Monday, March 31, 2014

But Wait, a Commercial Break: Back to my Roots

I wanted to write today about Christopher's thirty-second birthday, not so much about the day, exactly, but, well...those ruminations will have to wait another twenty-four, or so, hours.

Because I'm caught up and ahead at work and because my editorial assistant was gone today, I received permission to work offsite today at Christopher's apartment, in Chanahon, the village where we lived for many years before foreclosure, homelessness, etc.

Christopher's apartment is down the street from our old house. It's the site of most of my freelance work this past fall and the temporary home of my four cats. Temporary is right, because Christopher and his finacee, the lovely Jennifer Blades, well, they have some exciting news to share. And I'll wait until I'm free to share it.

In the meantime, interspersed with already scheduled interviews and deadlines, I cuddled the cats--and Faith sat on the back of my chair for old times sake, even though it was a kitchen chair and not my old office chair, which is probably still sitting in the abandoned attic--and walked the old route, the streets where I mourned lost love, mentally wrote several books, rejoiced in heart desires come true, reflected on the past and present and made plans for the future...oh, so many things!

The weather was mild; the breeze blew through me, adding to the exhilaration, and the sun shone warm. God is good; life is good.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Quick Weekend Recap

Really quick recap, as tomorrow's an extra early day with deadlines snapping pretty quickly. Tomorrow, I'll give more time to elaborate on a very special day today.

Saturday's vendor fair: Sold one candle, no books, HOWEVER, I didn't expect to sell any books. Vendor fairs are for branding, visibility, and card distribution only; I consider any sales bonuses. Otherwise, I'd bring baked goods.

Nevertheless, I considered it a success because:

   *  People stopped to look because they were familiar with the product.

   *  One Brownie Scout pranced by, skidded to a halt, glanced back at Bryony, and said, "My sister has this book," before skipping away. She came back later with another girl, who took a card.

   *  One very artsy looking young man all in demin, long hair in a pony tail, head topped with an awesome hat, stayed a long time, carefully reading back covers and flipping through books before slowly moving away. And Rebekah and I both instantly knew when he approached our table that he fit the profile of the type of reader we felt the books would attract.

   *  I hung out six hours with Rebekah and had a blast.

Writer workshop: I spent a couple of hours with the two fiction writers I'm mentoring, at their insistence as I won't have an open Saturday for the next month. I'm thrilled at their progress and humbled to have played a small part in that progress. More on this another time.

Today, my oldest son turned thirty-two, and we celebrated with quite the family party. More on this tomorrow.


Friday, March 28, 2014

Two Weeks of Story Round-Up (On Time Today, How 'Bout It?)

And, no, I forgot all week to copy and save the day's link, so I'm going back and doing it now, thanks to the insomnia that's plagued me the last two nights, ugh.

No story link this time, I'm afraid. While I adore the new job, I haven't had time for any "extra" reading ('cept the stack by my bed). So now, without further ado:

Plainfield volunteer dedicated to ministry through music

For over 20 years, Kathy Misurac has entertained nursing home residents by singing songs they love to hear and accompanying herself with either the acoustic guitar, ukulele, piano or accordian. And the families love her.

Frankfort hog farmer shared knowledge, history

And that knowledge benefitted other farmers, his family, and even the youngest of school children.

Trainer offers free program at Joliet shelter

Plus, she shares the number one reason why dogs don't obey. Do you know what that is?

Jopliet woman's group starts scholarship to help families affected by Goltz syndrome.

It's a syndrome so rare, one woman's granddaughter has to attend a yearly conference to meet other children like her.

Serving up fine cuisine

The fundraiser is past, but these area men share their finest cooking tips.

Joliet orthodontist organizes mission trip to Tanzania

Dr. Clarence Red thought he could get away with simply offering a monetary donation. Instead, Red was challenged, and that challenge changed his life.

Kidz Jam allows youth to share musical talents

A regular public jam session for kids? Read on!

Book about founder of Joliet community center benefits programs

A collection of essays about Kathleen Bolden allow her to continue the mission she worked so hard to initiate.

Joliet man was at home in the world

Robert Marquardt befriended animals and took his family beyond the confines of their home.

Peotone man turns farm into horse rescue

He really only wanted to raise horses as his mother had before him, until a school for autistic children called him.,+community+service

Peotone church prepares to host annual beef dinner

They whip up homemade potatoes to serve a crowd of eight hundred and feature gooseberry pie and the dessert menu.

Joliet woman shares story of abuse so others will find healing through Jesus Christ

Her story of incest is shocking; her courage is inspiring.

Fitness personality Jillian Michaels to motivate audiences at Joliet's Rialto Square Theatre

The "behind the scenes" Michaels viewers don't see on TV.


Thursday, March 27, 2014

Another "Staked!" Delay

Turns out Sarah Stegall has not yet uploaded the manuscript to Createspace, citing formatting issues.

No longer a stay at home mom (thanks to all the great training she had helping me :) ), Sarah only has an hour a day to work on correcting the issues. Going is slow, but she is making progress.

We thank the BryonySeries reading audience for your patience.

Annnnnd, if you're a writer, or you know a writer, I'll be at Judson Memorial Church in Joliet this Saturday with BryonySeries product, taking chances for the first copy of Staked!, and performing writing assessments for charity.

If youi'd like details, message me at bryonyseries@ or and/or read this blog post:

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

This Saturday

I will be one of 50 vendors at the "Spring Haiti Orphan Craft and Vendor Fair" at Judson Memorial Baptist Church, 2800 Black Road, Joliet.

The event is a fundraiser for Faith in Action Orphanage in Haiti. In addition, thirty percent of BryonySeries (books AND candles) will be donated to the cause.

Pining for the release of Staked!? Take a chance on winning the first copy by dropping your name and contact info into my Bryony music box!

Furthermore, if you (or someone you know) is a writer, I will also provide writer assessments, with one hundred percent of the money donated to the orphanage (I only do writer assessments as fundraisers). Typically, these are $5 for fifteen minutes of a sample piece of writing.

