11/5 51st Ward Notes

You've been afraid up until now. But we've gone through the veil together. Let's see what's on the other side. -Eamon.

Apparently, if a Pixie marries a Goblin, they can survive the winter (h/t) Katie

We hired a golem house moving service. We thought they were going to move the furniture. Now we have two houses, and a very angry bank.

Although amused by the pictures of New York, Talafiara wishes to remind other courts that burning is far more efficient.

Vampire Fiction is like Heroin Chic.

All the fashionable doppelgangers are wearing Italian this year.

As I lay dying, the woman with the dog's eyes would not close my eyes as I descended into Hades. - Eamon Book Club.

Mark Nyhart was the only mortal Eamon ever shared a drink with.

For most of you - Eamon

Take your crystal ball. Put it on your ouija board. Draw the cards it tells you to. It will lead you to the runes.

Today's Noel:

"Of all the afterlives, I really didn't expect to end up in ______."

10/17/1871....1/12/1979. The connection is one word, and both were -before- she had access to catastrophic climate change.

10/31 51st Ward Notes.

Happy Halloween!

Take Flight (h/t Stephen Wise)

Dopplegangers lose weight to fit into their ideal person. It's why you tend not to deal with dopplegangers during the winter holidays.

The Ballad of the Georges:

Hurricane Sandy has got the Naiads all excited. The revolution will be damp.

They all float down here...-Eamon.

I'd give you all a scary quote, but I have guests in today. - Eamon.

What's that coming over the hill? George knows. (1972-2005)

THE GATES WILL NOT HOLD. THE GATES WILL NOT HOLD. - Last text from Rosehill Cemetery

10/29 51st Ward Notes

Falling leaves, falling pixies. What a wonderful season.

I saw a man in a pink dress staring forlornly at the gasmasks over at the army surplus store. I handed him the calavera de azucar that I had his name written on it, and promised him I would always remember.

I am the Arm and I sound like This. - Eamon.

Think about all the things you like and decide if they're worth sticking around for. And if they're not, then you go away, and you don't get to like anything...ever. -eamon

10/26 51st ward notes.

For those who wonder about Bristol Books store policies, keep in mind, I spent my childhood at Larry's Comic Book Store on East Devon.

Spiced Cider, Falling leaves, a fire and some music. I'm not -all- doom and gloom. -Eamon.

In the wilds of Wisconsin, Bear spirits take human form, and offer haunted tours. You can always spot them by their purple hair.

"I solved the puzzle!" -George (1939-1965)

10/25 51st Ward Notes.

You've always been the caretaker. -Eamon.

There are places that are outside the Ward, but still within the city. The 65th Heaven. Villa del Muerto. Outer Belmont.

Here at Bristol Books, we always choose Trick, and then release the bandersnatches.

Speaking of bandersnatches: Lovecraftian science fiction with Lewis Carrol Monsters

The Kelpie says 'Rawr'. The George says 'Gurgle Gurgle Gurgle'
(1990-2012)

Step High, Stoop Low, Leave Your Dignity at the Door.

The only notes on this weeks episode, is to have a view of Speed Levitch's full-on tour of Chicago's Hobohemia and the history of the labor movement. Otherwise, enjoy the show.

Notes on Tsuru

Tsuru is a japanese word for Crane. Appropriate for a Crane Wife story.

There are some versions where the protagonist is a bastard, some where the animal spirit has been trapped, but a lot of the stories from Japan that I'd read would just evoke an emotion, without there being a real hero or villian. Just an 'ah' as you feel the emotion.

Naming is important in folklore, as it is in the world. When we name something, our minds naturally chart all the things associated with that name, and put them together. It's why words like 'cross' 'flag' 'patriot' 'faggot' are loaded with so much more than the objects or concepts those names represent. When I was young, my birth name got associated with a whole lot of negativity. I couldn't hear my name without feeling the definition I'd built for myself. So I created a new name. And with the dawn of the internet, that name spread and grew. Naming is a big part of this story. The name forces a perception, an identity, but that perception isn't the truth.The people you know are your perceptions of them. I think true love comes from being able to go past that perception and embrace the whole person.

The biggest thanks goes to Brenda Kelly, our reader for this week. I've known Brenda all my adult life, and she's an incredibly gifted and skilled performer. It's been a pleasure to work with her, and I hope to have her for future Burnham projects. I hope you enjoy her performances on Episodes 10 and 11.

A selfish request

When I was an editor at Legacy.com, there was a lot of 'sanitizing'. Making sure the content was acceptable and didn't offend anyone, and making sure the guest books didn't have trolling or angry bitter messages from people with grudges. I remember deleting a whole bunch of thuggish posts from a guestbook, only to have a family beg to keep them...Because he was a gangster, and they were proud of i

t. Another was a memorial to an alcohol-fuel racer who died rather explosively on the strip. His family celebrated that death, saying 'he lived as he had died, one tenth of a second ahead of everyone else'.

