aside from being woken by the raucous hoots of obnoxious healthy people walking some good-cause marathon at eight this morning, and the plaintive yowls of my poor starving cat, who is actually quite rotund, and a vociferous glutton..nay, nay- none of this could rouse me from my slumber on my day off- i slept in until all the madness had past and the room was quiet once more..
and what will today bring?
letters, and books, and wordswordswords..
i shall stay indoors and read and write and paint to my heart’s content..
my stack of reading materials has grown more momentous with the arrival of unexpected packages, and a trip to a closing bookstore..i found many treasures there-
namely;
a nice copy of Venus and Tannhauser, an Erotic Tale by Aubrey Beardsley
The Way of the Sacred (the rites and symbols, beliefs and tabus, that men have held in awe and wonder, through the ages -with over 250 illustrations, 32 pages in full color-
by Francis Huxley
two books of case studies on astral projection and such-
The Hidden Channels of the Mind, by Louisa Rhine,
and The Case-book of Astral Projection, 545-746, by Dr. Robert Crookall
a slim volume on russian language, so that i may learn cyrillic and add to my compendium of bits of tongues i can briefly natter in, in hopes of ever becoming, at the very least somewhat conversational, ha.
and the shining jewel- the real find that has utterly captivated me-
POLYPHILO, or The Dark Forest Revisited, an Erotic Epiphany of Architecture
-by Alberto Perez-Gomez
this book is simply incredible and will be quoted at length and random, as it has proved to be an invaluable source for my bibliomancies..i reccomend it highly, do go out and find yourself a copy of it toute-suite, if the subjects of myth, desire, and the architecture of longing hold any interest for you..it is a retelling of the love story from the famous renaissance novel-treatise Hypnerotomachia Poliphili in late twentieth-century terms.
lastly, a parcel from the wild blue yonder arrived from a friend i had lost touch with-
enclosed was a sweet letter, and a wonderful book-
Out of The Loud Hound of Darkness- A Dictionarrative,
by Karen Elizabeth Gordon, Author of The Deluxe Transitive Vampire
which will be entertaining me for many days to come, and also another source for future bibliomancy..
more to come from both of these for those that do not already have them..
this is my heaven:
tea, quiet day with rain, a stack of books, my pens and papers..
i could say i want nothing else, but it might be a lie-
the marzipan i could not afford, the marble-white skin like the insides of almonds
pristine, tinged with pink- let my mind not linger too long on these things and
i will be content with what i have,
my sealing wax and watercolors,
the last of my winter days

saint valentine’s day was a rosy blur of sequins and feathers and flowers, accompanied by twinkling strains of the calliope on the river, and the shriek of steel on steel from the trainyard- the boom-boom! of the big drums and the blasting horns the ships blow as they let fall their anchors..
have you ever seen a big ship come in on the mississippi?
it’s surreal to watch these behemoths move slowly between the crumbling buildings..
-new orleans does indeed excel at the surreal..after the blueberry belgian waffles and strawberries romanov, it was impossible not to collapse into a stupor- i watched the afternoon sun drip through the jewel-coloured bottles on the windowsill- an indescribable luxury to laze in bed during the day..we met the parade at z’otz, warming up to gypsy music and the stilt-walkers dancing with the big-head puppets..a clown from st. petersburg doused me liberally with glitter, so now my scalp sports holographic dandruff..the marching band was tighter than i could have ever imagined- small, but powerful- tuba, trombone, megaphone, snare, quads, two clarinets and several accordions- there’s nothing like a rag-tag marching band stomping and snaking through the streets- especially when they’re playing warm leatherette..the krewe du poux valentine’s ball was utterly delightful- a bevy of very talented circus performers, wonderful crackly romantic phonograph music, hula hoops (on fire), pianos and sad ballads, trick-italian jugglers, george and his death-defying impromptu striptease on the highwire, absurdist shadow-puppets, and dangerous dancing with gorgeous girls- what more could anyone ask for?
we managed to catch the last strains of spy, my most favorite hazard county girls song- and stayed for a while longer, losing myself in the wall of sound before skittering off to my bed..
last night i dreamt of being put to death, execution-style, by someone i loved and trusted. bizarrely, i was accepting of this fate- as some things seem inescapable with a gun pressed to the back of your head. i took a deep breath and waited for the loud shock and the falling blackness. trying to remind myself to pay attention to what death was like- take notes! this is a new experience! here goes nothing!
my subconscious never ceases to confuse me.

