The Dupery

2006-12-24T01:02:00.000-08:00

12.23.06

Little vlog. Little ham. Little awesome.

Ghostly grandmother

2006-10-29T20:24:00.000-08:00

Ghostly grandmother
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

Fin.

2006-10-12T23:28:00.000-07:00

Feel not neglected.

We have come to the end, and that is all. Not a door to new beginnings, not another adventure's start, the finish.

And it has been good.

A Trip to Powells

2006-08-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

Gargoyles and Room 028
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

Downtown is pretty.

Not pretty like a flower, but more anthropologically. As a starting mark, the bums. We walk down the graffitied sidewalk stepping over tree grates filled with cigarette butts and the legs of a black man passed out blocking the way. This corner smells like piss and I suggest we find higher ground or a bookstore for refuge. The bookstore smells like spices, and because it is a used bookstore, like a thousand unique bookworms, this one a young hippie using Horoscope (Pisces) cologne, this one old, wrinkled and smelling of the same toilet water she's used for 40 years.

Back in the real world, a woman asks for money in a voice rasping from Marlboros, her face sagging with poverty and humiliation. Coldly we pass and don't make eye contact. Head for the Pearl.

I think of the unemployment/handout line near the bridge entrance and twenty or thirty men bunched together, some carrying tents, or nothing, or clothes, or with shopping carts full of bags and bottles, stooping over the wire mesh to protect the precious goods. Eventually the doors open, they're in line for food stamps and we're in the clean streets.

The Mandatory Update.

2006-05-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

Feel like I'm nothin without you.

2006-05-12T12:39:00.000-07:00

It's three miles to the river where you laied down your head. Dorwn'en in a river of tears. Isn't it a funny thing how music does that to you? Tow months to the dusty street that i saw you on today. It's four months to my lonly room where i will ide my lonly where i will hide my face. WOw i shouldn't listen to music like this. There we go something slightly lighter. The royal Tenenbaum. THat is a kickass movie for thoes of you who are so un lucky that you haven't seen it. Here are some pics'n'stuff for your vewing pleasure.

My selective memory won't let me

2006-03-18T00:22:00.000-08:00

A long time ago near a small stream lived three elephants. The first elephant was a shadeless black like the pupils of your eyes. The second was almost clear and when it moved it was like the ripples on a cold pond or the heat rising off a dusty road. The third was gray and just a little dusty. The three elephants frequented the same watering hole and over time became close friends. They shared many of their deepest thoughts and feelings and helped each other in their times of trial. When the black elephant fell in a hole and broke it's leg, the other two were there to nurse it back to health and commiserate. When the clear elephant's mother drowned herself in the river, the others were there to help it through. And when the gray elephant was feeling down on life, the other two were always there to send along some happy thoughts.
One year there was a terrible drought and all the streams stopped flowing and the meres turned to small sticky pools of mud, buzzing with wasps. In their searches for water, the three friends ventured farther and farther apart until at last they stopped seeing each other all together. Perhaps one day the rains will come. But until then, their paths will be only occasionally clear and sometimes black. And just a little dusty.

Another Writing Exercise.

2006-03-06T12:54:00.000-08:00

Shushann burst from her shielding shrub, picked a point from her quiver and seamlessly fit it to the bow. She forced the arrow back, her biceps hardly strained, and let fly. At the same time, Sean watched his sister scrupulously, admiring her technique, proud he had taught her all that she knew. From father to son, from son to sister, the knowledge ran. The deer went down quietly because the arrow had pierced its heart; Shushann had good aim.
"We have to get her back quickly, get the ropes," Sean said, and checked the deer to make sure she was indeed deceased.
Shushann grabbed the coil of cord and brought it and their little red wagon over to her brother. Together they slid each bit of fresh meat onto the wagon, and secured it with the rope. Limp legs first, then head, torso, and back end. The little red wagon sagged, and as they pulled it along the dusty road to their house the right front wheel squeaked every half rotation. They gained an entourage of mosquitos as the sun drooped, and an escort of bloated bites where the mosquitos feasted.

Shushann.

