Green Suns, Cloud Men, and Alien Landings…

I do not like 

Green eggs and ham

I do not like them


~Dr. Seuss

I’m not actually peddling green eggs or ham. But these photos put me in mind of something that is off the menu. A special (weird) request (obsession) that someone (me) might make. You might like these Green (or otherwise) Skies. Please keep in mind, I’m not trying to improve upon nature. That is one of the few things I do not believe is possible. However, I do believe you can improve upon bad shots or at the very least create something interesting out of something terrible.

Highway Shot: Green Sun

Highway Shot – Green Sun: I went really broad with the saturation and it turned the sun green. It reminded me so much of my home planet that I turned it up even further.


Highway Shot: Primitive Cloud Man

Highway Shot – Primitive Cloud Man: Yeah I know. You probably don’t see him. Somehow when I look at this light and cloud formation that’s what I see. There is a bird perched on one of his shoulders, who is telling him the latest Cloud Gossip. Primitive Cloud man’s head is shaped like a box. So, he is actually Box-Headed-Primitive-Cloud-Man. Hmm…now that I keep looking at him, he actually looks like he might have a beak. Or he could have some sort of lizard face. He may be dancing a jig. That’s what it looks like from here.


Highway Shot - The Aliens are Landing: Turns out they weren't actually landing. It was more of drive-by. Very disappointing.

Highway Shot – The Aliens are Landing: Turns out they weren’t actually landing. It was more of drive-by. I really thought my people had finally come to pick me. Very disappointing.


Spring Once Again vs Horticulture

“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”

~Margaret Atwood, “Bluebeard’s Egg”

If I weren’t a confirmed and *certified Brown Thumb, I might agree with the above quote. I don’t mind the smell of dirt (earth that is); however, it’s the planting of the seeds and then the maintaining of the little sproutlings that trips me up. I’m just no good at it. Since I have other skills (I make a mean lasagna), I do not let it get me down.

When it comes to flowers my preference are of the wild variety. Yeah, just let them sprout wherever they darn well please and grow at their own particular pace. Where do those wildflowers come from? I thought about it. And yes, I do realize there are science thingies called biology and horticulture. “Horticulture,” sounds a little snooty, doesn’t it? But that isn’t why it doesn’t interest me. No offense to any of you horticulturists out there (reading my blog?? Hah!), it just doesn’t interest me.  You may not have noticed, but I am much more fantasy, rather than science, orientated. So, I came up with my own version of what happens at spring.

You can find my tale on the Halloween Artist Bazaar site. Click on this link and it will take you straight to the short story “Spring Once Again.” Enjoy!

*Or was that certifiable? Ah well. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

Creepy Bunny Banner


Halloween Artist Bazaar is hosting a fabulous giveaway for the spring. The winner will receive a package of indie artisan handcrafted collectibles worth over $200. You can sign up for FREE by clicking on the image below:

Halloween Artist Bazaar...we're not just for Halloween anymore (or ever)

Halloween Artist Bazaar…we’re not just for Halloween anymore (or ever)

Breakfast with the Skulls…

I scurried up to the garden today,

Afraid I’d receive a surprise.

Don’t bother to follow me,

You’ll surely seal your demise.

For every skull that ever I’d drawn will gather there for purpose unknown,

Because today’s the day for pancakes and crumbs, it’s Breakfast with the Skulls.

 For entire lyrics, please click here.

~ To be sung to the tune of “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic”

It’s not as strange as it sounds, and it ended up to be far more genteel than I’d ever imagined.

The skulls of friends long past, the Guardians of the Garden, decided it was time for a meeting…with me. As soon as I received the invitation, the heart palpitations began. Yes, I had been hanging around Quentin’s estate for the last few months, but my manners are impeccable, aren’t they? I’d either been introduced or introduced myself  to everyone. I never drew portraits without asking permission, and so far, no one had turned me down. Was there rivalry among the skull ranks? Had I spent more time with one or the other? Did they dislike their likenesses? I had tried to explain that I’m not a fine artist. Was it the boxes I’d begun to paint? I got a notion in my head to paint their portraits on boxes. Do they disapprove? I should have asked. Why didn’t I ask?

