Art by MeddygonThere is a fine line \ Between genius and madness. \ It is called timing.

Outside the shop, a man nervously approached the door. He would take a few determined steps forward before losing all courage, at which time he’d stop, turn, and go back the way he came. This repeated several times as Darina watched. He made a small amount of progress with each attempt, small enough that she grew impatient watching him. She stood beside her bicycle and waited. He would enter soon, she was certain of it, his time was near. She was there to guide him, but she couldn’t do it until he went inside.

Darina screwed her face in annoyance and squeezed the handlebars on her bike. As they warped in her fingers, she heard a short gasp from beside her. There, on the bus stop bench, sat a young mother and her infant. “I’m not after you,” Darina said, irritated. The woman clutched the child closer to her breast. “Nor your brat, so don’t suffocate it.”

The door to the shop across the street had bells tied to the handle that jingled as the man finally went inside. Darina quickly collected her bicycle in her hands, warping and bending the metal effortlessly out of existence. She made haste for the shop front, pausing in front of the door to make sure the man was not looking out the glass. Currently, he was engaged in looking like a nonchalant shopper, though he still showed signs of anxiety.

Darina sighed and opened the door as quietly as possible, distorting the metal of the bells enough to prevent their announcement of her entry. It should not be this way, she thought. He has the blood of a great house in him, but houses were no longer powers in this land. Here was this man, distant ancestor of a great lord that once ruled half the State with his cunning and valor, reduced to robbing a shop just to afford a place to rest.

Desperation does funny things to people’s minds. She’d seen it before, in others she was sent to guide. It’s manifested itself to her has begging, bribery, and brutality. Most men knew, however, that when a Guide came to them, it was their time, and they were to accept it.

She made her way to a corner of the shop, stooping slightly to be out of the man’s sight. A few moments later, all other patrons had left, and only Darina, the man, and the woman behind the counter remained. The woman saw her, recognized what she was, and grew visibly tense. Darina shook her head slightly, hoping to indicate to the unlucky woman that it wasn’t her time today.

The man turned toward the counter and drew a firearm in one swift motion. The clerk seemed to have taken the hint from the Guide and ducked below the counter. The potential robber leaned over the counter to point his gun at her, but the weapon was quickly swatted out of his hand by the clerk.

Darina advanced as the clerk rose from behind the counter with an aluminum bat. The man dodged her swing by hopping back, but in his haste knocked over a product display. As the clerk retreated into the office to contact the authorities, Darina positioned herself in sight of the man. He looked at her, then looked around at the floor, the ceiling, trying to spy anything that could help him. He looked toward the counter, finding that clerk had come out of the office again. She was aiming his gun at him. Their eyes locked only briefly, and the woman fired.

The man turn as the bullet impacted with his shoulder. Darina caught him before he could fall to the ground. He looked up at her, and she graced him with a smile. She hoped that it would comfort him in his final moments. His death was imminent, predicted in the tapestries of time and life to be this day, this hour, this place. She awaited his final words…

“I hear you things bleed black,” he said as he smiled back at Darina. Her smile quickly faded, however, as she felt something sharp punch into her belly. Again, and again, she felt it. The pain was more than she’d ever felt before; it distracted her so much she barely heard the clerk fire the gun several times more. Eventually the man’s efforts to slay death ended as he succumbed to his new wounds.

The man and Darina fell to the floor in each other’s arms at that point, shock still dominating her facial features. The clerk grabbed the man by the back of the shirt and dragged his body aside. “Who guides you?” the woman asked, her voice faltering in confusion as she attempted to staunch the blood flow with her hands. “Who guides you, who guides you?”

“You,” Darina managed to say in a labored breath, “you . . . are Mi—“

“Yeah, I’m Mirna,” the clerk cut her off, hoping to save the dying Guide the effort of speaking. She removed the sweatshirt she was wearing at that time and placed it over Darina’s midsection, pressing it firmly. “You do bleed black,” she said as the blood quickly soaked through, and then, more to herself than to the dying, “Who’s going to take care of you?”

Darina struggled to speak, but managed in halting breaths, “I will never die.” She placed her hands on Mirna’s wrists and pushed feebly upon them. Mirna took the hint and released the pressure upon the wound. Darina took the blood-soak clothing off her stomach and tossed it aside before passing out completely upon the floor.

#

When the police and paramedics arrived, none knew what to do with Darina. Mirna listened as they discussed, but was involved in her own conversation with the police.

While explaining what happened, she caught some snippets. An officer insisted that the Guide be patched up. A medic said that they couldn’t treat the guide, citing her complete lack of internal organs as proof that nothing could be done. Another officer said that she should just be carted to the morgue along with the failed robber. The medic responded that he couldn’t do that because the “thing” wasn’t dead.

Calling Darina a “thing” didn’t sit well with Mirna. She called out to the group, “That ‘thing’ saved my life!”

“It also caused you to take another man’s life,” responded the officer interviewing her.

Mirna’s face went blank. She hadn’t yet thought of that. She was the one that shot the man to death. It was so easy to forget that the Guides did not kill, they were merely there when a killing occurred. But this time, this time the Guide was hurt. This time, Death was dying. Mirna had shot the man once in self defense. She killed him because he hurt Darina.

#

The authorities had finally decided that Darina should go to the hospital; they didn’t know much about Guides, but they knew that there were other Guides wherever death occurred. They were sure that one of them would know what to do with this one.