Questions? Message me at


Monday, March 24, 2014

Monday Morning Munsonville Musings

While sipping coffee and eyeing a clock moving faster than the work I can complete, these are the thoughts running through my mind:

   *  Gotta get better at saving my story links so I can post Friday's Story Round-Up in a timely fashion, instead of watching Friday speed away, choosing fiction over blogging, and promising myself I will post "later." I mean, seriously, how difficult is it to copy and paste one story link per day into a file? Sheesh, Denise!

   *  Before the Blood will be reduced to mere pecks for the next month. Vendor Fair, church spaghetti dinner fundraiser and birthday surprise for Rebekah, author fair, and Pascha will gobble up the next four weeks of Saturdays.

   *  Wondering if Sarah has FINALLY added the author and illustrator pages and uploaded Staked! to Createspace? Guessing not, because I have no email telling me the online proof is ready.

   *  Gotta finish my presentation and send summary and photo to coordinator of that said author fair. Yes, vampire fans, I will be talking about and answering questions on my BryonySeries, writing for young adults, and self-publishing. More on this later.

   *  Speaking of "vendor fairs," I forgot to register, and the coordinator, who invited me, has gently nudged me in that direction all weekend. Checking that clock again and thinking I'd better get that one done.

   *  Writer friends: I will be offering writing assessments during the vendor (this Saturday), $5 for fifteen minutes, all proceeds going to that day's cause (an orphanage in Haiti). Tell your writer comrades, more on this later, too.

   *  Note to self: now that I work for a company, make sure my boss knows about these events, too, as per her request. Better do THAT one today, too.

   *  Did more re-reading of Bryony and Visage this weekend than writing the prequel, but considering I was the on-call editor for The Herald-News, met for several hours with the fiction writers I'm mentoring, had this Tuesday's health story to edit, AND I'm trying to stay focused in the series' tone--more challenging than I had considered with the new duties--I felt that time well spent.

   *  Sunday, after church and work, I only had enough time for an episode of Family Guy with Daniel and Once Upon a Time with Rebekah  OR a blog post. Family took precedence this time. Sorry. (Gotta budget time a bit better, me thinks).

   *  Crap! Almost six o'clock! Gotta eat breakfast, pack a lunch, and suit up all before six-thirty if I'm gonna make that ninety minute power walk.

Have a gothicy, musical day! :)


Friday, March 21, 2014

WriteOn, Joliet!

This post actually belongs to Thursday, except I passed out before writing it, LOL!

Yesterday, I was soooo tired, I almost took a pass on writer's group. Boy, am I glad now I did not. What a great meeting!

As someone that writes and edits fulltime and then writes for fun, one might think meeting regularly with writers would be, well, tiresome. Actually, nothing could be farther from the truth.

To listen to the fruits of others' creative musings in progress, to hear them in draft form, and to watch them take shape, is incredibly rejuvenating and sends me scurrying back to my computer refreshed and ready to tackle my own projects.

You haven't lived until you've listened to a writer share his heart's work for the first time--uncertain of whether it's any good or not--and then taken that said writer's own words, added a bit of polish here and there, and watch the smile break out on his face when he realizes that he wrote that prose, and that it sounds damn good.

And BTW, if you have any affinity for 1970s B-cartoon (ZOUNDS!), you really missed a GREAT original screenplay based on Here Comes the Grump. Gonna ask its author if I can repost some of it. Too bad you'll miss his voice changes that accompanied it. I swear I was seven years old and sitting in front of ye old black and white (with rabbit ears) on Belmont Avenue in Joliet.

I miss Mr Rogers!

BTW, any writerly friends out there, it "seems" to me I've purposely added a cliche to this blog. Spot it?

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Sleepy and Worded Out

Like...stupid tired.

The kind of tired that comes from an incredibly stretching, satisfying, used up all of one's mental skills kind of a day.

God, I love this job!

And it keeps getting better each day, even when I don't get it one hundred percent right.

Fr. Boris asked me over dinner a couple of weeks ago if I realized how blessed I was, that how most people never receive the opportunity to live their lives as they wish, as in working the job most suited to them, etc.

I do and did realize it, and I am thankful. I never wanted to spend my life in roles and jobs I disliked, and God has been good to me that way.

Or maybe I just don't have the fortitude to stick out something that's not right for me.

Either way, I'm certainly not...zzz...cranky...anymore...

Tuesday, March 18, 2014


That is me, tonight.

Ever have a day where, even if most things go right, at the end of it, you're just plain cranky?

Blech. Grabbing a book (and glowering as I do so...)

Sunday, March 16, 2014

"Hero and Leander" by Christopher Marlowe and Story Round Up

Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe

First Sestiad

On Hellespont, guilty of true-love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offered as a dower his burning throne,
Where she should sit for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies.
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.
Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,
When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,
Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells, all silvered used she,
And branched with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold.
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
Some say for her the fairest Cupid pined
And looking in her face was strooken blind.
But this is true: so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother.
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest.
So lovely fair was Hero, Venus' nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft.
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack,
Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.

Amorous Leander, beautiful and young,
(whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung,)
Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,
Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
Would have allured the vent'rous youth of Greece
To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her sphere;
Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.
His body was as straight as Circe's wand;
Jove might have sipped out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpassed
The white of Pelop's shoulder. I could tell ye
How smooth his breast was and how white his belly;
And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path with many a curious dint
That runs along his back, but my rude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,
Much less of powerful gods. Let it suffice
That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes,
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That leaped into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow and, despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen
Enamoured of his beauty had he been.
His presence made the rudest peasant melt
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt.
The barbarous Thracian soldier, moved with nought,
Was moved with him and for his favour sought.
Some swore he was a maid in man's attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,
A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
A brow for love to banquet royally;
And such as knew he was a man, would say,
"Leander, thou art made for amorous play.
Why art thou not in love, and loved of all?
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall."