I realize how this all sounds. None of them had actually given me any reason to think I’d offended or angered any one of them. That doesn’t stop me from making up reasons. Guilty conscience, I suppose.

Turns out they want to make me an honorary member of the Guardian Garden Skulls. At least I hope it’s only “honorary.” I am pleased, of course. I had no idea that they thought this highly of me and I’m touched.

My only concern now is the Swearing-In Ceremony. I have no problem swearing. I can do that from dawn to dusk and barely have to stop to take a breath. It’s the ceremony part that has me anxious. I just hope I get to keep my hair. None of them have any, you see. Hmm…perhaps I should be more concerned about keeping my skin? There really are drawbacks to being the lone human in household filled with immortal (and dangerous) creatures.

In preparation for Halloween and Dia de los Muertos, I’m actually painting skull boxes for breakfast and lunch (and sometimes dinner). The idea of being invited to Breakfast with the Skulls wouldn’t leave me in peace (so to speak) and I had to write it down. One of my Demon pals has been calling for me, too. What can I say? It’s Grand Central Weird around here.

Breakfast with the Skulls: The Lyrics

I scurried up to the garden today,

Afraid I’d receive a surprise.

Don’t bother to follow me,

You’ll surely seal your demise.

For every skull that ever I’d drawn will gather there for purpose unknown,

Because today’s the day for pancakes and crumbs, it’s Breakfast with the Skulls.

His name is DeLarge, of Clockwork Orange fame, and a relatively new addition to the Guardians of the Garden Skulls.

Every skull who’s been in a mood is sure to find I’ve not understood today.

They’ll sit and brood and eat lots of food: syrup and corn and gin alá mode ‘ole.

I’d better join them under the eaves where they sneak and peek ‘til I buckle my knees.

It really is Breakfast with the Skulls.

Her name is Bertie and she’s “just good friends” with Alan Mackenzie.

Breakfast time with the Skulls

The airy scary Skulls are plotting a diabolical deed today.

Scream it, shout it, show your hand and know they breakfast on a yoga mat.

Watch them madly roll around.

They love to flip and dance,

Don’t you wish they’d slip away?

At nine a.m. they’re stylish and ghostly

While goo crawls away into a pile of stew.

They’re wired up and letting you know it. Skulls.

~ To be sung to the tune of “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic”

Bits, Bobs, and Frederick

His name is Frederick. A truly Old World gentleman. He enjoys long strolls along the Seine River, reading the latest books on meteors,  deep sea diving, and brownie tasting. He also has a penchant for ladies undergarments, but try not to focus on that, all right?

Frederick all set for his daily constitutional along the banks of the River Seine. He is not a lover of the sun, so he often sets off in the early morning hours or just after sundown. He’s wearing a new pair of sunglasses that he fashioned himself.

Yeah, yeah “Three’s a Crowd,” but how about twenty? Why stop there? I’ll tell you why…

My imaginary friend got lonely while I was away…so I created another imaginary friend. I call them IF 1 and IF 2. These two ended up having an argument (it was terrible…who knew that make-believe friends could get so out of control?). Afterwards, as you can imagine (hah!) things were quite tense what with these two not speaking to each other. Worse yet, I got the impression (neither of them actually said, but I sort of picked up on it) that they blamed me. All I did was create them! What they end up doing after that is up to them, you know? Unfortunately, the two of them not speaking really bothered me and I just couldn’t leave things like that, could I? So I created a new friend for each of them. This didn’t quite solve matters, because even though IF 1 and IF 2 eventually made up not everyone wanted to be around each other all the time, so I [gulp] sort of created six more. I know, I know!! But my thinking was that this way they could all mix and mingle, right? I thought I was doing the right thing, but then math has never been my strong suit. Next thing I know, I had to separate three of them from the others, the “Troublemaker Trio,” I call them (okay, so I’m not so creative when it comes to naming my imaginary friends). With the Troublemaker Trio roaming around and taking advantage of everyone else things began to seriously escalate into the makings of a real (and I use the word “real” loosely, of course) crisis. Three is never a good number (what? you didn’t know that there are good numbers and bad numbers? who’s nuts now??); therefore, I had to create another one to make that group an even four. Things seemed to calm down considerably, but after all this, I finally created another new friend for the first imaginary friend (who didn’t seem to be getting along with any of the “newbies”…that’s gratitude for you).