Mirna watched and waited as the Guide of the hospital came in to evaluate Darina. He stared at the open wound that was no longer bleeding like a tipped inkwell.

In a motion that made Mirna feel ill, he placed a finger inside the inert patient’s cavity, then to his mouth. He tasted it, and looked thoughtful about it. Mirna squirmed, and he smiled. “She should return to Yntraw,” he said.

“I can’t take her,” Mirna responded nervously. She lifted her hands so that the Guide could see they were bound to each other and then to her ankles. She was a murderer, but the peacekeepers felt she would not cause harm locked in a room with Death.

He smiled a mischievous grin that made Mirna even more squeamish. “She needs death to survive,” he said as he leaned toward her.

Mirna recoiled as if he’d advanced on her. His presence was overwhelming. She suddenly realized how horrible a plea it was when she asked to be alone in the room. She was now surrounded by two agents of death, one needing her to die to save herself. A darkness washed over her vision and she cowered.

The man (if he could be called such a thing) laughed. “I am Aras,” he said, “And I am not here to guide you.”

Mirna remained in a tight, fetal ball until she heard his footsteps retreat and the door shut. She crawled to the bed on which Darina was laid out. The hospital did not want to waste quality equipment on someone who would not benefit from their services, and so had given her a broken bed and some stained sheets. “Why is this happening?” Mirna asked aloud, expecting and receiving no response. She rose to her knees next to the bed and placed and elbow as best she could upon the mattress.

She looked up and found herself staring directly into the gaping wound. Before she could verbally express her disgust, she involuntarily touched the blood pooled in Darina’s open gut. It coated her finger like tar, far thicker than what had covered her hands and arms back at the shop.

Out of some warped desire to know what Aras had found so interesting about the flavor of this pitch-black liquid, she too placed her finger into her mouth. Her world rolled around her, her vision twisted and blurred. Everything in her body told her that she needed to vomit and to do it quickly. She was unsure if she ever did, because she soon blacked out.

#

Mirna awoke to find herself in a bed next to Darina, with Aras sitting between them. “Oh good, you are awake,” Aras said as he heard Mirna shift under her bedsheets while she looked around. “Your friend was awake.” Mirna looked to the other bed and saw part of it was melted and twisted near Darina’s hands. “She sleeps now, but soon we will take her to Yntraw.”

“We?” Mirna coughed. She could taste the stagnant stomach acid in her mouth. “I’m pretty certain I can’t go anywhere,” she said and lifted her hands. The cuffs and chains clanked.

“Darina will help,” Aras replied, pointing to a warped portion of the bed. “It will be wonderful. You will be a ravishing fugitive, I will be mysterious protector, and she will be our beautiful, haunted princess. It will be like a grand adventure that you only hear about in stories.” He smiled and turned to Darina. He placed a hand on her belly, caressing it.

Mirna shuddered. Everything about Aras made her uneasy. He was tall and unbearably thin. His skin was as pale as bleached paper. She could forgive appearances, though, if he’d just stop behaving in an inhuman way. And now he was telling her that he’d be kidnapping her away to the homeland of the Guides. His plan sounded terribly wrong in her head, but she had to consider her alternative: rotting a jail cell for however long they put murderers away for.

“That’s pure nonsense,” she said, “and I’m certain you already know I can’t refuse.”

“Of course.”

“How are you getting me out of here?”

“In a word, magic.”

(I’m done for tonight.)

So I just realized how much money I owe in student loans and how much it has INCREASED from interest being added to the principal.
And for that, I’m going to actually post a commission list.
[Example] One of these foam swords (please allow 1 week or more for fabrication): $25 + shipping
[Example] [Example] [Example] [Example] One of these up to 600×600 portraits: $7
[Example] [Example] One of these up to 64×64 icons: $2
[Example] [Example] One of these bonesaws (please allow 1 week or more for fabrication): $30 + shipping
Simple pencil sketches (see gallery and scraps): $3 (add ink: +$2)(add color: +$5)
[Example] [Example] A little more elaborate pencil sketch: $5 (add ink: +$2) (add color: +$5)
[Example] [Example] [Example] One of these full-body CG: $25
[Example] One of these simple full-body cg: $15
[Example] [Example] One of these outlines: $10-15 (depends on amount of detail requested) (add flat color: +$5)
So send some notes if you’re interested.

http://www.stanlewinski.com/

I need to get this out and about and being linked to. So vote for Stan Lewinski if you’re in Monroe county, Michigan.

Jorenko called me not too long ago to tell me that he is in my old neighborhood in Chicago, looking at all my favorite restaurants and trying to find one to go to. He almost went to Taco & Burrito House, where I would get $5 gigantic chicken nacho platters. Thinking of his calorie intake, he moved on to New Tokyo.

“Would you believe I drew a pin-up girl?” I said to him. He seemed more shocked that I was capable of drawing anything at all, especially with MY HANDS.

Please note that the foot was horribly mangled in a subterranean kitten potty training incident.

Also, paisley is a bitch.

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I ran through this several times with difference pieces of writing, and David Foster Wallace is the only one that came up more than once (three times so far). My fiction apparently reads like Rowling, Lovecraft, and a few others. Doesn’t surprise me!