Where does this all come in? I don't fear death. My beliefs don't have an afterlife so much as a long-form conversion of matter. But my story is important to me. The unedited one. The one with the weirdness, and the quirks, and the hobbies. Also the one with the betrayals, abuses, and rough edges. I was a difficult son, I was a terrible brother, in relationships, I hurt as much as I was hurt. But don't edit it. I love who I am now. Warts, folds, silver and all. When I die, if you have a grudge, tell everyone. If you remember the time I fought you until you had a seizure, tell that story. The night we fucked while you were tied to a tree in the middle of fair? Tell it. How you realized I was gay when I swanned around in my 'superhero' costume that was a toga and paper wings? -TELL IT-. Find my embarrassing websites. Display that hidden art collection. Find those people who are -actively- joyous at my death. Remember that I still owe you money, or you never forgave me for sleeping with your godmother. Mix it with all the good and noble things. Mix it with the good deeds and kindness. Because the more you mix the good and bad of me, the more real I will be after my death. And the longer, and truer my story will be.

Josey

So...

You all know I'm big on stories. That we're in effect walking stories, and that's how we're made immortal.

A few years ago, I was hanging out in Northern California with my friends and playmates. There had been a lot of highs and lows, but over one day, we'd hit a vibe that was completely fun, delightful, and us. We were taking a respite, watching 'American Pickers' while still in full costume, when I got a message from Tery informing me that his internet friend Joe Pratt was coming over, with a graphics card that he was selling Tery. We all rolled our eyes, hastily getting out of everything to deal with someone outside the bubble. I asked my friends about joe, and discovered he was a sweet guy, but a lot of eye rolling. I knew immediately that they had a tery in their life as well. A few minutes later, as we're no longer dressed like something out of a failed children's show pilot,  Joe comes with his girl. Joe is like a million feet tall, and rail thin. bearded and bespectacled, and just really energetic. His girl is a sullen bitter mess, that holds a tight leash on him. I feel the vibe, and know it well. I wasn't 3 years past being in that situation myself. As my close friends are trying to figure out what to do with Joe and his girl that doesn't involve strangling them on the spot, I show off to Joe my haul from Japan Town. The cookies, the costume pieces, the toys, and most of all, all my fashion rags.

It was like Oppenheimer watching Trinity.

He'd mentioned he'd seen some clothes like that in costume sites. I hit him with every brand name I knew, every style descriptor, the names of individual articles of clothes, and as he's flipping through magazines like Kera, Gothic Lolita Bible, and Alice Deco A La Mode, I'm showing him my archive on my computer of costumes and designs. He's ensnared. I even manage to show his girl a bunch of stuff that's dark and edgy that makes her day. Rael and Trajan just sit back, letting me babysit these two. We have dinner and I get back.

Over time, I learned about Joe's network of friends. He was close with a lot of people I was close to, and had an online presence as an artist and player. Tery was close with him, and he had interests as a tech-head and gearhead that weren't mine. But I'd notice that other artists would reference him, and he'd be featured in someone's webcomic. Now that I knew his interests and passions, I would send him photos and illustrations that would reflect his interests. Always he would be warm, exuberant, and delightful. Every time he wrote an email, you could practically see it in cursive. His drawings were sweet and cute and playful, and reflected something you didn't see in a lot of art in our 'community'. How -fun- play can actually be, and how much it can make you laugh, and giggle, and know affection. His 'scott pilgrim' leilei is one of my favorite pictures, and the archives of his work through the internet reflect his joy and his internal journey.

Most important for me, was how much he loved my friends. I could see it in every email, and would just bend over backwards if I needed something done for them that was special.

In time, the bitter sullen girl left, as bitter sullen girls are wont to do, and he was adrift for a bit, but from what I saw, and what I read, he was coming into his own, understanding who he was and what he wanted. And I saw the love he had for some special people in his life. I would tease him about getting him dressed, and he would tell me that it was sometime soon. The next time I came over, we would all go shopping together, and I could work my magic on him.

On Saturday night, Randy woke me up with a call from Tery. A driver had run a red light and plowed through the drivers side of Josey's car. He died instantly. I told the people I had to tell, the ones who had only just begun talking to him online, the ones who were close friends but who were far away. I shared stories with the people that were on the other side of the rael-trajan bubble, and then was on the phone with my darling rael and trajan sharing their sorrow. Like Renfaire, the fur/kink dipshit network started expressing their grief on the boards, many having never once encountered the person, but wanting to be part of something. In some cases, though, I saw the real impact Joe had on people's lives, and got to see their stories about him which were the same and different than mine.