2006-03-05T11:58:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a girl named Shushann. Shushann loved to sing and dance and she had three brothers who loved her and who were overprotective. The youngest brother, who was first first older brother was named Sean, and he liked to hunt. The second oldest brother was named Aidan, and he liked to read and write, and was apprentice to a prophet and scholar. The oldest brother, and first child of Shushann's poor deceased parents was named Jamoh, and he was a gardener and peaceful by nature. Shushann hated fairy tales, and because her parents were dead, was raised by her brothers who taught her the ways of a tomboy. She liked to wrestle, she liked to hunt, but couldn't avoid the fact that she squatted when she peed. This year, Shushann is 11. This day she had decided to go hunting. This minute, she was kneeling behind a bush, thinking of Freud's Id, and eyeing a deer. She fingered her bow, and felt the press of her quiver in the sweater on her back. Sean was 30 feet off to the left, and he gave her the signal. They gave chase.

Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally.

2006-02-21T19:43:00.000-08:00

Wazza, wazza, wazza! I am a samurai! Watch out for my sword 'cause it's slicey sharp, and there ain't no band aid stand for miles around. Thirty six point five mile to be relatively precise, I swam it all once, and man was I tired. I was so tired, man, I was beat. Boy, I was beat, woman, I tell you. After I did the swimming I came back and tried to feed the cat, her name is Twinklypie (man I love pie) but she bit me on the thumb. Right on the thumb, I'm telling you the truth. Now I don't think I like Twinklypie anymore.

Terrors Untold.

2006-02-20T00:17:00.000-08:00

Seems every time I turn around there's something heaving itself onto a pulpit in front of my dagger and begging me to delve into their heaving breast to relieve them of some terror untold. It's like one housand one catch-you-up-to-speed first chapters of cheap novels, or three cats that don't know where the cat door is. Many times when I blog I feel like starting a sentence with the ward today, but I ttry to avoid it. And then there are people issues. It's like my age is ...relative? Like my age is relative, yeah, that makes sense, and I'm not just spewing randomness here. Around some people I feel young and dumb (Though the two concepts don't always coincide, perhaps ignorant is a better term) and around others I feel like wisdom of the ages is thumping alongside my heart. I'm thinking to myself, "Wazza? Pardonné moi? Qu'est-ce que tu dis?" and they are staring back at me with blank eyes. Writing what I am thinking down helps to pinpoint what's going on in my mind, and I feel like I can organize my thoughts. Maybe others get that organization some other way. Hmm, I'm examining that theory for loopholes. Maybe I can postulate and copyright some day! In any case, while reading the psychology textbook in the torrential disorganization downstairs T, Camilla and I said how old we think of ourselves as. I think of myself as 16, T half the time knows himself as 15, and the other half the time as some younger, more mischevious and generally worse person, and Camilla thinks of herself as ...what did she say? It was either her true age or older. Some time later that rise and set Tristan told me the Dupery was in dire need of updating, and so, here I am, though I needed a good down to Earth chat into the entry box. It's all for the best then. (And the word dire stems from the Latin word dira meaning dreadful or awful. We read past it in the Cambridge book! Yes, I was excited. Okay, okay, okay, if you insist I'll find the sentence;
"'Ubi servi horreum aedificabant, domine, res dira accidit.'" Which means, "When the slaves were building the barn, master, there was a dreadful accident." Turns out a bull got loose froma retarded British slave and ra into some walls, terrifying other slaves. I predict he's going to be sent to the exucutioner by his master, the hero of the book, Salvius.)

The Chew.

2006-02-10T23:40:00.000-08:00

chew, chew, chew
Originally uploaded by thehouseaddition.

This is Camilla when she gets some bread. When we are in need, on our own, the parents away, we have no guardians to keep us from ravaging what nutrients we find scattered here and about. The earring especially add a little je ne sais quoi, and her grinning made me laugh which made her laugh which made her spew bread crumbs everwhere. Good times, I'm telling you, good times.

Is Suicide Part of Your Culture?

2006-02-06T21:56:00.000-08:00

IMG_4145
Originally uploaded by thehouseaddition.

The t-shirt theory. What t-shirts would you wear? Discover the meaning of context. No one thinks that you are evil. And no one won't like you if you truly say what you mean. There's a certain amount of risk that you have to take. A certain amount of things that you have to say to test who wants to push you into the dirt. But no ones going to "Step on your face," though I don't like that phrase.
My inpression has been, "Not much."
Only half of these thoughts are my own. I'm typing what people are saying.

Shhhhhhhh they might here

2006-01-31T15:50:00.000-08:00

You had beeter keep it down or youy just might end up at the bottum of a floded lawn inhaling bits of grass and cherfull garden gnoms with littel red hats. You wil never know till you try, so go ahed and scream and shout and juma up and down eating pink marshmellos and singing songs of hoppe and love for all I care. I woundderwhat happens when you fly the tabel into a garden full of gum? of if you have a hoppo lance a boil? I don't know. maby you should all just eat a good pita, or as my bro informs me, panda.

