...50033...they didn't say anything about editing some sort of 'final' draft...

http://nanowrimo.org/participants/edwardianjackal/novels/a-filipino-cookbook-the-miap-brothers

...42212 and stretches home 25nov13...

Nigel Tomm at nigeltomm.org

THE PASSING by: Arthur Conan Doyle It was the hour of dawn, When the heart beats thin and small, The window glimmered grey, Framed in a shadow wall.   And in the cold sad light Of the early morningtide, The dear dead girl came back And stood by his beside.   The girl he lost came back: He saw her flowing hair; It flickered and it waved Like a breath in frosty air.   As in a steamy glass, Her face was dim and blurred; Her voice was sweet and thin, Like the calling of a bird.   'You said that you would come, You promised not to stay; And I have waited here, To help you on the way.   'I have waited on, But still you bide below; You said that you would come, And oh, I want you so!   'For half my soul is here, And half my soul is there, When you are on the earth And I am in the air.   'But on your dressing-stand There lies a triple key; Unlock the little gate Which fences you from me.   'Just one little pang, Just one throb of pain, And then your weary head Between my breasts again.'   In the dim unhomely light Of the early morningtide, He took the triple key And he laid it by his side.   A pistol, silver chased, An open hunting knife, A phial of the drug Which cures the ill of life.   He looked upon the three, And sharply drew his breath: 'Now help me, oh my love, For I fear this cold grey death.'   She bent her face above, She kissed him and she smiled; She soothed him as a mother May sooth a frightened child.   'Just that little pang, love, Just a throb of pain, And then your weary head Between my breasts again.'   He snatched the pistol up, He pressed it to his ear; But a sudden sound broke in, And his skin was raw with fear.   He took the hunting knife, He tried to raise the blade; It glimmered cold and white, And he was sore afraid.

Ernest Barlach

  He poured the potion out, But it was thick and brown; His throat was sealed against it, And he could not drain it down.   He looked to her for help, And when he looked -- behold! His love was there before him As in the days of old.   He saw the drooping head, He saw the gentle eyes; He saw the same shy grace of hers He had been wont to prize.   She pointed and she smiled, And lo! he was aware Of a half-lit bedroom chamber And a silent figure there.   A silent figure lying A-sprawl upon a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol Still clotted to his head.   And as he downward gazed, Her voice came full and clear, The homely tender voice Which he had loved to hear:   'The key is very certain, The door is sealed to none. You did it, oh, my darling! And you never knew it done.   'When the net was broken, You thought you felt its mesh; You carried to the spirit The troubles of the flesh.   'And are you trembling still, dear? Then let me take your hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and restful land.   'You know how once in London I put my griefs on you; But I can carry yours now-- Most sweet it is to do!   'Most sweet it is to do, love, And very sweet to plan How I, the helpless woman, Can help the helpful man.   'But let me see you smiling

Hermann Max Pechstein "Kopf eines Seemannes"

With the smile I know so well; Forget the world of shadows, And the empty broken shell.   'It is the worn-out garment In which you tore a rent; You tossed it down, and carelessly Upon your way you went.   'It is not you, my sweetheart, For you are here with me. That frame was but the promise of The thing that was to be--   'A tuning of the choir Ere the harmonies begin; And yet it is the image Of the subtle thing within.   'There's not a trick of body, There's not a trait of mind, But you bring it over with you, Ethereal, refined,   'But still the same; for surely If we alter as we die, You would be you no longer, And I would not be I.   'I might be an angel, But not the girl you knew; You might be immaculate, But that would not be you.   'And now I see you smiling, So, darling, take my hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and pleasant land,   'Where thought is clear and nimble, Where life is pure and fresh, Where the soul comes back rejoicing From the mud-bath of the flesh   'But still that soul is human, With human ways, and so I love my love in spirit, As I loved him long ago.'   So with hands together And fingers twining tight, The two dead lovers drifted In the golden morning light.   But a grey-haired man was lying Beneath them on a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol Still clotted to his head.

Give to the Red Cross - Typhoon Haiyan

Please consider giving to the Red Cross to support the tens of thousands affected by Typhoon Haiyan today:
https://www.redcross.org/donate/index.jsp?donateStep=2&itemId=prod4650031&campname=donatetyphoon&campmedium=aspot_unassigned

The Daily Mail article puts a face on the destruction.  The most heartbreaking of which is a distraught father carrying his baby girl through the streets, her lifeless body limp in his arms:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2501471/Philippines-Typhoon-Haiyan-Bodies-piled-streets-makeshift-mortuaries-overrun.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-24895620

...10,033 thank you's...