He was magic. He was warm and sweet, and nerdy and awkward, and magical. My only regret is that I waited too long to take him out to play, that I thought there would always be tomorrow. All I have now is his story. And I loved him, and I still love his story.

Burnham Society Podcast: The Smell of Clover

A new podcast, with a new story.

The Smell of Clover

This is based on a Japanese legend that I'd read in a early 20th century edition of The Journal of Folklore that I'd found in the Harold Washington library many years ago. It was an easy story to translate into a street story for Faire, and has always remained a favorite of mine.

When a bee stings you, it's a decision to protect the hive. When a bee stings, the barb enters the skin, and the thickness of our skin keeps the barb from retracting, yanking the whole stinger and venom producing organ out of the bee's body, after which the bee subsequently expires. The organ however will continue to inject apitoxin through the stinger after the bee has left. As one-shot weapons go, it's pretty devastating for both sides. I consulted Randy about what would be a similar weapon in the human world, and for pure power and disproportionate devastation, he came up with a variant version of the Barrett XM109 Anti-Materiel rifle . Our modifications were to remove any recoil protection whatsoever, make it a bolt-action (one-shot), and some cosmetic changes.

As of 2011, the Chicago Honey-Co-Op's Fillmore location, which was the basis for the end of the story, is no more. But here are some pictures.

And here's where George thought he was going. Located under the Tribune and Wrigley buildings, the Billy Goat Tavern was a haven for journalists and politicians...In other words, trolls. The Billy Goat is also famous in a 51st ward sort of way: When Billy Sianis, the owner of The Billy Goat was ejected from a 1945 World Series Game at Wrigley, his curse: 'Them Cubs ain't gonna win no more', remains effective to this day.

Molly and the Dragon

Molly's father was a Wizard.

She knew it was true, because her big brothers said so. They said: Look at him! He has a thick white beard, like a wizard! His study is full of books! He spends all his time mumbling and writing! And isn't he scary? Molly considered all of these things and concluded her brothers were right. And so, Molly went into her father's study and said:

"Teach Me Magic!"

Her father peered up from over all the papers at his desk, wondering at the noise he heard in the room. It sounded like a bird chirping. He looked around, not noticing a Molly who was obscured by his desk. He grumbled something, and went back to work.

"Teach Me Magic!"

Again with that silly little bird. He looked around, this time peered over his desk to spot a little girl in a polka dot dress, looking a little like a bird, but much more like a daughter. He nodded to himself, satisfied with discovering the real source of the noise, and went back to work.

"Teach Me Magic!"

Her father sighed, his face scrunching slightly, leaving only his eyes and his beard, as he tried to get back to work. "Magic doesn't exist. It is a tool used for bad fiction, and worse stage shows. Now go away. I'm terribly busy." Her father nodded, believing that settled the matter, and went back to work.

"Teach Me Magic!"

When her father looked up again, he was very surprised to discover that there was a Molly standing on top of his desk, glaring down at him. He took off his glasses and pinched his nose. It would be very difficult to get back to work with a Molly on the desk. "Who told you I knew magic?" Molly smiled proudly. "Peter and Steven and Ned all said you were a wizard, and you have a big grey beard and lots of books. That means you're a wizard, and you have to teach me magic!" Molly folded her arms, proud of her deductive skills.

"I expected more out of Ned..." said her father, looking out the door of the study, where Molly's brothers mysteriously weren't. He grumbled, and tried to pretend that there wasn't a very frustrated Molly on top of his desk as he got back to work. Now, ignoring a problem rarely makes it go away, and that's doubly true in the case of Molly shaped problems. Molly narrowed her eyes, and said one final time as she touched the papers on her father's desk.

"Teach. Me. Magic!!!"

And with that, Molly took the papers on one side of the desk and threw them to the other side, and all the papers exploded in the air, falling like invoice-colored snowflakes. The room grew very silent. And very cold. Molly considered she might have gone too far as her father stood up and looked straight into her eyes for the very first time. And Molly realized that wizards could be quite scary when they really wanted to be.

"Little girl. You and your brothers have caused me a bit of trouble today. You want to learn magic? Fine. You have one chance, and only one. Find me a dragon. Bring proof to my study before dinnertime, and I will teach you all the magic in the world. Fail, and you will never come into my study again. And I wouldn't expect dessert tonight, either. Now Get...OUT!" Her father's shout was so great that she fell backwards off the desk, and scrambled out the door as fast as she could.

When Molly could breathe again. She considered her problem. Where would she find a dragon before dinner? She considered asking her brothers, but they were nowhere to be found. Apparently brothers were experts at getting little girls into trouble, but not very good at dragon hunting. So she put on her coat, made herself a lunch to take with, and found Steven's train card.

