"Some calls it madness...I calls it HiDeeHo." - Cab Calloway
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Saturday, August 10, 2002

The filling out of paperwork and eating of pizza went smoothly. A big thank you for cooperating. This isn't going to be SO bad. They'll have to make a movie out of someone else's divorce now.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/10/2002 03:01:00 PM

Friday, August 09, 2002


Prizes to those who know this one:

he breaks the spell
still young and words from
out this dream of life and leaves us
sleeping stone rack
lying consumed by
phantom pains
and displays of greed
he slips from out this shadowland
and pain where heads grow soft and grey
and age destroys all hope
and spirits crush the men
and hide away
the wordless watch the soft sky smile
and breathless hear the low wind sigh
what death will join
no more let love divide
"dream yourself awake" he calls
"an eternity awaits us all
open your eyes and be with me
be with me..."
he breaks the chains
so young disspells
the hateful shades
of treacherous time
leaves us sleeping
tortured mute
devoured by ghosts
and dreams of life
slips through ties
and dust to be the world
we dream he lives apart
but everything we feel
the young and beautiful
and brave of heart
the wordless watch the soft sky smile
and breathless hear the low wind sigh
what death will join
no more let love divide
"dream yourself awake" he calls
"an eternity awaits us all
open your eyes and be with me
be with me..."
"dream yourself awake" he calls
"an eternity awaits us all
open your eyes and be with me
be with me forever..."


posted by Julie Neff  # 8/09/2002 02:56:00 PM

This. Gah!

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/09/2002 02:18:00 PM


This is a bit of a rant. If you have gotten used to my poetic ramblings as being Dada, or pretty and faeriesque, boy are you in for a yucca shard to the ass.

NOW...on with the show.

"I like to look good; that makes me a tease?
I like to eat; that makes me a pig?
I like to get off; that makes me a slut?
I like to be treated with respect; that makes me a man-hating dyke?
Trust me, I have no problem being labeled a bitch."

Someone else said this, but it resonates like Swiss quartz crystals within my intellect. Bitch I am, and Bitch I shall remain. Love your Bitches, ladies and gentlemen. To do less would be cowardly. Without us, the world is pale, wan, sexless and flavorless. If you too are indeed a bitch-pig-dog-slut, own the words. Make them compliments, not insults, nor mere breeding terms. Same with whore, dyke, cunt, gash, vaca, witch, every attempt at an ugly word that has been directed at us since spoken language came about, and at me since I was about 16. I will own them on your behalf if you are too scared. I already own "whore," "nympho" and "glutton." I am tough and any verbal attempt upon my self-worth will be met with blowtorch-intense rebuttal.

The men, the men, the men, the men. Find your own role models. Don't go co-opting mine. Don't pretend to have insight into the feminine nature. Don't assume ANYTHING. I will offer what insight I have into those things which I know. I make only one exception here; even my own father is included in this rant.

Joshua, stand aside. You are uncommonly perceptive and I don't want any of these brain-bullets to wound you. Consider yourself excepted.

Fathers of daughters, take heed! Do not tease your fledglings about the size of their breasts. Do not insinuate what good Playboy fodder they will make at the tender age of 9. Do not allow your dirty old boozerman friends named Dick to call your child a heifer, or tell her she has potential with a leer and a lecherous grin. Do not spank your daughter for "fun," especially not after a certain age.

DO avail your daughter of the fun and difficult aspects of science, math and technology. DO take your daughter hiking, camping, fishing and hunting if she shows interest. DO let her ride on farm tractors and motorcycles as the opportunities present themselves. DO be a hard worker and good provider, if that is the role your family requires, if only just to show it can be done. DO treat your wife as a co-being with a brain and better money-handling capability, and not as a "blowbot" or "MegaMaid" like so many other men do to their wives. DO show your feelings more than average Joe-man. DO give your daughter reason to be proud of her male lineage, and not ashamed or apologetic for it.