(The result for the above text:

I write like
William Shakespeare

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

)

Gentlemen, BEHOLD

1 COOLER MASTER Centurion 534 RC-534-KKN2-GP Black Aluminum & Mesh bezel / SECC Chassis ATX Mid Tower Computer Case
Item #: N82E16811119106
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1 SAPPHIRE 100283-3L Radeon HD 5770 1GB 128-bit GDDR5 PCI Express 2.0 x16 HDCP Ready CrossFireX Support Video Card
Item #: N82E16814102873
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1 AMD Phenom II X4 945 Deneb 3.0GHz Socket AM3 95W Quad-Core Desktop Processor HDX945WFGMBOX
Item #: N82E16819103809
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2 GeIL 4GB (2 x 2GB) 240-Pin DDR3 SDRAM DDR3 1333 (PC3 10660) Dual Channel Kit Desktop Memory Model GV34GB1333C9DC
Item #: N82E16820144266
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1 Sony Optiarc CD/DVD Burner Black SATA Model AD-7260S-0B
Item #: N82E16827118039
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1 Western Digital Caviar Black WD1001FALS 1TB 7200 RPM SATA 3.0Gb/s 3.5″ Internal Hard Drive -Bare Drive
Item #: N82E16822136284
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1 Thermaltake TR2 W0379RU 500W ATX 12V v2.2 Power Supply
Item #: N82E16817153113
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1 MSI 870-G45 AM3 AMD 770 ATX AMD Motherboard
Item #: N82E16813130290
Newegg link

Above is the new stuff.

The old stuff is the two monitors, bamboo tablet, and keyboard.

(Originally written some time in early 2002 as a “How To” paper for Comp 101. It amuses me now that I spend a fair bit of time writing how-to documents for work.)

Like any other restaurant, the food prepares of Taco Bell must learn certain abbreviations that mean the names of products and their alterations. This is easy enough, and the food it prepared quickly. However, on certain occasions, someone will place an order with so many alterations, it’ll take even skilled workers a few false starts to get it perfect.

The first thing you need to be able to make the most feared Taco Bell order in Northwest Ohio is to be an employee at a Taco Bell. (If you cannot fulfill this requirement, then skip to the end to get ordering instructions.) Anyone can attempt to make this, but, since the following instructions will be written in measurements of “scoops” rather than ounces, it might be a little difficult.

Now that you’ve got your stripes on and you’ve donned your pepper hat, step in front of the steam line, which is where the heated food products are. Directly in front of you, above eye level, will be the paper products. Grab a pizza platter, which is the only square shaped cardboard box in front of you. Below the paper products and continuing to the right is the shells for various items. What you want to grab is the pizza shells. Those are flat, disk shaped shells that look like fried soft taco shells. Take one, and place it in the pizza box.

Below the shells is the heated food products. There are two rows of pans. In the far right of the first row is a pump, which is used to portion out the nacho cheese. Pump two scoops of nacho cheese onto the shell that you’ve placed in the box. When that is done, reach back to the shells and grab another pizza shell, placing it on top of the nacho cheese covered one.

In the middle of the back row of food product is the chicken and steak. If the steam line is set up properly, the chicken is on the right. Place a scoop of chicken onto the top of the second shell.

To the right of the chicken is the pizza sauce, which is basically a very mild and soupy salsa. Place a scoop of pizza sauce over the chicken. This is the last hot-product to put on the pizza.

Next is the cold product. The first cold product to be put on the pizza is a handful of the three-cheese blend. Make sure that you’ve spread out this blend of shredded cheddar, mozzarella, and pepper-jack cheeses enough that you can barely see the chicken and sauce below it, but it’s not over the edge of the shells.

After the cheese has been applied properly, grab a handful of diced tomatoes from the cold line, and spread them evenly over the cheese.

The third cold product can be found at about eye level on the cold line. Grab a handful of the green onions, apply them as you have the tomatoes. Also on this upper level is the salad dressings, more commonly known as the special sauces. Place three squirts of the white pepper-jack dressing, or Baja sauce, over the pizza.

The final step to preparing the pizza is to place it in the steamer, which is located to the right of the cold line. Pull out the tray, and place the pizza box on it. Push the tray back in, and hit the button. When it beeps, remove the pizza and check to be sure the cheese has been melted. When this is done, place the pizza on the tray and give it to the happy Schroe waiting at the counter.

Now that you know how to make it, perhaps you’d like to know how to order it? It may take the cashier several times to get it right, but all you have to say is, “A Mexican Pizza, no beans, chicken instead of beef, with nacho cheese in the middle, and Baja sauce added on the top.”

The most feared order Taco Bell order in Northwest Ohio is quite the tasty meal. Now to see if Chicago is ready to prepare it . . .

I’m in the market for building a new PC. I also haven’t really kept up on what is awesome in hardware since high school. I am now seeking the help of those who HAVE been paying attention to give me suggestions for the most awesome bits and pieces to slap together into a monster that will satisfy my needs.

My needs include a PC capable of running the entirety of Creative Suite all at once (or at least just AI and PS), playing TF2 at the best possible frame rate with graphic settings set to the highest, and … and that’s about it. Cosmetics are not an issue. No speakers or monitors are necessary.

The current PC will be going to someone else who hasn’t had a PC upgrade in 7 years, so nothing in the box can be re-used.