The men of wealthy Sestos every year,
(For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,
Rose-cheeked Adonis) kept a solemn feast.
Thither resorted many a wandering guest
To meet their loves.
Such as had none at all,
Came lovers home from this great festival.
For every street like to a firmament
Glistered with breathing stars who, where they went,
Frighted the melancholy earth which deemed
Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seemed,
As if another Phaeton had got
The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.
But far above the loveliest Hero shined
And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind,
For like sea nymphs' enveigling Harmony,
So was her beauty to the standers by.
Nor that night-wandering, pale, and wat'ry star
(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car
From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky
Where, crowned with blazing light and majesty,
She proudly sits) more overrules the flood
Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.
Even as, when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,
Wretched Ixion's shaggy footed race,
Incensed with savage heat, gallop amain
From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.
So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,
And all that viewed her were enamoured on her.
And as in fury of a dreadful fight,
Their fellows being slain or put to flight,
Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead strooken,
So at her presence all surprised and tooken,
Await the sentence of her scornful eyes.
He whom she favours lives, the other dies.
There might you see one sigh, another rage;
And some, (their violent passions to assuage)
Compile sharp satires, but alas too late,
For faithful love will never turn to hate.
And many seeing great princes were denied
Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her died.
On this feast day, O cursed day and hour,
Went Hero thorough Sestos from her tower
To Venus' temple, where unhappily
As after chanced, they did each other spy.

So fair a church as this had Venus none.
The walls were of discoloured jasper stone
Wherein was Proteus carved, and o'erhead
A lively vine of green sea agate spread,
Where by one hand lightheaded Bacchus hung,
And, with the other, wine from grapes out wrung.
Of crystal shining fair the pavement was.
The town of Sestos called it Venus' glass.
There might you see the gods in sundry shapes
Committing heady riots, incest, rapes.
For know, that underneath this radiant floor
Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower,
Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed,
To dally with Idalian Ganymede,
And for his love Europa bellowing loud,
And tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud;
Blood quaffing Mars heaving the iron net
Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;
Love kindling fire to burn such towns as Troy;
Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy
That now is turned into a cypress tree,
Under whose shade the wood gods love to be.
And in the midst a silver altar stood.
There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood,
Vailed to the ground, vailing her eyelids close,
And modestly they opened as she rose.
Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head,
And thus Leander was enamoured.
Stone still he stood, and evermore he gazed
Till with the fire that from his countenance blazed
Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook.
Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin
We wish that one should lose, the other win.
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots like in each respect.
The reason no man knows; let it suffice
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

He kneeled, but unto her devoutly prayed.
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
"Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him;"
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
He started up, she blushed as one ashamed,
Wherewith Leander much more was inflamed.
He touched her hand; in touching it she trembled.
Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.
These lovers parleyed by the touch of hands;
True love is mute, and oft amazed stands.
Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,
The air with sparks of living fire was spangled,
And night, deep drenched in misty Acheron,
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's day).
And now begins Leander to display
Love's holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears,
Which like sweet music entered Hero's ears,
And yet at every word she turned aside,
And always cut him off as he replied.
At last, like to a bold sharp sophister,
With cheerful hope thus he accosted her.
"Fair creature, let me speak without offence.
I would my rude words had the influence
To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine,
Then shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.
Be not unkind and fair; misshapen stuff
Are of behaviour boisterous and rough.
O shun me not, but hear me ere you go.
God knows I cannot force love as you do.
My words shall be as spotless as my youth,
Full of simplicity and naked truth.
This sacrifice, (whose sweet perfume descending
From Venus' altar, to your footsteps bending)
Doth testify that you exceed her far,
To whom you offer, and whose nun you are.
Why should you worship her? Her you surpass
As much as sparkling diamonds flaring glass.
A diamond set in lead his worth retains;
A heavenly nymph, beloved of human swains,
Receives no blemish, but ofttimes more grace;
Which makes me hope, although I am but base:
Base in respect of thee, divine and pure,
Dutiful service may thy love procure.
And I in duty will excel all other,
As thou in beauty dost exceed Love's mother.
Nor heaven, nor thou, were made to gaze upon,
As heaven preserves all things, so save thou one.
A stately builded ship, well rigged and tall,
The ocean maketh more majestical.
Why vowest thou then to live in Sestos here
Who on Love's seas more glorious wouldst appear?
Like untuned golden strings all women are,
Which long time lie untouched, will harshly jar.
Vessels of brass, oft handled, brightly shine.
What difference betwixt the richest mine
And basest mould, but use? For both, not used,
Are of like worth. Then treasure is abused
When misers keep it; being put to loan,
In time it will return us two for one.
Rich robes themselves and others do adorn;
Neither themselves nor others, if not worn.
Who builds a palace and rams up the gate
Shall see it ruinous and desolate.
Ah, simple Hero, learn thyself to cherish.
Lone women like to empty houses perish.
Less sins the poor rich man that starves himself
In heaping up a mass of drossy pelf,
Than such as you. His golden earth remains
Which, after his decease, some other gains.
But this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,
When you fleet hence, can be bequeathed to none.
Or, if it could, down from th'enameled sky
All heaven would come to claim this legacy,
And with intestine broils the world destroy,
And quite confound nature's sweet harmony.
Well therefore by the gods decreed it is
We human creatures should enjoy that bliss.
One is no number; maids are nothing then
Without the sweet society of men.
Wilt thou live single still? One shalt thou be,
Though never singling Hymen couple thee.
Wild savages, that drink of running springs,
Think water far excels all earthly things,
But they that daily taste neat wine despise it.
Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,
Compared with marriage, had you tried them both,
Differs as much as wine and water doth.
Base bullion for the stamp's sake we allow;
Even so for men's impression do we you,
By which alone, our reverend fathers say,
Women receive perfection every way.
This idol which you term virginity
Is neither essence subject to the eye
No, nor to any one exterior sense,
Nor hath it any place of residence,
Nor is't of earth or mould celestial,
Or capable of any form at all.
Of that which hath no being do not boast;
Things that are not at all are never lost.
Men foolishly do call it virtuous;
What virtue is it that is born with us?
Much less can honour be ascribed thereto;
Honour is purchased by the deeds we do.
Believe me, Hero, honour is not won
Until some honourable deed be done.
Seek you for chastity, immortal fame,
And know that some have wronged Diana's name?
Whose name is it, if she be false or not
So she be fair, but some vile tongues will blot?
But you are fair, (ay me) so wondrous fair,
So young, so gentle, and so debonair,
As Greece will think if thus you live alone
Some one or other keeps you as his own.
Then, Hero, hate me not nor from me fly
To follow swiftly blasting infamy.
Perhaps thy sacred priesthood makes thee loath.
Tell me, to whom mad'st thou that heedless oath?"