You were soldiers, sailors, farmers, engineers, cryptographers, miners, mechanics and merchants; you were the salt of the earth, the Common Man. You have given rise to an uncommon woman, who has her own Spriggan to nurture into the realm of uncommon.

So, Dad, you did good. The best part of me did not end up staining the sheets. The best part of me is raising another female of YOUR line.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/09/2002 12:27:00 PM

Weed fluff blow-by
Yellow toadflax spun blue
Lake above, sky below
Midnight white sun
Hot on your back
Sweating out the storm
The pebbles are sharp
Biting into petals
Sweet blood pool
Flows over maps
At the source of
Flowers of August

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/09/2002 06:37:00 AM

Be careful of what you wish for. It may happen in a very strange way. To wit:

Yesterday was such a beautiful day, sunny, breezy, cooler than it had been. I was lamenting the fact that I'd have to stay in all day working to Josh, who had accompanied me through the night, sleeping and etc. I said, "I wish...I wish the Road Runner would go down or something." Then some happenings proceeded to happen (see poem above...can't help myself) that charged the air with some portent, some Mojo...which seemed to be directed straight at my shark-fin modem. Lo and behold, about 10 minutes after I uttered the magic words "I wish..." I hear this sound like a baby robot choking, and the little green light in the middle of the modem is blinking away. THAT means, for those of you without RR, that your connection to the network is no longer functional.

Well. The Road Runner itself did not, in fact, go down. After much fanagaling, and turning on and off of the TV and computer, I discovered that it was only MY cable and RR that were down. They had been shut off at about 9:15 a.m. They had been shut off by mistake, but it took until about 4:45 p.m. (only 15 minutes from the end of my usual shift) for someone from AOL/TWC to come out and turn them back on...for free! The customer service lady apologized profusely. I said it was all right, I wanted the day off work anyway. See, I work over the internet, so when it's down, I'm down, and we all down. I sat around outside and read two books Josh had brought for me, The Republic of Dreams by G. Garfield Crimmins and Dangerous Angels by Francesca Lia Block. Wonderful stuff, by the way. Absolutely brilliant-wonderful.

Someone who shall remain nameless, except their name is a certain CITY, had a hand in this too, being a former employee of TWC and once eligible for benefits including free standard cable and RR service. How convenient. Thankee, little man.

ANYWAY...I'm up and running now. This is proof. When Pooka and I are in the same room, MAGICK happens and wishes come true.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/09/2002 06:33:00 AM

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

Only go here if you don't mind having your sensibilities violated. You have been warned.

Pooka, come on back in...

The inviolate sanctity of the void has spit us out and we are wandering mastic plastic snips, let loose upon the solids.
Wine for you! Bread for you! Disease of the spirit and health to the body for you? NO! No! No. no no...
The communion is erasers and paste, paper wads long since accidentally gulped
As the elders say..."shall we play a game?"

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/07/2002 02:03:00 PM

The bourgeois regarded the Dadaist as a dissolute monster, a revolutionary villain, a barbarous Asiatic, plotting against his bells, his safe-deposits, his honours list. The Dadaist thought up tricks to rob the bourgeois of his sleep....The Dadaist gave the bourgeois a sense of confusion and distant, yet mighty rumbling, so that his bells began to buzz, his safes frowned, and his honours list broke out in spots.

-Hans Arp
The Navel Bottle

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/07/2002 01:49:00 PM


It was a dark and stormy night (I couldn't resist). The clouds were roiling and boiling, spitting arcs of lightning to the ground. A fierce wind whipped the surface of the river into a froth. This same wind parted the clouds and let a full moon shine through occasionally, illuminating the land with blue and silver.

The full moon has significance in these parts, as there are some of the old cursed ones, lycanthropes, still roaming the hills. No one speaks of them in a voice louder than a whisper, and not without crossing themselves. These are superstitious, fearful folk, huddled in their churches, reeking of garlic, adorned with as much silver as they can afford.