The next morning young Esben found his throat aching from all the talking he’d done the day before. He ate and drank in silence for the day until the Meddyg’s promised visit came. She brought with her this time another ofyddian dressed in armor and armed with a sword. He stood a foot higher than the Meddyg, but his horns were smaller and his eyes more sunken. Esben realized he was staring and turned his eyes to the more visually pleasing Meddyg (who, Esben considered, should she actually have hair, would make a wonderful wife).

Esben started to speak, and it came out first as a squeak. He cleared his throat and asked, “What have I done? To those crackpot cultists, that is.”

Meddyg Ibis sat herself next to Esben on the bed of his borrowed room. Her bulky ofyddian companion shifted to block the door. A sudden wave of dread washed over Esben as the supposition that the Meddyg and her mate were a couple of the crackpots. Seeing the discomfort in his face, Ibis (as usual) laughed. Esben smiled nervously and wondered if he would survive the jump from the second story window at this time.

The Meddyg spoke. “We sank that ship a thousand years ago in the deepest part of the ocean in hopes that history would be preserved until such time when the old gods and demons were no longer … desirable. It’s a terrible thing to destroy a story, so even I can’t forgive you for burning their books.”

Esben cowered slightly more than he’d already been cowering. “You—” he squeaked again, “You don’t look that old.”  Ibis gave him a pat on the back and laughed loudly. Esben flinched.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “I like you. You’ve done much. You’ve done what the Meddygon could never do. You’ve destroyed history, and prevented a future. A future no one would like, I’m certain of it, but that’s no matter now. Those were the only books and that order of idiots was never much concerned with sharing rituals verbally.” She gave him a motherly kiss on the forehead. “For that, I thank you.”

Esben, still quite nervous, blubbered. “I meant to p–properly dry those books,” he admitted.

“It’s no matter now, young man, there is only a story of it, and if you don’t tell anyone that your deed was all a mistake, no one will know. Now as for your dream of never lifting a finger for yourself again—” she turned to the door guard, “Dafyd, take Esben to the college, then protect him.”

The man spoke for the first time, his voice gruff like a man who’s smoked cigars since he was a teenager, “How long?”

“Until I need you again,” Ibis replied. The two men promptly vanished from the room, leaving the woman alone. She frowned.

—

Old Man Esben to this day tells of his heroic deeds for the order of the Meddygon and how he destroyed the order of Thedalavey (which he didn’t learn the name of until much later, but he’ll never admit that), ending a long and arduous battle of the cults.

Esben regarded his past as a series of trials to achieve his ultimate goal of never having to lift a finger for himself again. Having finally succeeded at this goal, he found he had far too little to do and spent most of his time regarding his past adventures. He found it much more fun now that he was old and grey to talk of these adventures rather than go on the adventures, and so Old Man Esben became his name around town and if you gave him a meal, he gave you a story.

The young ones of the village oft thought his stories false, because who on Earth could have done as much as he did?

Who could have possibly slain a dragon three-thousand times their own size, when there are so few dragon in the world? Old Man Esben did when he visited the Isla de los Dragones and defeated their great God-King Godofredo. Ask him, and he’d tell you how he went there looking for a piece of their wealth and found the dragons to be dirt-poor serfs  to a tyrannical despot. He relieved the King of his post (and his head) and left the island after a full year of celebration. With nothing to show for it, of course, but the memories as Godofredo’s body was completely destroyed in retribution and it turns out that the dragons didn’t hoard anything but sea-shells.

Who would possibly want to swim to the bottom of the ocean so search for riches? Old Man Esben did when he heard throwing coal into the deepest part of the ocean made pure diamonds appear. He swam after his coal after an hour and figured it was taking far too long for his liking, but came up a richer man anyway after raiding a sunken ship. It was too bad that the goods taken from the ship were nothing more than soggy old books, but he was sure someone would want them. And someone did, which is all the better for Esben because wet books are heavy and boring to him.

And who could possibly defeat an ancient and dark order of eldritch demon worshippers, or even get involved in that? Why Old Man Esben of course, after he offered his services to dry their water logged books and promptly burnt them to a crisp when they refused to pay him for his troubles of rescuing them.

Ask Old Man Esben what he did after that and he’ll tell you the next few years were terrible for his nerves. He did a lot of hiding, fleeing, and panicking, up until he made his way to an unspoilt village of happy people. These blissful people, seeing him in his weakened, disheveled state gave him food and a bed. They even had their Meddyg give him a visit and patch him up. Esben asked what could he give them in return for this much needed respite, and the Meddyg asked for a story.

Esben told her everything, just as he would tell anyone who asked in his current home town, because from that moment on he felt perfectly safe. He even admitted to her that his goal was to never have to lift a finger again for himself (she laughed) and it looked like he’d gotten to that point finally (she laughed again). Esben always though the ofyddians had a strange sense of humor, but he found himself laughing with her now.

She left him then, and promised to let him rest until tomorrow evening. “Then,” she said, “I shall ask more of your recent encounters. This dark order is larger than you may have realized, and you have done them a far greater injury than you can possibly imagine.” Esben swallowed air and half-choked upon it. She laughed again, more of a pleased grunt than anything, and left.

A few years back when Jorenko and I still had the dream of making video games, we came up with the concept of making a music-based platformer that, if you did everything exactly right in the run through, you got a great song by the end of it.

Of course, we gave up on that as we are procrastinators of the highest caliber.

Thankfully, GaijinGames are not procrastinators. I finally got around to buying BIT.TRIP RUNNER yesterday. It is AMAZING.