"To Venus," answered she and, as she spake,
Forth from those two tralucent cisterns brake
A stream of liquid pearl, which down her face
Made milk-white paths, whereon the gods might trace
To Jove's high court.
He thus replied: "The rites
In which love's beauteous empress most delights
Are banquets, Doric music, midnight revel,
Plays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil.
Thee as a holy idiot doth she scorn
For thou in vowing chastity hast sworn
To rob her name and honour, and thereby
Committ'st a sin far worse than perjury,
Even sacrilege against her deity,
Through regular and formal purity.
To expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands.
Such sacrifice as this Venus demands."

Thereat she smiled and did deny him so,
As put thereby, yet might he hope for moe.
Which makes him quickly re-enforce his speech,
And her in humble manner thus beseech.
"Though neither gods nor men may thee deserve,
Yet for her sake, whom you have vowed to serve,
Abandon fruitless cold virginity,
The gentle queen of love's sole enemy.
Then shall you most resemble Venus' nun,
When Venus' sweet rites are performed and done.
Flint-breasted Pallas joys in single life,
But Pallas and your mistress are at strife.
Love, Hero, then, and be not tyrannous,
But heal the heart that thou hast wounded thus,
Nor stain thy youthful years with avarice.
Fair fools delight to be accounted nice.
The richest corn dies, if it be not reaped;
Beauty alone is lost, too warily kept."

These arguments he used, and many more,
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
Hero's looks yielded but her words made war.
Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus, having swallowed Cupid's golden hook,
The more she strived, the deeper was she strook.
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still
And would be thought to grant against her will.
So having paused a while at last she said,
"Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
Ay me, such words as these should I abhor
And yet I like them for the orator."

With that Leander stooped to have embraced her
But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
And thus bespake him: "Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear.
Upon a rock and underneath a hill
Far from the town (where all is whist and still,
Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand,
Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land,
Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus
In silence of the night to visit us)
My turret stands and there, God knows, I play.
With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.
A dwarfish beldam bears me company,
That hops about the chamber where I lie,
And spends the night (that might be better spent)
In vain discourse and apish merriment.
Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripped,
For unawares "come thither" from her slipped.
And suddenly her former colour changed,
And here and there her eyes through anger ranged.
And like a planet, moving several ways,
At one self instant she, poor soul, assays,
Loving, not to love at all, and every part
Strove to resist the motions of her heart.
And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
As might have made heaven stoop to have a touch,
Did she uphold to Venus, and again
Vowed spotless chastity, but all in vain.
Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings,
Her vows above the empty air he flings,
All deep enraged, his sinewy bow he bent,
And shot a shaft that burning from him went,
Wherewith she strooken, looked so dolefully,
As made love sigh to see his tyranny.
And as she wept her tears to pearl he turned,
And wound them on his arm and for her mourned.
Then towards the palace of the destinies
Laden with languishment and grief he flies,
And to those stern nymphs humbly made request
Both might enjoy each other, and be blest.
But with a ghastly dreadful countenance,
Threatening a thousand deaths at every glance,
They answered Love, nor would vouchsafe so much
As one poor word, their hate to him was such.
Hearken a while and I will tell you why.
Heaven's winged herald, Jove-borne Mercury,
The selfsame day that he asleep had laid
Enchanted Argus, spied a country maid
Whose careless hair instead of pearl t'adorn it
Glistered with dew, as one that seemed to scorn it;
Her breath as fragrant as the morning rose,
Her mind pure, and her tongue untaught to gloze.
Yet proud she was (for lofty pride that dwells
In towered courts is oft in shepherds' cells.)
And too too well the fair vermilion knew,
And silver tincture of her cheeks, that drew
The love of every swain. On her this god
Enamoured was, and with his snaky rod
Did charm her nimble feet, and made her stay,
The while upon a hillock down he lay
And sweetly on his pipe began to play,
And with smooth speech her fancy to assay,
Till in his twining arms he locked her fast
And then he wooed with kisses; and at last,
As shepherds do, her on the ground he laid
And, tumbling in the grass, he often strayed
Beyond the bounds of shame, in being bold
To eye those parts which no eye should behold.
And, like an insolent commanding lover
Boasting his parentage, would needs discover
The way to new Elysium, but she,
Whose only dower was her chastity,
Having striv'n in vain was now about to cry
And crave the help of shepherds that were nigh.
Herewith he stayed his fury, and began
To give her leave to rise. Away she ran;
After went Mercury who used such cunning
As she, to hear his tale, left off her running.
Maids are not won by brutish force and might,
But speeches full of pleasure, and delight.
And, knowing Hermes courted her, was glad
That she such loveliness and beauty had
As could provoke his liking, yet was mute
And neither would deny nor grant his suit.
Still vowed he love. She, wanting no excuse
To feed him with delays, as women use,
Or thirsting after immortality,--
All women are ambitious naturally--
Imposed upon her lover such a task
As he ought not perform nor yet she ask.
A draught of flowing nectar she requested,
Wherewith the king of gods and men is feasted.
He, ready to accomplish what she willed,
Stole some from Hebe (Hebe Jove's cup filled)
And gave it to his simple rustic love.
Which being known (as what is hid from Jove?)
He inly stormed and waxed more furious
Than for the fire filched by Prometheus,
And thrusts him down from heaven. He, wandering here,
In mournful terms, with sad and heavy cheer,
Complained to Cupid. Cupid for his sake,
To be revenged on Jove did undertake.
And those on whom heaven, earth, and hell relies,
I mean the adamantine Destinies,
He wounds with love, and forced them equally
To dote upon deceitful Mercury.
They offered him the deadly fatal knife
That shears the slender threads of human life.
At his fair feathered feet the engines laid
Which th' earth from ugly Chaos' den upweighed.
These he regarded not but did entreat
That Jove, usurper of his father's seat,
Might presently be banished into hell,
And aged Saturn in Olympus dwell.
They granted what he craved, and once again
Saturn and Ops began their golden reign.
Murder, rape, war, lust, and treachery,
Were with Jove closed in Stygian empery.
But long this blessed time continued not.
As soon as he his wished purpose got
He reckless of his promise did despise
The love of th' everlasting Destinies.
They seeing it both love and him abhorred
And Jupiter unto his place restored.
And but that Learning in despite of Fate
Will mount aloft and enter heaven gate
And to the seat of Jove itself advance,
Hermes had slept in hell with Ignorance.
Yet as a punishment they added this,
That he and Poverty should always kiss.
And to this day is every scholar poor;
Gross gold from them runs headlong to the boor.
Likewise the angry Sisters thus deluded,
To venge themselves on Hermes, have concluded
That Midas' brood shall sit in honour's chair,
To which the Muses' sons are only heir;
And fruitful wits, that in aspiring are,
Shall discontent run into regions far;
And few great lords in virtuous deeds shall joy
But be surprised with every garish toy,
And still enrich the lofty servile clown,
Who with encroaching guile keeps learning down.
Then Muse not Cupid's suit no better sped,
Seeing in their loves the Fates were injured.