No one within this realm of sanity would go out on a night like this, if only because of the storm. With the full moon, anyone out now is rapidly accelerating over the furthest sanity horizon and showing no signs of stopping.

Over a rise near the river came wandering a figure, human by gait, androgynous by garb. Strands of coppery hair were escaping the figure's hood. The wind seemed intent on barring their progress, but they slipped through the gusts, air-foiling, almost dancing through the walls of wind. When the figure came to the river, the heavy cloak was cast aside. Female. Not from around here, obviously. Or is she? Not many redheads in these parts, either. They are regarded with almost as much superstition as the left-handed.

She crouched down at the water's edge and got a drink. It was hard work, navigating this wind. She elevated her gaze to the clouds, seeking out the next break when the moon would show through. She sat, expectant. To the observer, she appeared to be perfectly normal, if a bit foolhardy, to be sitting by a river on a dark and stormy full moon night in lycanthrope country. The observer is going to put two and two together momentarily.

The clouds broke once again. The silvering light caught the girl's ruddy hair, edging it with filigree. She sat, chewing the insides of her cheeks to shreds, tapping her fingers, squirming uncomfortably atop the mass of padding necessary on most full moons.

When when when? How long is it going to take THIS time?

The taste and scent of her own blood set her jaw to trembling, then lengthening, the transformation set in motion. The moon saw the perfectly ordinary girl carefully undressing so as not to have her clothes totally ruined, having trouble with the last few buttons as her hands became more pawlike and less articulate. The black peasant clothing whipped away on the wind, gauzy bat-trappings of modesty, now unnecessary (she always found them later, stuck on some tree or bush). She turned this way and that on the riverbank, suffering somewhat as the physical redecorating progressed. She was covered in tortoise shell pattern fur now. The furring was always the first to be completed. The moon did not avert her eyes.

Small, sharp cries escaped her throat as limbs redirected themselves. Joints and muscles popped and tore, healing instantaneously. The crouch of pain then became a crouch of alertness, her pelvis realigned into a quadruped stance, shoulders thrown back to facilitate running, neck arched up, whiskers twitching, ears funnelling sound, raspy tongue rubbing the roof of her mouth...she was hungry. This river was the source of many Friday-night dinners for the Catholic local populace. As a human, she knew how to tickle fish out of the water without a hook or line; as a feline, the process was a bit more distasteful to her but in practice much easier. She snagged a few scaly victims and devoured them.

The sound commotion at the river had roused the curiosity of another denizen of these hills. He too was crouched over, senses on high alert, watching what the moon had seen. He was hidden by a shade of foliage. He watched, sharp-toothed mouth agape. So there was another feline! He had spent most of his young adult life running and hiding from the wolves; human, lycanthrope, hard to tell the difference most days. He had learned to keep to the trees on the full-moon nights, transforming on a full stomach so he wouldn't have to take the risk of hunting...but this one, this audacious, out-in-the-light girl....doesn't she know? There are wolves EVERYWHERE out there, can't she smell them? Filthy beasts... His claws dug into the bark of the tree, making a crackling sound.

As it was, the girl feline was grooming after her dinner, and paid no heed to the air. The wind was dying down a little, and the clouds moving off to drop their load of rain on a luckier valley.

A crackling sound from the edge of the forest caught her ear. She put her paw down and glanced over.

There's something in there...I see eyes...sniff...male! Male what...sniff, sniff...oh!

As a human, she was on her monthly courses. As a feline, too, estrus ws upon her, but her hunger for food had momentarily distracted her. Now that she was comfortably full, a call of a different nature was sounded. She kept her eye on the woods, wary and hopeful, rolling, luxuriating in the grass, scenting the indentation, hoping whoever was watching from the woods was paying attention. After all, tomcats were ALWAYS on.

The eyes in the woods never left the scene. Wolves...no, wait...sniff...she...can't, wolves will find me...but she...haaaaaah, um...