lord golly,
what a mad month it has been!
the doll show has come and gone,
leaving me in a swirl of fluttering tatters and broken joints-
despite all of the chaotic preparations, and the disasters of the day, which follow…
the lovely lorelei with the broken neck, my sister gasping shock and dismay-
her daughter, her self, shattered- after so many months of careful creation..
speeding away from that horrible scene, speechless-
nodding my head to the relentless music,
(let the madness begin, just let it begin)
and coming back from my catatonic reverie
to the ominous thumping of a severely flat tire
on the overpass of the highway…
there was nothing to do but stick out my leather gloved thumb-
and luckily, after about a zillion cars
one sweet samaritan took me to the gallery with less than
three hours to finish, and so much left to be done..
stress and mental massacre turned me into a shrieking fascist harpy,
but after i had donned my fairy princess finery in the broom-closet
and hung the last few pieces and tags with jittery hands
amidst the deluge of people who arrived promptly at six-
i allowed myself some mousse-cups in phyllo-nests
and a glass of wine and the spy-strains of baby rosebud which soothed me, considerably..
the evening was, unequivocably, a roaring success-
the gallery was packed to the gills with throngs of fancy-hatted and bedecked folk,
the wine was plentiful, though all the petit-fours did vanish in moments
the music and dancing in the graveyard with hazard county girls and miss kane’s
lovely cloth dolls, and little child-duchesses in shiny silver and violet..
after awhile, i could perch on a table and watch it all swarm past me,
beaming and thankful- and proud to see that all the hard work had truly been worth it..


i’m just too lazy to put up the others,
but if you want to see, there are
more pictures from the dollshow
which can be seen at:
www.picturetrail.com
user name = scarletfever
a bevy of tender kisses and thanks to all who
created dolls and worked so hard on this show,
as well as all who attended…
and to these lovelies most especially, for their creativity and labours..









the last few days have been spent in astonishing langour- so incredible to do absolutely nothing at all- lounging and languishing with the ringer turned off, and actually even doing a bit of getting out and about-
the last few evenings have been marvelously entertaining!
i saw a performance of salome in a masonic temple,
(too perfect! i wonder how the masons liked the lascivious half-naked daughter of herodias writhing all over their golden thrones?)
the usual sunday night cabaret with cards, wine, and bananas foster aflowing,
this evening at reve’s one-man show, which was simply stunning,
and then, to top the night off perfectly-
i and miss r. attended the i, clavdivs drinking game,
compliments to the always-ravishing and his sons of agrippa for this brilliant new diversion- my tuesdays are now something to look forward to!
i’ll be venturing down to the gallery on the morrow
to take pictures of all the dollies and collect everything i forgot in the melee..
i desperately need a website, for myself and for the dollshow-
unfortunately, i woefully unskilled in these matters!
i need advice and expertise!
if anyone can lend their know-how to me,
i would be eternally grateful, and utterly doting in all sorts of ways..
tempted, aren’t you?
a luddite damsel in distress awaits your technological talents!

ack! the dollshow is tomorrow!
if you live in new orleans,
and you aren’t there tomorrow evening,
then you are dumb.
if you live elsewhere,
then i am sad you don’t own a helicopter,
or a flying carpet.
i’m terribly excited and exhausted all at once!
wish me luck!

another cyrptic fortune telling device-
this archaic machine, it’s a wonder it still worked..
in this modern age, our oracles are found in
jet trails arcing and coming to crux
across the sky in white and silver plumes..
or in the shattered glass, in heaps of dust and
the faintly glittering sentimental detritus
(the same that litters my floor, my heart)
cards or bibliomancy, entrails and hair
it matters not, the symbols will appear
regardless- in this case, it was an antiquated
weighing machine- the scale obsolete
the knobs you cranked to fix your query-
mine were two:
what do i dream of at night?
the answer read;
MISFORTUNE
naturally i chose another-
what do i long for?
the response;
RECONCILATION
my scapulae strain to be free of these bonds
every nerve, every fibre tender and bruised bloody
my mind rusted into jagged edges, alternately
corruscating and chaotic- i wander through
the graveyard of dead machines, squandered dreams
little things to fill the hollows,
innattention, innamorati..
i walk leaden through the halls-
hoping for the hallowed home
let me stay and rest..
i simply cannot think anymore
but must not pause in this tidal
shifting and building-
struggling to tear off the cauls
of illusion shrouding my ration..
bury my heart in the cold dirt
hide it away until spring comes in full
to hibernate, leech all of this
senseless longing from those red chambers
until it is forgotten, and new.
i can be an automaton until then,
walking and talking activated
from a remote location,
deep in the mountains.
as much as i try to train it,
indifference is not a natural instinct,
thankfully nor is hatred..
unfortunately, somewhere over the lines
it’s turned inward, face turned away-
in ascetic relief i hold myself together,
tightly bound in pure will.
in my dream
i am standing in the garden
it is raining down over me
soaking the thin dress, running
through my hair, over my skin
in rivulets, snaking tendrils..
i stand gasping at the gate,
my hand on the latch
my eyes blinded by silver water.
i haven’t dreamed it yet-
i have to wait for the rain,
the clawfoot my birdbath-
i wait for all this to change.

