Rough fingers grasped. A knife, a fall headlong. A friend unseen. Copyright Briar Rose 2007