The site hit 10,033 unique users today (with an aggregate of 14628 across the site): a milestone I was looking forward to reaching since July.  My humble gratitude to you who visit.  In the end, it makes the site richer and makes me work harder; it pushes me to the brink of exhaustion.  Your visits set sparks from pen and paper, and the worlds in my head grown on the never-ending plane of imagination.

I am in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so Wattpad and Pace are taking a backseat as I finish "Filipino Cookbook" this month.  Head winds are with me and I dedicate a big portion of it to 10,033 of you that show me your interest - it is, for me,  what it is all about.  I hope that the time I put into stories -  in the form of blog entries, to pictures, to the three short books and the longer ones come over the next year - that you find a sliver of pleasure, or camaraderie, or whatever it is that makes us kindred spirits.

Thank you and I can guarantee more is on its way.  Support is simple for me: keep popping in from time to time.  As always, this is a font that cannot exhaust.

http://www.redcross.org.ph/donate - just read about the terrible super typhoon that left the Philippines, please donate, anything if you can.

...Comikaze 2013...Saturday Pass...

Avenger Props outside the "Mega Museum"

As my second year attending Comikaze, it continues to be refreshing in seeing that it still has that 'small-breeches' feel to this annual comic book convention at the Los Angeles Convention Center.  Put together by the gregarious Stan Lee, Comikaze is his convention, for sure, but it has a welcome appreciation for the creators of the works, not the corporate feel of San Diego, which only highlights the stars of the medium (along with media that is unabashedly not even comic book based).

Artist sketching at the Topps booth.  Bought a few Wacky
Packages postcards.  Fun111

Comikaze is open.  It's for the fans.  It's for the creators.  It was what Comic Con used to be. I wouldn't go to far as to say a joyous celebration, but it is a celebration for what we enjoy consuming.  If I'm into Attack on Titan right now, be sure that I can get dollar pins with a Titan on it.  Adventure Time is all over the place still.  Star Wars is an open staple, but you can see the tow of Avengers taking root for children and adults alike.

It's almost all here.  The only thing lacking, and I see that with the smaller conventions, is they need a unifying effect to it all.

J-Cool abounds the floor.

They are on the right track.  The MC at the Hot Topic stage, located at a focal point in the main hall, is used well.  It directs the horde to goings on, occasional guests arrive without notice - these play well with it.  What they need is an element of the floor.  They have screens, they have cameras - pump some production into a roaming reporter that can update you from the main stage that the Ghostbusters are over by the Mega Museum, that Weird Al is signing right now.  That, and some music, would make the event much more unified.

I use the old Shriner auditorium monthly comic weekends as an example - it was small, homey, but full of humor and use of what they had.  They were scrappy to the extreme.

Marvel Toys - handsomely displayed.  Bravo!

There are definite signs of finding that groove, but the venue is expansive, which is a problem with many conventions.  This year, the gaming tables were put at the extreme ends, with the signing booths on the opposite pole.  Again, they didn't have enough room, in my opinion, around the main stage, which puts the booths nearest it at a weird disadvantage.  The shops were the heart of the show, as for foot traffic, but they should be interspersed with the artists - it'll draw folks to the tables as they hunt for merch.

The touch here is the O-G TV set: swank!

Where Stan Lee pitches his never ending font of ideas.

A welcome addition this year was the Video Game Historical whatever, that put an Atari VCS near an old couch, on an old tube television.  That was pure genius.  All of the consoles were on display, which were a particular fascination for my boys, who asked questions and saw the fun of retro.  They even bought an old Kirby cart for the original Game Boy.  That 8-bit sound is just too wanting.

I did wait for them to turn around, but alas...

All in all, Comikaze is just a great communal place for geeks to come out and let their inner being come out. For that I'm appreciative - the first cosplay I saw was a Poison Ivy that looked like she painted on her clothes, I mean, wowzers, lady.  Way to commit.

R2 still stays cool, among the people, he is.

Everyone has their spice: these guys over here like Ghostbusters, these guys are R2 D2 hobbyists who love that folks want to touch their creations and take a thousand photos in the day.  Twenty years ago, you would barely see a girl at the Shriners, but, I almost want to say that the geek girls were represented in wild numbers, I felt like it was 50/50.

It really is just a nice, inexpensive way to check out new stuff, bring cash, and go nuts.  The boys and I saw Stan Lee, Edward James Olmos, Louis Anderson, Weird Al Yankovic, Lou Ferrigno, James Hong - all without even having to struggle.  They were just there - smiling and enjoying the smiles around them.

A wallpaper of the Ghostbuster-mobile, Ecto-1.  Enjoy my
geek-peeps.