Drive.

2006-01-29T19:02:00.000-08:00

IMG_3543
Originally uploaded by thehouseaddition.

Five minutes. Okay. Think, think, thinkedy think. To go, or not to go. Don't go if you don't want to. Talk to me?
Wazza? Am IO typing in a blank space? How many times have you gone? Can you hang up the laundry please? Sure but that requires us to take off the old stuff. Yikes. Wat do say, what to do, when to stop, how to die. Wait. Why am I typing again?
Oh.
Yeah.
That.

Totality.

2006-01-27T18:02:00.000-08:00

IMG_3539
Originally uploaded by thehouseaddition.

I've been offered the chance to find my spirit guide. I'll take it, like a juicy fruit package at King's. Smiling arrows on the desktop open the world. Let the stuff all in, let out that satisfying knowledge that your eyestalks have shunk to the size of miniature ponies. Keep in mind the ratio of pony to clydesdale, and you get the point. Today is Mozart's birthday, and inside we listened to to his tribute on CBC. Camilla put on the water for some hot chocolate, and I played DJ playing a cd called "Menage a Quatre;" some ancient french music. I really enjoy some of it, but it certainly manipulates the moods. There is an inspirational fourth track, and I know this entry should have less concrete, more thoeoretical meanderings, but that's not where the notes are taking me. Paws is under he stove Charlie is lying on the couch in some strange slouch position probably recommended by his chiropractor. Camilla lets her new pens install images and concepts in her colorful journal.

2006-01-27T12:12:00.000-08:00

You're running down a long hill into a green valley below. Running for your life. The round red clock that chases you leaps of rocks and hummocks gaining slowly. Your heart pounds in your chest and you find a second wind. But just when you think you've made it to the bottom, out of nowhere there springs skull with watch faces in its shadeless black eye sockets, the hands revolving faster and faster. You can't stop yourself in time and you run headlong into it's gaping rictus. The world turns on end and a wave of black fog washes over you like the swarm of ants coming to eat feast on your eyes out of lifeless sockets. As you fade into oblivion all you hear is the scurrying of millions of tiny feet and the relentless ticking of the the clock.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Blink

IMG_4061

2006-01-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

IMG_4061
Originally uploaded by thehouseaddition.

I wonder what the thing in my neck is thinking when it crunches as I stretch my neck from left to right. Probably just about the same thing as my ankle, being smashed into the floor when I sit cross legged. Or what the muscles exclaimed when I stopped going to yoga, or quizás something just the same as a pitiful mew from this arithritic cat on my knee. How many times can the same thing be said before the point gets across or before we decide it doesn't matter. How may times can something be profound in a row? What are the odds that I care? What are the odds? Questions are so unappealing. To rea them in an essay- without an explanation- is near to rude. I mean, I'm reading the essay to fnd something out, not to have my unruly mind pummeled with rhetorical questions thatt took 5 seconds to think up, and 20 minutes to translate into a ccomputer. If people would think before the wrote, not like this piece, not like this piece at all, the world would have better essay/ists. This piece was written becasuue it's an assignment I set up for myself. Five minutes a day ((usually less if I'm typing as fast as I can) of non stop, "What's Emily thinking?"" and this is what you get. Shoes off in the corner, near to the stove, the black tove, going on and on, in an expanive manner like Agnes Perdita X Nitts rolling hills and dales. My ankle is still whining and my left legs asleep. Maybe I will edit these later, stecthing out my mind and my groggy limb.

Lazyboy/girl/cat.

2006-01-24T23:46:00.000-08:00

IMG_2890
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

Julie votes quantity over quality because of something she read once. It just goes to show how often books are right. The more you do, the better you get if you have any initiative at all. Not having inspiration or motivation is a lame excuse for ...not so much being lazy...but not wanting to put out the effort to let yourself fall. If you don't write, you can't fall, except in the cosmic sense that if you don't write, you have fallen...but then that's another verb conjugation to remember, isn't it? But then, what it all comes down to is the difference between imparfait and passe composé.

Bird Shit on the Railing.