We’d walked for some time in silence through the cave below my home. The only light was from the two small gems Magistrate Cefin and I wore around our necks. They were each smaller that a little finger nail, but they emit enough light to show us a ten foot radius of our surroundings.

Cefin had packed a bag of his personal belongings before he came to my home, and I now carried it for him along with my own. He’d brought objects of sentimental value to himself, and it confused him when he’d watched me pack. “Do you really expect to need a jar of pickled spiders on this trip?” he had asked, “Or a half-dozen ivory spice shakers?” He stopped asking questions about my odd choices when I placed a box of fishing hooks into my bag and pulled out the light gems.

The silence of our walk was broken by Cefin first as he requested that we sit for a bit. As he drank from his canteen I removed a jar from my bag. It contained a balm for rejuvenating tired, aching muscles. I grabbed one of his legs and began to rub the balm on it without his consent. He didn’t object, but did ask where I got it. “From my satchel,” was my answer.

He’d learned long ago that I perform tricks beyond his understanding and had decided to stop asking about them. I often frustrated him by truthfully answering the questions he asked, but reminding him that he’s not asking the right questions to get the answers he wants. All the years of this annoyance must have finally sunk in. He leaned forward and asked a better question: “How did you get it from your satchel when you did not put it there in the first place?”

“I traded a collection of dried butterflies for it,” I replied. His eyes narrowed; I laughed. I moved to applying balm to his other leg and continued, “There was a Meddyg, rather a Shaman, in a far away land in need of butterflies for his potions. I asked for a muscle-soothing salve in exchange and he agreed.”

“I’ll never understand it, I suppose,” Cefin said. I gave a short chuckle and continued masaging his legs. No matter how close he desired to be to me in his youth, I always pushed him away by confusing him. It was easy to do, as it seemed no human was capable of understanding instantaneous trade, or communication, over long distances.

“Oh, you just don’t want to,” I said and stood. I wiped the excess balm off my hands on the bottom of my cloak. It would collect more dirt from the cave, but cleanliness didn’t much interest me at this time. “It’s like an ethereal market in the back of every Meddyg’s mind; one offers up a number of items for trade and asks for a specific need in return for whatever they take.”

“I get that much,” Cefin said, “State’s tried to replicate it and force the villages into joining their setup. I don’t get, and I’m sure they don’t get, how you move physical objects such great distances in no time at all. They instead use objects made to specific standards and place them in every city, town, and village, so that anyone who wanted a tool for a task has what they need available.”

“It’s a horrible substitute,” I said, “You can’t make a standard wolf to trade for a standard wife.” The look on his face amused me, as did any expression of realization from a human.

“So you, with the she-wolf,” he stuttered. “How did you get a wolf’s brain into a woman’s body?”

“Magic,” I replied. An overly simplified answer, one which he was again not pleased with. Magic was just a word to describe things unexplained or not understood and he knew this; he also knew that everything occurred for a reason and that if something seemed magic, it was because they just hadn’t figured it out yet.

“I can’t tell you how to do it without you taking years of training as a Meddyg, Cefin.” This was the first time I’d used his name since he was in his twenties, long before he was the Magistrate of the village. Hearing his name spoken resonated with him and brought him back to the reality of the situation. He was no longer a Magister, and as such I did not call him by that title.

“I’m not happy with that answer, but I suppose I’ll have to accept it. You have rules to follow just like anyone else.” He stood and stretched his legs. We continued on in silence again.

Consider this a rough draft. Feel free to let me know if I did anything stupid.

The woman tapped her forehead with two fingers on her right hand. The man furled his brow as he thought about what that might mean. Meanwhile, I watched.

“Why do you keep asking me these questions?” the woman asked, “Why is there a hearing? How can you not look at her and know she is sinister? She stole my mind,my body, my life! She turned me into this!” Now she rose to show the audience of one herself in full: a thoroughly average woman of medium stature and weight. His brow remained furled.

She then banged on the desk before him, “YOU! ANSWER! She has you now, doesn’t she? She’s warping you! She-”

“He’s not my type,” I interrupted. Her face twisted into an impudent snarl; her nose curled as if something rotten were thrust below it. She aimed a perfectly normal, human finger at my face.

“She has no respect! See how she interferes with the proceedings!”

“Which you were just arguing again-”

“It’s not your turn!”

I put my hands up in resignation and remained seated as she breathed heavily through her average-sized nasal passage. By now the judge in this case had attempted to unfurl his brow by applying great pressure from his fingertips.

“Now as I was saying,” the woman continued, feigning calm but still maintaining a tone of indignation in her voice, “She has stolen everything from me and turned me into something I cannot stand to be. She did not give me what I asked for, and she has ruined my life. I cannot go back home! I cannot move on!”

“Madam,” the man finally spoke. “This is something I see quite often. Ibis is someone I see quite often.” The woman’s face piqued. She looked almost thrilled to hear that I see this magistrate regularly. “People come to her for miracles and she gives them reality. What did you come to her as? A she-wolf. What are you now? A human. You wanted to be a wife to your master, and now you are. I don’t at all see how the Meddyg failed in your fantasy.”

The woman’s excitement quickly waned. “But he does not want me, and it is because she did not make me beautiful!” I laughed, but the judge put up a finger to silence me.