so yes,
i’ve discovered that the only way through this
is to stay as busy as humanly (or inhumanly) possible..
thank god the dollshow is next week-
i can concentrate on it,
and lose my mind later (what little i will have left)
i spent the day unpacking all the beautiful dolls
from their encasements of plasticene bubbles
and i have a feeling that despite all the madness,
the exhibition will be amazing..
please come, anyone that can-
it shall be a marvelous tea-party
with puppetshows and music and sweets..
and of course, the ever-astounding automatons,
(including live nude dolls! ooh-la-la)
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8th, DOUBLE-OUGHT-THREE
showing through March 22nd
opening and reception 6-10pm
Poet’s Gallery 3113 Magazine Street


many thanks to for creating these beauties..

this is the only picture i have of him.
i never got a chance to show it to him,
to show him the weird light that crossed us.
gravelly voice, samurai face.
you’re gone today.

another one down..
i just read, in these amorphous pages no less,
of a friend’s death.
it happened just a little ways away
on montegut street, in the infamous purple house
that bastion of death and foul air
i saw him
just the other day..
i put a steaming cup of coffee
in front of him
we whiled away a few hours
talking
telling the stories
of how we met
of how long we had known each other
both coming here from the same town
we told someone (who was it now?)
the story
of why he called me mcgill
he sang the song, rocky raccoon
he was there-
now he isn’t,
ever.
now no one will ever call me that again.
that was his name for me
he will never again tell
the story
of how and why he came to call me that.
or the story of why he showed up
covered from head to toe in blue
why he painted himself blue one day
and went walking.
fucking overdose, another
in a long string
of friends lost this way.
the endless trail
of hapless dead.
i thought he had been clean
for ages..
i don’t look forward
to the task
of telling his other friends,
i hope someone knows
how to find his mother
and his father.
this is the worst thing
that could happen.
i’m choking on this
on these unexpected tears
on this unexpected wash of grief.
i swear,
he was just here.

today, slow and silver..the rain snakes over
the glass in mercury rivulets,
and fogs the street below with nacreous mist-
the branches are made of bright metal,
the day flows past me like a river.
feverish and frantic, a fearful malaise
has settled upon my brow, hopefully to
be vanquished with the holy elixir of elixirs,
extract of grapefruit seeds..
luckily, a miraculous tea party swept in,
with meringue mushrooms and strawberry tartelettes,
kousmichoff and cakes, and laughter and books..
i made a hideous granny-cat doll and a new gown for stellamara..
the fortune telling cards turned
the jack of diamonds,
telling me:
“an engagement will be broken because of you”
and
“you are going to be happier than you dared hope”
good thing
i have too much sense
to take such things seriously.

i dream they’ve flooded the louvre
a broken water-main, or somesuch thing-
all the paintings lined up against the wall
on sale, half-off due to water damage..
the archivist unlocks the dam,
the key to a tide of memory, ancestral, karmic or otherwise..
from what the marvelous mme. la comtesse de melusine
has to say about cellular memory, and water-
i have the distinct feeling there will be more searching to do..
my last few days have been both exhausting and enlightening..

i have been altogether
working too hard.
playing too hard.
and i cannot complain,
in fact- i realized in a giddy flash yesterday
how blessed i am to be here at this turning
the endings are behind me-
this is a time of beginnings
and i can feel that i am guided in some sense,
the star in the night.
i am blessed by the company i keep,
by the gift of new acquaintance
and old souls finding each other..
the marvelous mme.
a case in point with her enlightening synchronicities
undeniable charm, and divinatory skill..
also mme.
who sent the loveliest package
filled to the brim with her fantastic dolls
and a birthday care package for me that
made my heart swell..
you are so thoughtful, my dear-
i love that you are in mama-mode,
i so dearly needed a little mothering,
as lately, i have been feeling a bit
like some ragged lost nestling..

another fragment:
setting: another suburban neighborhood
(why is this place the landscape for my dreams of late?)
i note that there is a street named nazilist street
(or something to that effect..)
it refers to lists of names and places, to the archives, the archivist..
little black boys on bikes are daring each other to race down it,
past the pink gingerbread house with the american flag..
i knock on a door, i want to know why
all the streets in this neighborhood are named after concentration camps.
dachau pass, treblinka way, auschwitz circle
you get the picture.
i am told again the (true) story
a boy i met the other night told me of his family,
living in a smallish village during the war-
his grandfather was given the choice;
come work as an archivist for us, in dachau
or go there as a prisoner, die there-
you and your family.
what would you do, given the choice?
i sat shivering on the balcony in the chill night air
listening to his story, i watch where the lines
can be drawn, where they tangle, and no longer make any sense..
the last dream of the rotting house,
the broken beams, central: the heart of the house
is dead, pieces of it come away in your hands..
but we try, we try to replce the stained glass frames,
seal the cracks in the planks where eyes can peer..
what will come of this?