2006-01-23T18:51:00.000-08:00

IMG_3003
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

Bird Shit, both descriptives capitalised, on the railing, and my cat on the desktop. She sits here because it's warm and she doesn't have to risk being sat on in the main house. One time Camilla crunched her cat who was hiding out under some clothes in a laundry basket. After a while she heard a muted "Meow, get off me, bitch!" coming from somewhere. She slumped lower in the basket, wondering where in hells name her cat could be, and why she sounded so distressed. Thankfully, in the end the cat was alright besides a squashed liver and some internal bleeding (no, actually she was merely traumatized) and Camilla swore to avoid it in the future. Dotingly she rewards her cat for doing it's catly best with a saucer of milk placed conveinantly on the floor where we tall folks tap it, splattering the milk on our toes and across the floor.
In the cabin we grab at Lucky, tossing her from one attendant of the school to another, she acting as a tennis ball being chucked playfully about. Her chubby ball of rum butter body bobbing, we greedily grapple and tear at her fur.

Fish Lips.

2006-01-22T23:56:00.000-08:00

IMG_4202
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

Teenale Femage.

2006-01-22T00:04:00.000-08:00

IMG_3272
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

Feeling whorish doesn't have to be part of the job description. Sure, everyone takes insomnia, bad mothers, and tomato cravings for granted, it doesn't have to be the same way throwing sex around. Unless that's your game. Then, well, whatever floats your boat. Feeling inspiration sink outa site oughta be disallowed because it's like seeing the end of writers block and then having the cure taken away and buried like a deadman in the backyard. Think of all the women who married for money, chopped thier spouses to bits, and put them in the backyard. Now there's a petunia bed on the limbs and his upturned eyeballs, and that gold digger bitch is sitting inside, munching like nothing's the matter at all on her cheap white wicker chair in her wall-papered kitchen. The one son she didn't want but who slipped past her pill plays in the computer room, 200 pounds at age ten, entranced with his Runescape and flickering images. In ten years he'll be legally blind, and refuse to eat anything but potato chips or twinkies. What are her logistics? It's one thing to whore if you're trying to feed your 17 starving children, and it's another if you do it for sport. What are the moral differences? What are the omnipotent philosophical cogitations? Maybe the world needs some uneducated whores just to make sure we remember the words less than 4 and a half syllables long. On another dead mans cold, lifeless, and Miracle Grow covered hand, people who see a whore in distress might consider it a good deed to either help or put her out of her misery. Just how much worse is it with petunias on your head?

My Faceless Girl.

2006-01-21T00:46:00.000-08:00

IMG_3245
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

She's in focus up to her neck. Everything's clear and crisp, and her stiff torso makes sure she keeps on breathing, keeps on making the world spin. She doesn't have to worry about making the blood flow hot, not lukewarm, but hot through her veins and not yet hamburgered arteries. Don't worry about her legs, since they're not in the box, but they're fine, just trust me, put your care in my hand, and I'll divine it away. Burn it up in our burn pile, complete with pure gypsy. She'll dance round our flame, our pagan responses, childhood aspirations akindle in the blue boiling stream. It'll rise up, smoking its pot pipe, sitting out dorm windows testing the gravity. Moving on, her face is a blur 'cause inside things are moving at lightspeed, except even fester than that. Everything inside is moving so fast that her perfect world was formed, and thngs are how they seem. Her face is a blur 'cause that's what it seems. And it doesn't mean she's daft. And it doesn't mean her power cord is broken in two. And it doesn't have a damn thing to do with pagan holidays and burn piles. It's just to do with how things should be, and then again, how they are.

Matchbox.

2006-01-19T20:46:00.000-08:00

IMG_4077
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

The matchbox holds the key to the universe. Just like a long rant to a friend while you're IMing. Maybe not the key to the universe. Maybe it just clarifies a tiny part of that long list in your head of notes from experiences. Some call them opinions. Sometimes you rant to a friend, tell them what you are thinking, and pretty soon you realize they have lost you. And you are far, far away in a land they have never seen and will never visit, and they still say that they understand, that they support you one hundred and fifty percent. And then you think about the phrase. Hey, they can't support more than a hundred percent, and probably not more than 50. What percentage do they support themselves with if it's all geared toward me? And, "That is so cliche!" It's so cliche it's not even cliche anymore. It's made a full circle of cliche, not cliche, and back to the first one again. It's like they are finishing up their dinner while they chat with you and they are more interested in the chicken teriyaki then your crisis or epiphany. And then they type something like, "Well, g2g, feel better." And you say to yourself, "Well fuck a duck. All my passion got flushed down a toilet." You had a forest of passionate and deep musings, and someone struck a summer match, and burned them and you to a crisp. Just the one match. Save your trees. Only you can prevent wildfires.