“Your master does not want you because he wanted a dog, not a wife,” he said, “I suppose Ibis intended you to realize that sooner.” He looked to me and I nodded. “She’d have turned you back in an instant if you’d just have asked. It’s a shame she had to waste my time like this.”

The woman bore a look of confusion now, her eyes twitching slightly at the thought of betrayal. “I don’t … understand.”

“No, I don’t think you would. Meddyg Ibis, if you please.” He gestured to me, then to the woman. “I would like you to undo whatever it is you have done to this beast.”

“Oh come now, Magister, I didn’t make her that hideous,” I said, though he frowned disapprovingly at me. I laughed and pulled a collar and leash from my satchel. “From bitch, to bitch, to bitch,” I said as I latched the collar around her throat. The words were unnecessary, but it gave me some mild amusement as she tried to feign reluctance at receiving the leather strap.

In an instant a large black half-wolf sat upon the magistrate’s chair. Whatever other half her dog self was, I never bothered to ask. Perhaps I did inquire when I returned her to her master a short time later, but as it is unimportant to me, I retained no thought of it. I’m sure the mystery will allow any number of story-tellers to fill in the blanks as they see fit based upon their audience. The man thanked me for return of his dog, and made no mention of the woman who followed him home from hunting the day he lost her.

The magistrate called upon me at my home later that week. It was no small feat as I lived an hour’s walk from the village and he was far past his prime. “I do make housecalls,” I said as he opened my door. He never knocked, in all the years he’s visited me he has never knocked. I remained facing the pot of tea I had prepared as the leaves steeped. I heard him seat himself at my small table.

“One of these days,” he said as he stretched his legs under the table, “It will not be me and you will be forced to admit that you can’t see into the future and that you’ve been making tea for two every night for twenty-odd years, whether I show up or not.” I brought a cup of tea to him bearing the same mirthful smile I always do when he says that.

“What brings you here this time?” I asked. “Is it the puppies?” He gave me a quizzical look that quickly turned to realization. He chuckled, not because he was amused by the comment, but because he was nervous.

“City affairs,” He said and sipped, eying me over the edge of his cup. He was trying to gauge my response, but it was always hard for him. Familiar facial tics and twitches were not something I had. My eyes did not shine when I was filled with glee, nor did my nostrils flare when I was angered. To his, and many others’, irritation and discontent, I was eternally bemused by the daily lives of humans.

He continued to sip, and to stare. This had to be big news. I retrieved a bottle of liquor from my cupboard before returning to the table and filled my teacup with it. I held it out to the magistrate and he set his own cup down in favor of the alcohol. This is really big news. I stared into his eyes as he sipped his new drink.

“Well, your wish is coming true,” I said to him after he finished the shot of liquor. He started, unprepared for my statement. “If you’re wondering how much I know about what you’re going to say, you can be delighted or dissatisfied in knowing I have no idea what you’re here for.”

“State has taken the village,” he said, “They will come for you in the morning. They will not find me in my office tomorrow, and they will come for me, too.”

For the first time in three decades, I frowned.

I decided to call Allcare again to try and get things taken care of since 1) the voicemails I left 04-22 were never acknowledge by way of returning my call and 2) the email I sent never received a response.

So today, I left a voicemail for their billing department again.
I then called the offices, and the automated system directed me to a call-center. I explained the situation to the CSR and she said that I will have to call the office I went to, and gave me the number (the same number I had dialed). I told her that I already did, and it directed me to her. She then offered to transfer me to the office. I asked her if she was listening to me, because I told her the office directed me to the number I reached her at. She then offered to leave a message for the office. I asked her why she would even offer that when the office just directs me to the 800 number call center for billing issues? “Please hold while I transfer you.” I hung up.

There’s no actual office number for the site that lets you speak to a person. The local 216 number forwards to the 800 number. You don’t even speak to a person to schedule and appointment. Am I really going to have to go into the office personally and tell them to resubmit the information? I’m under the impression that once service is billed, it’s no longer in the local office’s hands, so I don’t see how that plan will help at all.

I called back and spoke to a generic services rep by hitting 0 repeatedly. She offered to transfer me to the billing number. I explained that I’d rather not since no one ever answers, nor do they return calls left in voicemail. She asked when I last called, and I told her last Thursday at 2 pm.

“Well there’s only 5 people in billing and they’re working as fast as they can.” They can’t do better than a week? How many bills are they screwing up? (Maybe if they didn’t do it on purpose, they wouldn’t have so many calls.)

I gave up and asked her to transfer me to Amy’s line again. I don’t want to keep bugging her about this since this should just be a simple issue, but I’m getting no response at all from billing. Her voicemail greeting told me she was on vacation and she’d be returning three days ago. Yeah, she got back Monday, supposedly. And was gone part of last week. She left an extension for someone else in her voicemail, but I’m not calling it. Why bother someone else when Amy is supposed to be back from vacation?

I really am getting sick of this bullshit.

Allcare dental sent me a bill claiming it’s over 90 days old(which it would be, since we haven’t been there since last July). However, everything (exam and cleaning for two adults, no fluoride) was covered by our insurance, and this is the first I’ve heard of us owing them anything.

I called their billing number. I’m immediately put into a queue to speak to the “next available billing representative” and given the option to press 0 to leave a message so that a rep will call back. Pressing 0 leads to a full mailbox with the option to hit 0 again to go back to the queue. Pressing 0 leads to the error “Invalid key.”