The human mind vied for dominance, but the feline mind said NO. GO. NOW.

A sleek silver-black striped tom lept from a lower branch and landed about 10 yards from where the queen had made her bed in the grass near the river bank.


Gentle readers, how think you this should continue?

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/07/2002 11:58:00 AM


Here's my contribution. Expand your horizons!

Irish Gaelic/Celtic
Indian (Asian)
Lakota Sioux

Now, don't take it personally if I left YOU out. Those cultures above are ones I have a vested interest in learning more about at the moment. Soon will also come French, German, Romanian, Italian, Yanglush, Scottish, Japanese, Spanish, Saudi, Palestinian, Somali (best frankincense in the world!), Egyptian, and most of sub-Saharan African.

Hell, let's just get the whole world in on this deal; there's a little human in all of us.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/07/2002 11:44:00 AM

I was right. That was fun. It had been too long! I hadn't roleplayed since 1995, and it all came rushing back. The senses of humor, the atmosphere of successful dorkiness, ah sigh. See, the players NOW are in their late 20s and 30s and such, and have JOBS and CHILDREN and HOUSES...they had the 'L' zapped off their foreheads when they had their fun AND pleased the Man. That's hardly fair, I know, but c'est la fucking vie.

Anyway, yes these critters are a breed apart. This system is Ron's baby, apparently. Sorcerer. It is EASY. Not to say it is simplistic, no no. Very organic system. It's group acting in forensics. And Mike's supplement makes for a fine 4-1/2 hour session. But I want more! Elaine is chomping at her metaphorical bit! He even fed us pizza! That's a requisite for any good hosting GM, the frozen pizza service. I'm being totally sincere too because of the nostalgia factor

Morgan behaved like a perfect little lady except for tooting on my leg a few times. Oh well. Kids.

See now I have this character who is JUST LIKE ME, only more so. She is a ganjafied, hallucinogenic, wandering maverick demon liberator. An egalitarian hippie sorcerer? It works, trust me. I have ALWAYS played catalyst characters, and last night was no exception. From misdirecting to contact buzzing to rolling high on Lore EVERY TIME to yanking control objects out of people's bodies, Elaine (for that is the name) sat back until she was needed and then BAM!

Sigh that I won't be doing GenCon. It looked like being fun every time I went before...but I have sad business to which I must attend.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/07/2002 07:35:00 AM

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

I am going to meet Mike Holmes, Jurgen the mad German, and Ron tonight. So is Mo. This promises to be fun.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/06/2002 04:16:00 PM



Andy Warhol. You are sorely missed.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/06/2002 10:04:00 AM

Monday, August 05, 2002

On this date in 1974, a lot of children were born. A lot of them were probably misbegotten and miserable for a good number of years. One of these grew up and learned to fix things that people think they need, but really don't.

I know its not a happy birthday, but I guess you at least deserve acknowledgement. Congratulations for struggling through 28 years. May your struggles soon cease.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/05/2002 02:24:00 PM


The writing you do online from the gut for the masses will seem much more polished straight out of your head than any that you TRY to write, try to squeeze out, try to bring to bear prematurely. I will have to remember this one. Miscarried poetry is not very nice.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/05/2002 02:20:00 PM


You will have your best story ideas and best expository detail mindset when you have the most to do at work.

Corollary to hypothesis that preceded theorem: The work will ALWAYS be there; the muse may not.

I just sent the first installment of a serial e-mail to my Pooka.

I could extend those lines out into a whole chapter, a whole book, a whole series...but no. I have to correct doctors' grammar and also correct the grammar of those who were supposed to be correcting the doctors' grammar in the first place.

The lady prays and prays and prays and prays and prays and prays....it's everlastin'. There's nothin' wrong with prayin', but it's what she's askin'. Amen, sista.

posted by Julie Neff  # 8/05/2002 10:32:00 AM


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