Second Sestiad

By this, sad Hero, with love unacquainted,
Viewing Leander's face, fell down and fainted.
He kissed her and breathed life into her lips,
Wherewith as one displeased away she trips.
Yet, as she went, full often looked behind,
And many poor excuses did she find
To linger by the way, and once she stayed,
And would have turned again, but was afraid,
In offering parley, to be counted light.
So on she goes and in her idle flight
Her painted fan of curled plumes let fall,
Thinking to train Leander therewithal.
He, being a novice, knew not what she meant
But stayed, and after her a letter sent,
Which joyful Hero answered in such sort,
As he had hope to scale the beauteous fort
Wherein the liberal Graces locked their wealth,
And therefore to her tower he got by stealth.
Wide open stood the door, he need not climb,
And she herself before the pointed time
Had spread the board, with roses strowed the room,
And oft looked out, and mused he did not come.
At last he came.
O who can tell the greeting
These greedy lovers had at their first meeting.
He asked, she gave, and nothing was denied.
Both to each other quickly were affied.
Look how their hands, so were their hearts united,
And what he did she willingly requited.
(Sweet are the kisses, the embracements sweet,
When like desires and affections meet,
For from the earth to heaven is Cupid raised,
Where fancy is in equal balance peised.)
Yet she this rashness suddenly repented
And turned aside, and to herself lamented
As if her name and honour had been wronged
By being possessed of him for whom she longed.
Ay, and she wished, albeit not from her heart
That he would leave her turret and depart.
The mirthful god of amorous pleasure smiled
To see how he this captive nymph beguiled.
For hitherto he did but fan the fire,
And kept it down that it might mount the higher.
Now waxed she jealous lest his love abated,
Fearing her own thoughts made her to be hated.
Therefore unto him hastily she goes
And, like light Salmacis, her body throws
Upon his bosom where with yielding eyes
She offers up herself a sacrifice
To slake his anger if he were displeased.
O, what god would not therewith be appeased?
Like Aesop's cock this jewel he enjoyed
And as a brother with his sister toyed
Supposing nothing else was to be done,
Now he her favour and good will had won.
But know you not that creatures wanting sense
By nature have a mutual appetence,
And, wanting organs to advance a step,
Moved by love's force unto each other lep?
Much more in subjects having intellect
Some hidden influence breeds like effect.
Albeit Leander rude in love and raw,
Long dallying with Hero, nothing saw
That might delight him more, yet he suspected
Some amorous rites or other were neglected.
Therefore unto his body hers he clung.
She, fearing on the rushes to be flung,
Strived with redoubled strength; the more she strived
The more a gentle pleasing heat revived,
Which taught him all that elder lovers know.
And now the same gan so to scorch and glow
As in plain terms (yet cunningly) he craved it.
Love always makes those eloquent that have it.
She, with a kind of granting, put him by it
And ever, as he thought himself most nigh it,
Like to the tree of Tantalus, she fled
And, seeming lavish, saved her maidenhead.
Ne'er king more sought to keep his diadem,
Than Hero this inestimable gem.
Above our life we love a steadfast friend,
Yet when a token of great worth we send,
We often kiss it, often look thereon,
And stay the messenger that would be gone.
No marvel then, though Hero would not yield
So soon to part from that she dearly held.
Jewels being lost are found again, this never;
'Tis lost but once, and once lost, lost forever.