Hitting random extensions, I eventually reached Amy (x1135), patient relations manager. She told me to ignore the bill and she would make sure the information was resubmitted.

I wrote the above information on 18 March 2010.

On 19 April 2010, I received the same bill in the mail. I called the billing number and got the same result. On 21 April 2010 I called Amy  (who had previously assured me that I could contact her if there were any issues) and she has yet to return my messages. On 22 April 2010 I managed to leave a voicemail message for the billing representative queue. I sent an email to their patient relations contact address with not only all my contact information, but also the exact form necessary for them to fax to Metlife.

Then I wrote a complaint email on their survey page, which then took me to a page with the only text being “Thank you page”.  The following is what I told them on the survey:

Here is a list of things that caused me from my first time visiting Allcare to decide to NEVER RETURN.

-Appointment was for 2:00 pm, we weren’t seen until 4:15

-When appointment scheduled, it was specifically mentioned it was for cleaning. Hygienist was overbooked, no cleaning was done that day.

-Had to wait 2 weeks for new appointment because hygienist is only on site three days a week

-Got a second opinion and found Allcare dentist saw 6 cavities that weren’t there or weren’t an issue.

Here are a list of things that cause me to tell my friends, family, and coworkers to not go to Allcare ever.

-This was all 9 months ago and covered by insurance. Allcare failed to submit claims properly and we are now receiving bills

-Allcare failed to submit forms again when requested last month.

-Allcare not answering phone nor returning calls regarding this issue.

I’ll keep this updated as more information becomes available. I have the sinking suspicion Allcare supplies faulty information on purpose, considering the majority of their patients are seniors and might just pay what they’re told to.

Concerning yourselves with how you paint rather than what!

Memento Mori, “To This Favour,” 1879

Oil on canvas

William Michael Harnett
(American, born Ireland, 1848-1892)

The Latin Term memento mori describes a traditional subject in art that addresses mortality. In Harnett’s example, the extinguished candle, spent hourglass, and skull symbolize death. A quote from William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, inscribed on the inside cover of a tattered book, reinforces the theme. It comes from the play’s famed graveyard scene, where Hamlet discovers a skull and grimly ponders his beloved Ophelia, ironically unaware that she is already dead. The “paint” in the quote not only refers to Ophelia’s make-up, but also wittily evokes the artifice of Harnett’s picture.

Mr. and Mrs. William H Marlatt Fund 1965.235

(The Cleveland Museum of Art)

While most still life paintings offer no narrative in their imagery, this does not mean there is no meaning to the piece. The meaning of this work by William Michael Harnett is offered directly in the title: Memento Mori, “To This Favour”. Even viewers not familiar with the Latin phrase memento mori can suss its meaning when viewing Harnett’s painting. An empty hourglass, a burned candled, and a skull are all icons of passing on, giving rise to feelings of one’s own mortality. As the phrase translated states, “Remember, you must die,” and so the viewer does. However, the meaning of this memento mori goes beyond that simple phrase.

“To This Favour” is a predominately dark piece, both visually and thematically, drawing the viewers attention to specific iconography with the touches of whiteness. The largest body of light color is the pages of the open books on the left. Harnett is known for his style of trompe l’oeil; in this instance he tricking the viewer’s eye into thinking one of the open books is motion. The upper of the two open books has three pages splayed in a position that would be impossible to capture in a still life painting if it were actually in motion. Each of these three pages curves in the exact manner one would expect it to do if it were falling under its own weight after being turned and left to fall to the opposite side of the book. Such is the trick, the tromp l’oeil, that the eye thinks the image so real that the page would fall at any moment. The book itself shows no meaning of death. The viewer cannot see the title nor read the text within it. Rather than be a symbol of the permanency of dying, the book, being half-open and in motion, may be a symbol of life: a life life half-over and passing quickly to the end.

The lower book is open as well, though its cover is torn from the binding. The aged, damaged book cover hangs over the edge of the table by a thread as if it, soon shall die. The inside cover is the closest object in the painting to the viewer, demanding one’s attention to the quote it bears. From Shakespeare’s Hamlet on the subject of death, the inscription reads: “Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.” In the play, the paint is Ophelia’s make-up; in this piece, the paint is the oils used by Harnett. Both paints are applied with thoughts death, which may have prompted the artist to use this particular quote. As one may know, Ophelia is already dead at the time the line is spoken by Hamlet, further compounding on the theme of death in the painting.

The next largest collection of whiteness is the skull, quintessentially the most recognizable symbol of death. The skull, like the book, is aged and damaged. It lacks several teeth and is a dirty, off-white color. Unlike the book, the skull faces to the side. The skull looks to the right of the viewer, whereas the book’s cover opens to the viewer directly. This positioning by Harnett aids in drawing the eye to the quoted text for which the painting is titled. The skull rests atop yet another book, this one much thicker and less damaged than the first two. The spine shows it to be a collection of Shakespeare’s Tragedies, which, like the thoughts this painting is meant to provoke, is full of death, loss, and mourning.

Another obvious symbol of passing used by Harnett is the extinguished candle. Light entering the scene from the left side of the painting creates a reflection on the candlestick. A broken line of white draws the viewer beyond the darkness of the whole piece to the candle. On the table, it sits behind the skull-topped book. Behind the candlestick and skull is naught but a darkened archway; a light-less passage through which the used-up candle cannot guide the viewer. Even the off-painting light source cannot guide the viewer’s eyes to what lies within that hall. It creates a sense of anxiety and anticipation at the thought of the great beyond. One cannot see what is through the passage, just as one cannot know what is seen after death.