...November is Nanowrimo...and Apparently Torturous Endevaors...2013

So, aspiring writers, you may also desire to glom onto the sadistic sub-culture of NaNoWriMo (National something and Writing something) over at http://nanowrimo.org/ and go for the attempt of 50,000 hastily hashed out words - ultimately being considered as a 'novel' in the most technical sense of the word.  That's 1666.66 [repeating] words per day.  1666 awful, putrid, banal words a day.  So, I have my own participation page to completely lie about my progress http://nanowrimo.org/participants/edwardianjackal.  For example, I'm already at 1,000,000 words on day one.  America, f*ck yeah!

Here's a few tool kits for you aspiring souls that want to cobble together the next YA (young adult) series about the lonely outsider teenager struggling to find acceptance at middle school, but comes to find out she has powers granted by the Ancient Egyptians, Cleopatra's Amagination Diagrammatica: Book 1: The Clique Astounding.  Links abound:

- http://lifehacker.com/5863688/tips-for-editing-your-nanowrimo-novel
- http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/nanowrimo-tip-1-establish-a-writing-schedule_b79612
- http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/30-nanowrimo-writing-tips_b41295
- http://yabooknerd.blogspot.com/2013/11/nanowrimo-tips.html
- http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/nanowrimo-online-editor

Happy writing and 29 days to go!

...La mort et le bucheron...art by MarcSimonetti...io9 writing prompt...

The woodsman stared at Death for a spell.  Death simply stared back.  Despite being a collection of bones and rags, lacking a tongue and any flesh all together, Luthric could read his movements as if he were speaking, You summoned me.  Its tone was nonplussed.  The woodsman could make out that he was wasting his time.  A bout of consumption was making the rounds in Castle Arthrias and the courts nearest its high walls.  Serves them right.  He grimaced for a second, his right eye a flash of temper.  He stocked it away when he realized that Death couldn't make the distinction - the hatred was in his heart.  But here Death was and he would rather die than be wrong.

"I summoned you, that is true.  Yet, you did not have to come to me.  Figuring you are a busy man in high esteem in your world and all afraid of you in this one, I'm thinking you're wasting my time.  At least both of our times, then."

Death broke the intent of his gaze, appeared confused, looking over Luthric at the woodpile, somewhere the light fell into the endless shadow of his sockets.  His head cocked and straightened up to his full height, You...you mean to say that you called me and I'm wasting your time?

Indeed did Luthric mean it: somewhere in the peanut that was his brain, he absolutely believed, to the core of his being that his time was being wasted, "I called you when the wood shifted from my shoulders, I called you when I needed you to help set it aright.  You did not come.  You came after the load fell.  What good does it do me then?"  He waved his hand at the mess.  "You understand how long it takes to set a load and to get it half-way home.  It will take the same time to load it again.  I don't need you now, you may go."  He waved his hand again, this time at the tattered robes of Death.

The latter could not take it anymore.  He rose even higher, as if he was holding some of his power back.  He appeared to grow girth where he did not have it before.  Even his scythe seem to thicken.  His skull, devoid of the emotion of men, took on the colour of anger at least.  He stabbed the staff into the earth and the entire forest shook.  Animals broke from the thickets and the birds from their branches.  Luthric couldn't but shield his head with his arms.

"What's all that for, man?"

I am no man, Luthric Selrach of Arthrias.  I AM DEATH.

"Aye, I know.  I figured by yer wont that you are who you say: bones and all that guff.  And yes I'm of the guild Selrach, but don't say'n that I come from Arthrias."  He spat.  "I don't hold no cause for that town that disdained me."

Listen...

Luthric turned his crooked back and sighed, "Nay, you'd not understand.  I'm a woodsman that no one even knows is here.  I could have died there, that's why I may," he turned and gave Death his right eye, "...may have called upon you in a moment's whim."

Death sighed and seemed to understand Luthric.  He nodded his staff to the lot of wood.  "You're going to help me?  After I've wasted your precious time."

Death sighed once more and rolled his head.  He nodded again to the wood.  Luthric staggered over to it and bent over, awaiting the load.  The shrouded figure hovered toward him and made motions with his hands.

"I'd thank you, but I could have done this myself, you know."  He scowled with the self-satisfaction that all boors hold for themselves when they believe they've gotten over on someone.  Luthric Selrach of Loneliness, I never came here to take you away.

"Yer damn sure of that."  Luthric scowled and waited under the load that slowly fell upon him.  He grabbed out to both ropes that evened its load across his back.  His knees bent with it.  His knees bent even more.  Then Death let the load go.  Luthric felt his back's bones crack under the weight.  The load was made more by thrice.  It's as if he took an entire old beech and laid it across his back.  He saw Death float away from him, ne'er turning back once.  Luthric stumbled forward with the weight: it wouldn't matter which way he leaned, the load was perfectly upon him to crush him if he let it out.  He would die soon.

Death turned and began to fade away.  If a skull could wink, Luthric felt this one would.

La mort et le bucheron by MarcSimonetti on DeviantArt