Now had the morn espied her lover's steeds,
Whereat she starts, puts on her purple weeds,
And red for anger that he stayed so long
All headlong throws herself the clouds among.
And now Leander, fearing to be missed,
Embraced her suddenly, took leave, and kissed.
Long was he taking leave, and loath to go,
And kissed again as lovers use to do.
Sad Hero wrung him by the hand and wept
Saying, "Let your vows and promises be kept."
Then standing at the door she turned about
As loath to see Leander going out.
And now the sun that through th' horizon peeps,
As pitying these lovers, downward creeps,
So that in silence of the cloudy night,
Though it was morning, did he take his flight.
But what the secret trusty night concealed
Leander's amorous habit soon revealed.
With Cupid's myrtle was his bonnet crowned,
About his arms the purple riband wound
Wherewith she wreathed her largely spreading hair.
Nor could the youth abstain, but he must wear
The sacred ring wherewith she was endowed
When first religious chastity she vowed.
Which made his love through Sestos to be known,
And thence unto Abydos sooner blown
Than he could sail; for incorporeal fame
Whose weight consists in nothing but her name,
Is swifter than the wind, whose tardy plumes
Are reeking water and dull earthly fumes.
Home when he came, he seemed not to be there,
But, like exiled air thrust from his sphere,
Set in a foreign place; and straight from thence,
Alcides like, by mighty violence
He would have chased away the swelling main
That him from her unjustly did detain.
Like as the sun in a diameter
Fires and inflames objects removed far,
And heateth kindly, shining laterally,
So beauty sweetly quickens when 'tis nigh,
But being separated and removed,
Burns where it cherished, murders where it loved.
Therefore even as an index to a book,
So to his mind was young Leander's look.
O, none but gods have power their love to hide,
Affection by the countenance is descried.
The light of hidden fire itself discovers,
And love that is concealed betrays poor lovers,
His secret flame apparently was seen.
Leander's father knew where he had been
And for the same mildly rebuked his son,
Thinking to quench the sparkles new begun.
But love resisted once grows passionate,
And nothing more than counsel lovers hate.
For as a hot proud horse highly disdains
To have his head controlled, but breaks the reins,
Spits forth the ringled bit, and with his hooves
Checks the submissive ground; so he that loves,
The more he is restrained, the worse he fares.
What is it now, but mad Leander dares?
"O Hero, Hero!" thus he cried full oft;
And then he got him to a rock aloft,
Where having spied her tower, long stared he on't,
And prayed the narrow toiling Hellespont
To part in twain, that he might come and go;
But still the rising billows answered, "No."
With that he stripped him to the ivory skin
And, crying "Love, I come," leaped lively in.
Whereat the sapphire visaged god grew proud,
And made his capering Triton sound aloud,
Imagining that Ganymede, displeased,
Had left the heavens; therefore on him he seized.
Leander strived; the waves about him wound,
And pulled him to the bottom, where the ground
Was strewed with pearl, and in low coral groves
Sweet singing mermaids sported with their loves
On heaps of heavy gold, and took great pleasure
To spurn in careless sort the shipwrack treasure.
For here the stately azure palace stood
Where kingly Neptune and his train abode.
The lusty god embraced him, called him "Love,"
And swore he never should return to Jove.
But when he knew it was not Ganymede,
For under water he was almost dead,
He heaved him up and, looking on his face,
Beat down the bold waves with his triple mace,
Which mounted up, intending to have kissed him,
And fell in drops like tears because they missed him.
Leander, being up, began to swim
And, looking back, saw Neptune follow him,
Whereat aghast, the poor soul 'gan to cry
"O, let me visit Hero ere I die!"
The god put Helle's bracelet on his arm,
And swore the sea should never do him harm.
He clapped his plump cheeks, with his tresses played
And, smiling wantonly, his love bewrayed.
He watched his arms and, as they opened wide
At every stroke, betwixt them would he slide
And steal a kiss, and then run out and dance,
And, as he turned, cast many a lustful glance,
And threw him gaudy toys to please his eye,
And dive into the water, and there pry
Upon his breast, his thighs, and every limb,
And up again, and close beside him swim,
And talk of love.
Leander made reply,
"You are deceived; I am no woman, I."
Thereat smiled Neptune, and then told a tale,
How that a shepherd, sitting in a vale,
Played with a boy so fair and kind,
As for his love both earth and heaven pined;
That of the cooling river durst not drink,
Lest water nymphs should pull him from the brink.
And when he sported in the fragrant lawns,
Goat footed satyrs and upstaring fauns
Would steal him thence. Ere half this tale was done,
"Ay me," Leander cried, "th' enamoured sun
That now should shine on Thetis' glassy bower,
Descends upon my radiant Hero's tower.
O, that these tardy arms of mine were wings!"
And, as he spake, upon the waves he springs.
Neptune was angry that he gave no ear,
And in his heart revenging malice bare.
He flung at him his mace but, as it went,
He called it in, for love made him repent.
The mace, returning back, his own hand hit
As meaning to be venged for darting it.
When this fresh bleeding wound Leander viewed,
His colour went and came, as if he rued
The grief which Neptune felt. In gentle breasts
Relenting thoughts, remorse, and pity rests.
And who have hard hearts and obdurate minds,
But vicious, harebrained, and illiterate hinds?
The god, seeing him with pity to be moved,
Thereon concluded that he was beloved.
(Love is too full of faith, too credulous,
With folly and false hope deluding us.)
Wherefore, Leander's fancy to surprise,
To the rich Ocean for gifts he flies.
'tis wisdom to give much; a gift prevails
When deep persuading oratory fails.

By this Leander, being near the land,
Cast down his weary feet and felt the sand.
Breathless albeit he were he rested not
Till to the solitary tower he got,
And knocked and called. At which celestial noise
The longing heart of Hero much more joys
Than nymphs and shepherds when the timbrel rings,
Or crooked dolphin when the sailor sings.
She stayed not for her robes but straight arose
And, drunk with gladness, to the door she goes,
Where seeing a naked man, she screeched for fear
(Such sights as this to tender maids are rare)
And ran into the dark herself to hide.
(Rich jewels in the dark are soonest spied).
Unto her was he led, or rather drawn
By those white limbs which sparkled through the lawn.
The nearer that he came, the more she fled,
And, seeking refuge, slipped into her bed.
Whereon Leander sitting thus began,
Through numbing cold, all feeble, faint, and wan.
"If not for love, yet, love, for pity sake,
Me in thy bed and maiden bosom take.
At least vouchsafe these arms some little room,
Who, hoping to embrace thee, cheerly swum.
This head was beat with many a churlish billow,
And therefore let it rest upon thy pillow."
Herewith affrighted, Hero shrunk away,
And in her lukewarm place Leander lay,
Whose lively heat, like fire from heaven fet,
Would animate gross clay and higher set
The drooping thoughts of base declining souls
Than dreary Mars carousing nectar bowls.
His hands he cast upon her like a snare.
She, overcome with shame and sallow fear,
Like chaste Diana when Actaeon spied her,
Being suddenly betrayed, dived down to hide her.
And, as her silver body downward went,
With both her hands she made the bed a tent,
And in her own mind thought herself secure,
O'ercast with dim and darksome coverture.
And now she lets him whisper in her ear,
Flatter, entreat, promise, protest and swear;
Yet ever, as he greedily assayed
To touch those dainties, she the harpy played,
And every limb did, as a soldier stout,
Defend the fort, and keep the foeman out.
For though the rising ivory mount he scaled,
Which is with azure circling lines empaled,
Much like a globe (a globe may I term this,
By which love sails to regions full of bliss)
Yet there with Sisyphus he toiled in vain,
Till gentle parley did the truce obtain.
Wherein Leander on her quivering breast
Breathless spoke something, and sighed out the rest;
Which so prevailed, as he with small ado
Enclosed her in his arms and kissed her too.
And every kiss to her was as a charm,
And to Leander as a fresh alarm,
So that the truce was broke and she, alas,
(Poor silly maiden) at his mercy was.
Love is not full of pity (as men say)
But deaf and cruel where he means to prey.
Even as a bird, which in our hands we wring,
Forth plungeth and oft flutters with her wing,
She trembling strove.