Behind the open books sits an empty hourglass, presumably the sand has run out to the bottom though it is not seen in the painting. It is yet another iconic reminder of one’s own mortality and the passage of time. It is tilted in a slightly unsettling way and is perhaps propped up by one of the other books behind the open pair. Like the open book before it, the hourglass appears to be at the cusp of motion. It appears ready to fall, or even already falling, in its tipped position. The only portion of the glass seen is that which reflects the light from the left. The lighting effect may be Harnett’s real reason for presenting the hourglass at an angle. The glass is so clean that the viewer can see to the stone wall beyond and, had the hourglass not been positioned as it is, the reflected light may have been too much or too little. Too little, and the hourglass would go unnoticed. Too much and it would detract from the whiteness of the book cover and detract from the intended focus.

The books surrounding the hourglass have no visible titles, though they appear to be at different stages of aging. One book, positioned at an angle on the left side of the Shakespeare tome, has a few pages that seem to be shifted and poking out of the rest. This can be read as a well-used book that is possibly near “death,” though not as near as the book with quote upon it is. A book lays flat to the left of the hourglass and the open books. It appears to be smooth and not at all damaged, though perhaps a bit dusty. The sixth and final book is perhaps in the same stage of life: its pages are neat and straight, but are yellowed from age.

The table upon which this memento mori still life is placed is a drab, olive-brown. It does not shine like the silk painted by other artists using oils, but it is as smooth. It seems to be very plain, which could be indicative of it being over-used and near its end along with the books and candle. The lack of luster in the cloth, as well as the rest of the objects, shows death to be very mundane and common. This fits with the sense of tragedy in Hamlet as no death in the play is glorious, no one died a martyr, and celebrated at another’s death.

Still life paintings are oft devoid of deep meaning. However, William M. Harnett’s Memento Mori, “To This Favor” bears a rich subtext of the commonality of aging and loss in addition to it’s obvious subject of death. Each object is positioned to relate to the other as aging, death, and anxiety all relate to each other. Harnett’s work reminds one of one’s own mortality as intended, but also reminds us that those we love will pass, too.

Las Meninas, Diego Velasquez, 1656

Before reading this I feel it is important to understand the context under which it was written. This is an Art History class for non-art majors, focusing on the renaissance through cubism. This is for exam two. The class is two hours long, and the first portion of the test is fill-in-the-blank coupled with viewing of projected slides of various paintings the class had learned about. The essay portion allows the student to choose one of three topics and use whatever time is left of the two hours to write the essay. The test started at 6:15 PM and I left the classroom at 6:48 PM. I’m not certain how much of that time I was actually writing the essay, as I was writing between slides as well.

The prompt I chose for the essay was: “Valesquez’s Las Meninas 1656. Describe the form and content of the painting. What are the two subject matter. Describe the way the artist includes the viewer and how he leaves the meaning uncertain.”

And so, here is what I refereed to as my “worst essay ever” (though I suppose if I wrote “dog poop” a few times and turned that in, it’d be worse):

Las Meninas is a portrait of the princess of Spain, while implying to the viewer that they are the subject. As the handmaidens attend to the princess, she, the attending dwarves, and the artist acknowledge the viewer’s position is occupied. The mirror in the background shows that the king and queen are looking on, possibly the subjects of the painting-within-the-painting. Velasquez effectively places the viewer in the king and queen’s shoes. It is only momentarily, however, as a courtier in the back of the studio opens a door to prepare the way for the royal visitors.

All the above is subject to speculation, however, as the man in the back can be coming or going. As well, it is not clearly indicated if the royal pair are visiting or sitting for a portrait. The king’s dog also in the painting, but what he’s doing there (other than being prodded by a dwarf’s foot) is not certain. I personally read this painting as the king and queen having their portrait done and the princess is waiting (possibly impatiently as implied by the maidens fussing over her) for her turn to be included in the portrait.

There are two light sources in the painting. From the right, natural light enters and brightens the princess showing she is the true focus of the painting. Rather than being a simple group portrait, Velasquez included implied movement, making the painting a snapshot in time. The second light source is in the back, where a man looks on, interrupting the scene just as the light interrupts the dark background.

We got Dagwood a year ago. He was previously owned by a crazy cat hoarder that lost her home. All the cats were put up for adoption and he was lucky enough to be adopted by couple in North Royalton. They found that this adult cat was not compatible with their golden retriever and advertised his necessity to be re-homed on Craigslist. I responded and picked him up. He was an affectionate cat that loved hands; he would dig under the blankets to nuzzle your hand if he knew it was there.

James took him in for his checkup a few weeks ago and called me with some grave news: Dagwood had FeLV, and it was already causing lymphoma. We decided that we couldn’t afford to treat a cat for cancer again, and decided that we’d give him everything else until he was no more.

Dagwood eventually stopped eating much, then barely anything at all, and then he was just drinking. This morning he was hanging around his water dish, not bothering to sit up to drink. He was laying on his side, licking up whatever he could. We decided that it was time, and today at 5PM we took him to the vet and had him put down. He was 7 lbs in the end, when he’d been twice that or more a month ago.

Bye bye, Dagwood.

From Dagwood