Dirty Little Secret

This whimsical, wee witch simply came out of no where! She has a dark blue little bird, one of those ones  that tells people things. Now, Dirty Little Secret knows this bird should be kept securely in it's cage but she just can't resist opening that tiny dangerous door. She too, should just keep her mouth shut but, showing her sharp little teeth, one has to wonder...is she about to say something? Be careful, she is entirely likely to bite you. The blood on her hands will never dry.

The little bird however, has made itself a very fine nest out of the softest heartstrings. He has grown fond of the wee witch and has no real intention of going anywhere. Occasionally he does hop out and perch on Dirty Little Secret's finger. He may even gaze longingly at the sky, dreaming of the ears he might find. They have fascinating, whispered conversations. You may not be able to make out exactly what is being said but it will make you deeply uneasy just the same.

Sick And Tired

Death looks best when one is persistently ill and still, must go to work. It is just a bad cold that I have but the way it has magnified my already vast resentment of The Canary Prison is grimly monstrous. Ghostbabies flock to the mailbox and though this is very comforting indeed, I still feel like a hollow fragile thing filled with bitter poison. I suppose that at the moment this is quite literally what I am. How unspeakably dismal the minutes, hours, days and years of my captivity are to contemplate. "Hush!" I tell myself, "Why aren't you more grateful? Isn't it work that permits you to buy your treasures?" Well...yes, but my treasures are largely consolation for the unforgivable theft of my never to be returned time. I hoard hours of solitude and fill them with Nothing and these I treasure most of all. To simply BE and not to do is all I really crave. All that we do is one day mercifully left behind but perhaps Being itself continues, is transformed, I pray, into some enduring freedom difficult for our mortal selves to fully comprehend. We all feel it of course, dreams and ghosts and many things but the real proof is that, though it is hard to express, we all understand what infinity is. Death is a doorway to the unknown.
A doorway to a better place? That is the mystery and the fear and the hope. I loathe and hate my captivity to be sure, but I do still love the world and being alive in it. I cannot deny being human fills me with disgust and revulsion much of the time...I would rather be a cat, or a stone. However, this habitual feeling instantly dissolves completely whenever I see a baby or in the contemplation of works of art. I cannot be grateful for my exploitation, even to try seems stupid. I don't think I should be grateful for something that causes me such endless suffering despite the possibility that things might be much worse without it. I know first hand the shame and fear of destitution. I have been homeless and penniless more than once in my time and been devoured by the sorts of desperation this incites. Truly, Death is nothing to fear.

HOOCHIMAMA CODEX

Scarlotta Salanti is the name of my ancient accordion. I purchased her for ten dollars and a panicked road trip to get to her first. Diva and her car came to my rescue so I came to hers and lent her two hundred dollars so she could take home her three hundred dollar Fender Ukelele. Once we have an inkling as to what we are doing we shall form a band. I can sort of struggle through Irene Goodnight and My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean. Scarlotta's keys work fairly well but the buttons are a deep mystery to me. Either something is wrong there or I haven't the remotest clue...probably both.

Don't Bet the Cat-Headed Ship

Changeling gambles furiously for Ghostbabies with Demon's money. She feels a little sick and strange and is not entirely sure of what she is doing any more. Bless Demon for his faith in her, they can run the operation almost entirely from Sexton Basilica and hardly have to sail to Prosaica at all! More than anything this is what Changeling wants. The Holy Smoke gave her a drawing of three blind mice. She ponders the meaning of this.

Three blind mice, three blind mice,

See how they run, See how they run,

They all ran up to the farmer's wife,

who cut off their tales with a carving knife.

Did you ever see such a sight in your life as,

Three Blind Mice.

Aide-Memoire, Loss And Childhood

Ask me if I’d go back; I’d likely say no; but sometimes I wish I knew less then I do.  My memories are obscure from so long ago; obscure and distorted, blurred and fantastic.  Childhood.  The specifics are faint, details, lost, but what I recall, above all, are the pains and appeals of lesser events.  The trivial was critical, and the chairs, they sat, so high above the ground. 

 Everything had magnitude.  Everything was important.  The invisible, was seen.  The familiar, was strange.  Everything, was new.  One wish, one day, new wants, the next day.  The next day, however, lingered so far away.  A minute was an hour, an hour was a lifetime.  The clock ticked slower.  Time was a hindrance - not the gift it grows to be.  

  That’s probably why circumstances changed from one day to the next day.  A question gets answered; fascination fulfilled, now on to the next; because there are so many questions, such easy little questions, straight forward, direct, blunt little questions: A thousand square answers gained in a day - fascination fulfilled.  Not like today.  The questions are complex, unclear, answerless.   

Maturity, however, demands resolution - Hence goes this march through cobwebs of reason and theory, ego and faith; never to rest on one solid truth.  As I speak of it now, it seems that I might, but the answer is clear - If I could go back - No, I would not.  I’m pleased where I am.  Knowing what I know, how easy things change; I would not take the chance.  Still, the past has traits, though distant and vague, shallow and green; it has pieces of treasure that I wish had now.   
 Tall chairs, slow clocks simplicity,simplicity.  