Rope out my Window.

2006-01-18T19:14:00.000-08:00

IMG_3982
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

There's a rope out my window, making me think of escaping. Why to escape? Why must as humans we look at the choices, we look at the music, the art, the noise, the blue cloudless sky? Why must we see rabbits, skyscrapers, shapes in the clouds when clouds as themselves are just as well off? Seventeen thousand nine hundred million two billion fireworks set off near my eyes. The gink near my ear drum, the flute hits a breadcrumb, why do we need these inconsistancies? And why, why, why, must society ban them, dub them as silly, trivial, a fact of the past, a game of your little ones? Little they be, but just as adjusted, sing, sing it out, use your vocal harmonics. Use those short sharps and flats, make a staff of assurance. Write me a song, serenade in the summer, put a rope out my window, help escape from the pattern.

the slithsome snorbat

2006-01-18T17:54:00.000-08:00

if cristel goblests filed with broling slime pored forth from taps of gold and grime, ate through the tabel down the stones and cuts through flesh and britel bones.
and down the trough and on the ground come sprinkeling with the snow and sleet, and charres feel the scalding rain and frankly frightening heat.

Naked Unicorn.

2006-01-17T22:43:00.000-08:00

IMG_3045
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

The naked unicorn parades on it's leash. It's endless stories are only told through tongue, a language and passage as irrelevent, obsolete, and unsuccessful as the jelly doughnut. He has no hands to hold, no fingers with which to cherish a red pen. No ballpoint for this pony.
The naked unicorn delights in being led, his visions and hallucinations brought about with auditory stimuli, but mostly with a tug on the bit. A notable trait to mark down on his paper thick clipboard. He trots, but never cantors because he hasn't ever read about it. Hasn't ever tried his feet, because no one told him to or how. The day he was born his autistic mother forgot to think about the unicorns definition. She couldn't see her horn, that most magical asset. What made sense was Lamarckian and she had no sense of the word horn nor Mendel. No idea what lay upon her head, or inside it for that matter. She didn't know to think of thoughts. Her son has no horn, this duos non belief so powerful it changed their world, and ultimate truths.

Crafts.

2006-01-17T01:39:00.000-08:00

IMG_3881
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

The Indians say their art is sacred, but it isn't any more sacred than anyone elses. Except for maybe a scrapbookers art, or something cheap like that. Don't get me wrong, I love scrapbooking, but not with little stickers, and pre-made stencils, those stupid thin cardboard backrounds, or To/From stamps. Or what about the 17 (thousand) different types of glue that you need to know about to apply this to that. Or the paper. Never the right paper. Rubber stamps work half the time, you have to practice to get them right, just like everything else. Stationary costs and arm, a leg and some cartilege. To see it on a card table in someone's front drive the summer day they decided to have a garage sale because thier pink lemonade wouldn't sell on the corner, it looks shabby and lame. It makes me invision some sad fat woman, her love handles not quite as lovely as they used to be, her 4 rotund chins getting out of control, making sure these were true Australian Rhinestones she was attatching to her greeting cards. She's already shelled out 200 dollars for the things, and 66 dollars in handling charges. She doesn't believe they are real, and she doesn't like the design of the card. She doesn't like the print, the set saying the flaps house, "May the Good Lord Bless you and You Loved Ones," or the way she can't scoot her chair in because her fat belly hits the table. She doesn't like the American Dream, the movie "Serendipity," or hunkachunk ice cream. She wants to do some art. Either that or to scream. Who put this table in the way?

Death.

2006-01-15T16:20:00.000-08:00

IMG_3676
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

No more rats under the house, watch your feet, watch your childrens mouths, and don't let them fall into the 10 gallon bucket of paint thinner either. Never forget the emergency poison line in case the rat poison drips out of the attic on a rainy night and into your husbands mouth as he lies next to you in your bed (379-284-3690), and keep in mind that the traps near the garbage can under the sink need to be changed every few months to prevent seepage into the already molding floortile. Never let your children drink the air from the heater vents out of fear that the mold spores will penetrate their unhealthy lungs, never let them play in the mud outside- there are wasps and bacteria, and things that hunt immune. Keep your eye out, and make sure you set the death, that way false securities can be justified.

"¿Where do we keep the tagboard?"