My problem now (yeah, I am actually aware that this isn’t my only problem) is that it doesn’t appear to be stopping (the whole creating more and more imaginary friends…although, I’m beginning to think that “friends” may not be the right thing to call them…but don’t tell “them” I said that, okay?). This all started out so simple (as simple as complexes can be) and I did have the best of intentions (hah, you know what “they” say about intentions). Lastly, and I really hate to admit this, but to add another layer to this kind of freakish problem, I’m afraid that I’m either forgetting who I’ve created or [insert appropriately terrifying revelation music here] my imaginary friends are beginning to create their own imaginary friends. Or, oh horror of horrors, [that appropriately terrifying revelation music you inserted above? amplify it here] maybe they’ve been doing this all along? Crap. What the heck would these creations be called? Imaginary imaginaries? Imaginary Make Believe Imaginings? Whatever. All I know is that it’s getting awfully crowded in here and there are only so many brain cells to go around…


Being a writer is like being possessed by a strange (is there any other kind?) beast, who can force you to do its bidding at any hour and any place. This Beast doesn’t care if you’re at your day job, in the middle of a dinner party, rock climbing, giving the baby a bath, or even asleep after a way-too-long, punishing day (at the day job). The Beast wakes you up and drags you from your bed with promises of excitement and the possibility of satisfaction. Yeah. Weird, huh? Honestly, honestly the writer has no control over the Beast. Even desperate pleas of tiredness or not-now’s appease it not! 

Why do I call “it” a Beast? What would you call something that drags you out of bed in the proverbial middle of the night? Sue? Kevin? I don’t think so. Actually, I do sometimes call my beast Harold. “Harold” just sounds less intimidating than “Beast.”

Once that Harold (or whatever you call the Beast) grabs you by the throat and forces you down in front of the computer screen, typewriter, pen and paper, you are riveted. You must write whatever Harold tells you to and no breaks are allowed. You are not allowed to eat, answer the phone, clean your kitchen, down an Ibuprofen because your back and neck are killing you from typing away for hours upon hours (even if it is on the same freaking sentence!!!!), or even have a pee. Sometimes, while in the grip of Harold, I find myself forgetting to breathe and suddenly have to gasp for air, as if I were drowning (or being choked). Yay! Whoo-hoo! It is SO way fun being a writer! Sorry, Harold. We humans need to breathe. Not buying it? Look at this way, if I don’t breathe your fun ends. Get it?

Of course, no one else can see this Beast…until you read the writer’s work. Then the Beast is revealed in all its gloriousness (or un-gloriousness, depending). The funny (not really) thing is, there isn’t just one Beast! Oh no. Things couldn’t be that easy, could they? Hell no. Harold is not alone. There are a multitude of Beasts and where Harold leaves off, another is quite happy to take his place. Sadly, sadly the writer’s relationship with the Beast(s) actually begins in fear, runs to excitement, then back to fear and…dependence. It’s all a bit Stockholm Syndrome really. Because you know what happens next? Harold rubs his hands together with glee at this bit! He disappears. Yep. Leaves you hanging. Nasty, bad Harold! So there you are, half way out of a plane, just dangling over the middle of the Sahara (or places much less glamorous, you just never know).

In anguish, you may decide to strike out on your own. Yeah, who needs that freaking Beast anyway? I can do this. Hah! Novice, eh? You can’t go anywhere without the Beast, man. You want to keep it real? Then you have to move with the Beast.

If this all sounds nuts (what? seriously?) then, well it probably IS nuts. But we writers really can’t help it. So read our stuff and have a smidge of pity for us. We may have written this at 7:00 in the morning, after finally dropping off to sleep at 3:00 and left to our Own Devices (sounds totally ominous, doesn’t it?) you begin to jot down this drivel and decide to share it with others and- Crap. Gotta go, Harold is calling…