This strife of hers (like that
Which made the world) another world begat
Of unknown joy. Treason was in her thought,
And cunningly to yield herself she sought.
Seeming not won, yet won she was at length.
In such wars women use but half their strength.
Leander now, like Theban Hercules,
Entered the orchard of th' Hesperides;
Whose fruit none rightly can describe but he
That pulls or shakes it from the golden tree.
And now she wished this night were never done,
And sighed to think upon th' approaching sun;
For much it grieved her that the bright daylight
Should know the pleasure of this blessed night,
And them, like Mars and Erycine, display
Both in each other's arms chained as they lay.
Again, she knew not how to frame her look,
Or speak to him, who in a moment took
That which so long so charily she kept,
And fain by stealth away she would have crept,
And to some corner secretly have gone,
Leaving Leander in the bed alone.
But as her naked feet were whipping out,
He on the sudden clinged her so about,
That, mermaid-like, unto the floor she slid.
One half appeared, the other half was hid.
Thus near the bed she blushing stood upright,
And from her countenance behold ye might
A kind of twilight break, which through the hair,
As from an orient cloud, glimpsed here and there,
And round about the chamber this false morn
Brought forth the day before the day was born.
So Hero's ruddy cheek Hero betrayed,
And her all naked to his sight displayed,
Whence his admiring eyes more pleasure took
Than Dis, on heaps of gold fixing his look.
By this, Apollo's golden harp began
To sound forth music to the ocean,
Which watchful Hesperus no sooner heard
But he the bright day-bearing car prepared
And ran before, as harbinger of light,
And with his flaring beams mocked ugly night,
Till she, o'ercome with anguish, shame, and rage,
Danged down to hell her loathsome carriage.

Keeping the family tradition

A New Lenox tween created a large stained glass piece for her school. Years ago, her oldest sister did the same for her school. And this tween's mother, father, and grandfather have all enjoyed creating stained glass art.

An Extraordinary Life: A friend forever

If there's a secret to forming lifelong friendships, Marianne Thelo had it. Her method was so simple...and so effective.

Volunteers help disabled dog at Will County Humane Society

Charlie is immoble no more. Now, he only needs a home.

New Lenox man fights for his life

Eventually, Robert Strilko will need a heart transplant. But first, he must take a few more steps.

Joliet man forsakes crime and addiction for God and empowerment

Donald Brooks beat the odds, and now he wants other at-risk youth to know they can, too.

Coal City High School gives 'Shrek the Musical' a Broadway polish

Its director, Jack Micetich, is a man of vision, so he went after a thirty foot dragon and prosethetics designed by a consulting producer to Face Off.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

The Latest from Munsonville

Staked! cover is complete.

Author and illustrator photos and bios are (almost) ready to go.

Story Round-Up will post tomorrow. Between work and the Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts (and post service agape), the author made it home in enough time to tumble into bed and nod off into a book. Why not post it today, you might ask. Because I'm dedicating the bulk of this Saturday to Before the Blood.

And how far have I gotten?

Well, I have a nice working draft of the prequel. All sixty chapters and the eipilogue are nicely outlined. Today, I partially wrote the first ten chapters. As soon as I post this, I'll be skipping the second twenty and concentrating on another set of ten. My rambling methods will make sense when I post the table of contents.

My muse beckons. Time to depart. In the words of Henry, "Ta!"


Thursday, March 13, 2014

Modifying My Social Media Gloating

Setting timer on Facebook posts: check!

Setting timer on blogspot posts: No check (no post). :(

I wound up physically posting it. I think I have to set the time AND click "post." At any rate, I'm trying that today. I hope it works.

NOW, does anyone know how to time personal Facebook pages (not fan pages)? The clock only lets me select a year.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Guess What Nifty Social Media Trick I Learned?

How to set  a timer for posts.

Don't laugh.

Part of my role as the rotating "on call" editor for The Herald-News is posting stories to Facebook. Before I started my first weekend, my editor, Kate Schott, walked me through the process.

Now most of it was familiar because of co-managing the Bryony Facebook page for several years. Imagine my surprise to learn that one can actually set up all the posts for a day (or so), schedule them to post at a certain time, and then go about other business.

So after two weekends of doing so for the newspaper, I tried it this morning for Bryony. It actually took less time to line them all up than to post periodically all day long.

So, of course, I was curious to see if blogspot offered the same feature, and...IT DID! And I found it all by myself (to the right, a little picture of a clock with the word "schedule").

No more excuses about being "too busy" or "too tired" to post. This nineteenth century author that's a product of the twentieth century has finally caught up with the twenty-first.

And BTW, this is TUESDAY'S post, which I am writing at six thirty-five on Monday evening. I am now going to schedule it for tomorrow. Let's see...what's a good time...

This is FUN!!!


Tuesday, March 11, 2014

So Now That The "Staked!" Art is Ready to Go, I Forgot...

the author and illustrator bio pages, SIGH!

Perusing through photos and updating bios...

The plan is to upload the manuscript to Createspace this week and spend part of the weekend checking the online proof, along with working on Before the Blood.

At least, that's the current plan, which is always subject to change in my world. Last night, I was at work until rather lateish, and that, coupled with this cold (as in virus, not weather, for a change), made shower and bed sound much more appealing than blog and Facebook.

Today, however, is another day, and that day is feeling a little like spring

Which means I'm takking my achey body 'round the neighborhood for a brisk walk.

Oh, did I mention tonight is another late night?

Friday, March 7, 2014

Victorian Blog and Story Round Up

I found this blog the other day, all related to the nineteenth century, and I'm enjoying perusing its contents. Perhaps, you'd like to see, too?

Joliet woman restores, transforms crystal keepsakes

She's completely self-taught and still using her original equipment (which her father bought second-hand decades ago), yet her work caught the attention of an Illinois governor.

Joliet woman unaware of her greatness

That's because she was too busy uplifting others to keep track.

Annie's Little Angels Pet Rescue in Plainfield closes its doors

Because it WAS successful.

Mom furthers son's faithfulness with book

Kyle Wagner had a mission to fulfill...and he's still fulfilling it.