2006-01-14T15:45:00.000-08:00

IMG_3679
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

Where do we keep the tagboard, I have so much to do, and finding the bloody tagboard isn't on my list. Hey now, hey now, don't get yourself in a tizzy just 'cause the tagboards took a trip. A little vacation, shall we say, a visit to it's maker, an off island habitation for a while. Who do you think you are knocking over the boxl of kibbles like that, stepping on the bowl while taking off the sheetrock to disentangle the loft from the house? In spanish grammar, how are we to do? We can make and get, but we can't do. What's to become of the kibble bowl?

Bottle Spirit.

2006-01-12T23:17:00.000-08:00

IMG_3525
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

Inside each bottle lie in wait the spirits to take you away. They reach out, lashing, thoroughly and entrancingly, daring you to come closer, closer, closer until it's so late in the game the credits have started rolling and you're struggling to read who played your favorite roll. So, you slide your sleeves up and say to yourself and your captor, "You let me out or I'll step on your toes." What choice do they have? They let you free, you turn your back, and they trip you. As cunning and mischevious as the notorious coyote, but dangerous, much more dangerous because not only do they have teeth, but they have poison dart tails, piecing deep into the flesh, biting, shooting you full of their spirit badness. You flood, spill over, a self pours out as the spirits pour in. No longer are you. No longer can you drink them in.

No green M&Ms, or else...

2006-01-11T13:04:00.000-08:00

I found the message. It had been scrawled in fake blood and stabbed to the pumpkin with a switchblade comb. It read as follows: “If you ever want to see Snookers again, you must obey the following instructions precisely. Come to the big tree across the field at sundown in three days. Wear a pink hat to identify yourself. The ransom, one thousand M&Ms with the green ones removed, must be put into two brown paper bags and left at the bottom of the tree. If you have the ransom, Snookers will be there. Remember, come alone. And no green M&Ms, or the deal is off.”
It was signed “The Piranha Gang.” A needless formality; I knew who was behind all this.
I began to formulate a plan.

Knock the great sloth down on his ass.

2006-01-11T12:33:00.000-08:00

"I hate a Roman named Status Quo! Stuff your eyes with wonder, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that! Shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass."

I'm going to eat you for breakfast.

2006-01-09T19:18:00.000-08:00

IMG_3493
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

and afterwards I'm going to clean off the corners of my mouth with an embroidered hanky.

Camilla loves her brothers.

2006-01-09T19:13:00.000-08:00

IMG_3492
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

Here, she expresses her adoration in a new and exciting way.

Tristan-winky

2006-01-09T15:42:00.000-08:00

Tristan-winky
Originally uploaded by hornedgnome.

so my fine yourng friends, this is what happens if you eat toomeny radishes. let that be a leson to you.

Tonight.

2006-01-09T01:48:00.000-08:00

six-of-em
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

Tonight in the kitchen we stood and sat around. Our evil clones were also in attendance.

E

2006-01-09T01:44:00.001-08:00

Emily-1-1
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

E with a twist.

2006-01-09T01:44:00.000-08:00

Emily-2-2
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

This post is for my Dad.

2006-01-08T16:52:00.000-08:00

IMG_3275
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

So...Dad.
Check the blogs.

Love ya!
Emsa

Due Random Spontaneity:
Mozarts birthday is on the 27th of this month. He will be celebrating his 250th year.

School!

2006-01-08T16:37:00.000-08:00

IMG_3236
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

School time, and T told me to sport a puppy-dog lip. You can see we're hard at work studying zoplankton, phytoplankton and the effects of severe puppy-dog lip syndrome.

Shoe shopping.

2006-01-08T16:27:00.001-08:00

IMG_3267
Originally uploaded by biscotti321654.

Took T shoe shopping in Friday Harbor. Here we see a lovely display of unconventional and highly disfunctional footwear. Un-tractioned, silky, slinky, flowered, embroidered. Who buys this stuff? It looks like it needs to be framed!

Existential Funk

2006-01-07T16:37:00.000-08:00

When I find myself in an existential funk, I find that, instead of going to the zoo and flipping off the monkeys, like many great men and women before me have, I turn to blogging. Let this be a blog of random realease and spontaneity.

To Set Things Straight:

2006-01-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

IMG_2983
Originally uploaded by plumosita.

Y called it a playground. I think of it as a somewhat disciplined and vaguely monitored dump for ideas and the like. You know, maybe a relief of writers block or a fun read for when you want to check that you're sane. Basically a filler for our old site which turned into a pickle because it was the last sock in the washing machine.