Tim Cantor (In memory of Bean) 
  http://www.timcantor.com/New%20Site-11/W_AideMemoire.htm   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Z1esBUcjlQ                        

Continuing Conversations With Strangers

Though she is destitute, Changeling lives in a veritable Dragon's hoard of treasure. Her entire life is lived for this. Basilica #9, Sexton Basilica, is the place the cat-headed ship comes from and goes too. It is the place of origin, the place of final rest, where all horizons are eternal. It is Hegel's "moment of infinite possibility" and Heidegger's glorious Nothing that Dasein hangs out into. It is Heaven for some, Hell for others, enlightenment and the abyss. Here there are Angels, here is the home of the Soul, here is the miracle of Death. This is where we all begin.

The Orphanage Changeling runs for Ghostbabies collects artifacts, shards of broken hearts, whispering paper, feathers lost and unstrung jewels in the Great Western Eimeemines of Prosaica. The cats, of course, go wherever they please. El Phantasma has just returned after an absence of several days. Changeling has been worried sick, the cats and flowers are the best friends she has. She sings his song repeatedly. It is sung to the tune of Greensleeves,
"El Phantasma where have you gone? Oh why do you stay away so long? El Phantasma please come home, don't leave me to cry, in the dark, all alone. (chorus) Phantasma you are my delight, you stalk the Moon through deepest night. Phantasma lost in wandering, don't leave me in fear sadly wondering."
Changeling fell asleep worrying about him. When she awoke there he was, his huge, black, limping, self gazing at her adoringly. She fell to the floor beside him weeping with gratitude. Mooka'am came running over to lick his head.

 Changeling had largely given up on finding any meaningful community in Prosaica. Certainly the Great Western Eimeemines seem an unlikely place to find anything but relentless misery, yet, it cannot be denied, it is also where the web is spun. Now that she has been Blessed by Desire, her own ridiculous JOB in the Eimeemines has acquired meaning. It may now be considered a kind of prayer or meditation practiced with deep gratitude to Demon for his help. Without Demon’s generous patronage the Angel Desire could not come to House Of Outlandish Cats. Truly, without Demon’s kindness Changeling would have been homeless and institutionalized long ago.

http://ladylucksantamuerte.wordpress.com/category/santa-muerte/

Death and Desire, Santa Muerte and the Angel created by Kirsten Stingle, deities of endings and beginnings in cycle. Desire has come in the Spring. A revenant Angel after the Lent of being sent back to the Eimeemines for the JOB. She is an Angel of Carnivale, with her plague mask. Desire, the crimson vitality of life in suffering. Santa Muerte comes with the Fall, bringing peace in cold shining silence.  Halloween is Ghostbabies birthday. On their first birthday Santa Muerte came to stay, bringing Frida Kahlo children, a gift from Locked Illusions. Now we await the Blessed arrival of the Angel Desire. Will the Victorian Death Hippy community grow into something larger than our happy family here at House Of Outlandish Cats Holy Illuminated Maiden And Mother Alliance ? Only time will tell.

Changeling must spend less time spinning dervish circles on the web. Her corners are all cluttered with silky little bundles, their hidden possibilities somewhat forgotten and gathering dust. NO MORE! It is no good being a lazy visionary. Changeling knows her messingers are too powerful for her to just dream endlessly. They cannot help but torture her body and mind if she refuses what she is meant to be in their hands. Ghostbabies laugh at the antics of Flora Epiphany and Fauna Serendipity while Stephen weeps and synchronicity spells destiny with stars. A storyteller, met by chance, has sent a message. She will teach Changeling to paint pictures with glass and flame. The crew takes Changeling's hands off the keyboard and the cat headed ship sets sail. The Empress opens our hearts to invisible horizons.

DEMON AND DESIRE

BLESSED BY DESIRE

How often does one get to say such a thing? Today, however, it is MIRACULOUSLY TRUE! Pictured above is the glorious work of Kirsten Stingle, Desire...AND SHE IS MINE! MINE I TELL YOU, ALL MINE!

I had hardly dared to hope I could manage such a purchase and, technically, I can't. In steps my hero, my partner Demon, with his credit card and says he is willing to lend me the money. He knows I'm good for it. Just recently I paid him back the considerable sum I had borrowed for the Ghostbabies excursions.  

What an absolutely perfect end to a veritable insanity of extravagance is this  work of art! 

My life henceforth will become one of monastic dedication to my own pursuits as an artist. This has been my unacted upon intention for a scandalously long time but that will change NOW. I must become worthy of my possessions. At my minimum wage, part-time job at an art supply store it will take me roughly 500 hours to pay Demon back if I live on rice and tuna. This is an exaggeration of sorts since Demon not only houses me but has seen to it that I don't cease eating altogether many times already. 

I have been quite wild with resentment about my job ever since I got it but, embarrassingly, I do not really hate it as sincerely as I feel I should. It may well force me to take my artwork more seriously and to become better organized and that is long overdue INDEED! It certainly does leave me plenty of free time and I value time more than money anyday!

That this enigmatic queen shall arrive with her plague mask, that Demon so kindly supports me in my pursuits and reassures me that both my extraordinary treasures and myself are safe and loved, fills me with gratitude and a flood of conviction about the possibilities my own talents may have.