Dennis DeYoung, founding member of Styx, will perform in Joliet

During the interview, DeYoung asked me which Styx album was my favorite. Without hesitation, I answered, The Grand Illusion. My answer pleased him. In his opinion, he said, The Grand Illusion was Styx's best work.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Guest Post by Sir Frederick Chook: "Conversations Held From Top-Floor Windows, Part Two"

Conversations Held From Top-Floor Windows, Part Two, by Sir Frederick Chook
Penned upon the 16th of December, 2013  
First appeared in FrillyShirt (

Florid Flâneur: Hulloa, Mrs Follyhaven! Hulloa!

Irascible Landlady: Who d’you think you are, making that racket while decent folk are trying to eat their dinner?

Flâneur: Dinner is exactly the question, Mrs Follyhaven, and I am but a modest traveller who would like to have some in your fine establishment!

Landlady: Oh, bleeding hell, it’s you, Mr Bumblebeigh. And why do you expect I’ll serve you anything, when you’re so far in arrearage already?

Flâneur: My lady, you use such fine language that I must fall back upon my natural ignorance; indeed, I would not know arrearage from a hole in the ground. I know only one thing, and that is that I owe nothing!

Landlady: Don’t give me that bosh, Socrates. You’ll get no service until you pay your tab.

Flâneur: Hoh! To think of denying service to one of the wealthiest men in the city!

Landlady: You, one of the wealthiest men in the city? Whatever do you mean, O Socrates?

Flâneur: Consider the great millionaires of this fine and noble burg – the brokers, the moneylenders, the financiers. How do they earn their money? Through the ownership of debts! Is this not so?

Landlady: Yes, Socrates, it is so.

Flâneur: In fact, they own not only debts made to them, but debts made to others, for they trade them like so many cured hams. And if these debts, to the eminent financial minds of our time, entitle them to arrive at the Langham Hotel and to be shown to a private table in the dining-room, should not my own debts – to the finest cobblers and haberdashers in Walworth! – entitle me to enjoy a plate of kidneys in your own bar parlour?

Landlady: But, Socrates, if those gentlemen came here, they’d be able to pay for their meals.

Flâneur: So you say, but it is well known that these social pillars keep accounts of credit which extend into the hundreds-

Impatient Cabman: So why should you, a mere social pillock, be refused attendence for a debt of a few shillings? I’ll tell you why – because you said I’d be paid if I waited for two minutes – a quarter of an hour ago.

Flâneur: My apologies, my good fellow – I would have returned sooner had I not been delayed by this good woman, who, despite her many excellent qualities, is not appreciative of philosophy.

Landlady: Mr Bumblebeigh, listen to you go on so! Haven’t you any respect for the fairer sex?

Flâneur: You think women the fairer sex, Mrs Follyhaven? So it is often said, but consider – does a woman not have to paint her face, and tint her hair, and perform such daily rituals, before she may show herself in public? But I may step forth into the world without any such preparations, demonstrating that mine is the fairer countenance.

Cabman: I’m not bothered about your fair countenance, old man, so long as you can countenance my fare. Have you got my money, or haven’t you?

Flâneur: As for gold, I have as much as a moderate man could carry with him, if he had a great many other things to carry and was walking a long way. But, my friend, why do you care so much for money, and so little for wisdom and truth and the great improvement of the digestion?

Landlady: I wonder that you don’t go on the stage, Socrates, talking so prettily.

Flâneur: The stage? Would you have me become a common thief?

Landlady: …no, you’ve lost me there. Explain?

Flâneur: What does a thief do? He practices dishonesty, and profits by others’ misery. Well, a tragedian is most certainly dishonest – he adopts a hundred identities, and declares untruths night upon night – and the more misery he brings to his audience, the greater his rewards.

Landlady: Your proofs are a revelation as ever, Socrates. But, I must ask again: can you pay for your dinner?

Flâneur: Oh… yes, I can, actually. A marchioness bought one of my arguments for her magazine. Can you give me change for a guinea to pay for my cab?

(Exit all agreeably to the bar parlour for cod and chips.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian who lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in Melbourne with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah.

When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.”

FrillyShirt is a compilation of articles, essays, reviews, photographs, artworks, question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues, diatribes, spirit journeys, cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir Frederick, his friends and contributing readers. Irregularly regular features include Teacup in a Storm, an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced speculations on the aesthetics of the self.

Other topics that pop up include fun things in and around Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s favorite color is all of them. Enjoy his writing? Drop him a telegram at

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Wednesday Evening Musings...zzz.....

Feeling slightly more overwhelmed tonight than when the week began oh so many ages ago, but here are the thoughts running through the author's her remaining cells, that is...

*  The Staked! cover appears to be (almost) ready to go. I texted Sarah either Monday or Tuesday and heard something about being locked out of something so she couldn't send it (or something).

*  I deliberately didn't write a blog yesterday morning because I wanted to focus on Rebekah's glorious return to the fold (with a photo) after an extended stint of caring for a sick cat, but family drama prevented me from writing it. More on this later (Rebekah, not the drama).

*  Medical drama and the necessity to work later tomorrow night might mean taking yet another pass on WriteOn Joliet. Praying for a super productive day tomorrow so I can say it ain't so.

I think that's all. I think.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Monday Morning Musings

It's straight up "0" outside, and I'm debating the merits of a power walk when I can't even get warmed up inside...and wondering, after yesterday's snow, if there might be hidden ice on them thar sidewalks.

Mentally preparing for a high school job shadower today. I've never been followed and observed while I work--except by children and cats--so I arranged my schedule today to include a variety of duties. I'm not sure how exciting the life of a newspaper features editor will be to her...we shall see...

However, she does write poetry and is bringing some of her writing for me to analyze. I am really looking forward to that part. I love reading other writers' work . :)

Attempting to discern from the stack of paperwork just exactly WHERE I left off on Friday and trying to regroup for a week of writing adventures.

Thinking I should clean up the office/slash my bedroom/slash Rebekah's bedroom, before I leave, if I have time...

Hope has stopped vomiting and is beginning to eat kiblets on her own.

More coffee (mumble, mutter)...

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Author Reinforcements

I've spent a delightful (so far) seventeen hours happily working on Before the Blood, and I've made tremendous and satisfying progress.

Below are the reinforcements Daniel brought me several hours ago. They are certainly helping. Write on!