On the way to the trains, she considered her problem. She knew dragons were real. She had read about them in books. But they tended to live in castles, or caverns, or on the tops of mountains, and there weren't a lot of these things in Chicago. But her mother had long ago taught her where the answers to all her questions were, and she took the train downtown.

The library was bigger than she thought it would be. It was a fortress made of red brick, with great glass windows. On top of the roof, were enormous owls made of metal, staring off into the distance.. This was where she would find her answers.

"Hello!" shouted Molly at the top of her lungs, waving at the owls. One of the owls looked down at her, not used to being shouted at, much less by a Molly. "Yes, little girl?" The owl asked, his low voice creaking through his aluminum throat. "May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a dragon," shouted Molly. "Have you seen any?"

The owl considered this, and looked to his brothers on the corners of the building, and they rumbled and hooted between each other for some time. He looked down at Molly.

"We are the Owls of Wisdom. Our eyes see everything, and we can look in all directions. We have seen the Seven Wonders of the World, the Twenty Inexplicable Truths, and Everything mankind has ever done. We have seen fish that walk on land, and birds that hunt in the depths of the sea. We know the secret nesting grounds of the Loch Ness Monster...But in all the world, we have never seen a Dragon."

"Well, you're no help at all!" Said Molly, stomping her foot.

"Try inside," Said the Owl. "All the knowledge of the world is within, even thing invisible to us. If you do find a dragon, little girl, let us know. We would like to see it as well." Molly agreed, and went inside the library.

Molly found book after book on Dragons, as she had her lunch. She read about Dragons that hoarded treasure in caves. Dragons that asked riddles, and Great Eastern dragons that sailed the clouds. She read about the white and red Dragons that fought to make England, and the Dragon men chase in their hearts. But all the Dragons in all the books had words like Historical, Mythical, Allegorical...None of them could tell her where they were. On any other day, lunch at the library would be a very nice time, but Molly had things to do, and a Dragon to find.

Owls thought they knew everything, but Molly knew there were other animals in the city, even if they were a little scary. The Lions that guarded the Art Institute chuckled at the little girl's request. "Of course we have seen Dragons, little girl. We've seen them sail the skies, we've seen them do battle with knights. They don the tapestries, and the manuscripts, and the great paintings within. But more important than the dragons, is what the Dragons mean. what do they represent each time they fly from the artist's hand. What do Dragons mean to you, little girl?"

"They mean I get to learn magic!" Molly was a very practical girl, and didn't have time for semiotic arguments, especially with lazy lions. She considered going inside and just taking one of the pictures, but she didn't think that's quite what her father meant. She waved goodbye to the lions, which was polite as they had considered eating her, but couldn't decide on what the consumption would have meant in terms of the story.

And on Molly wandered through the city. The Faceless Goddess said she didn't care much for dragons, but the price of wheat was up that week. In Millenium Park, the Face in the Fountain just smiled and spit water at her, while she couldn't find a trace of Dragons in the Magic Bean's reflection. But it was fun to make faces at it anyways. There was a statue of a woman...or a dog...or a sphinx...By LaSalle street, but all it wanted to talk about was how it missed Pablo.

The sun began to fall, and with it, Molly's spirits did too. She had looked all over, and there wasn't a Dragon to be found. She didn't want to go home. She was probably in trouble with her father, and her brothers were going to laugh at her. Mom would just tell her to stop being silly. She walked by the lake to a very old home, and rang the bell. The doors opened, and she was immediately trapped in a hug.

Aunt Nan was a friend of the family's. Everyone called her Aunt Nan, even her father. Her place was full of old treasures and old smells, and she always made hot chocolate when you came by. And Molly thought hot chocolate might be almost as good as magic...Almost. Nan brought out cookies and hot chocolate, her smile as bright and warm as all the jewels she would wear. Everything in Nan's house seemed to sparkle in the dim light, like a house of treasures.

"What's wrong, Molly?"

Molly shook her head. "Nothing." Right then, she felt like a very silly little girl. Wandering the city alone, looking for dragons, she bet her brothers were laughing their socks off. And she wiped her eyes, working especially hard not to cry.

"It's not nothing, Molly," said Aunt Nan, "Whatever is the matter?"

And with that, the worlds fell as quickly as her tears. "My brothers said father was a wizard, and I wanted to learn magic, and he said I had to find a Dragon by sunset, and I looked and looked, and the owls didn't know and the lions were mean and I couldn't find a Dragon anywhere, and I'll never learn magic. And maybe there aren't any Dragons..."

Nan hugged Molly tight, as warm and comforting as the hot chocolate. "You poor thing," Said Nan. "It's so hard to find Dragons these days. There aren't many left." Molly's eyes went wide. "There are Dragons?" asked Molly. Nan smiled. "Of course there are. Since man was a tiny creature hiding in the trees, it saw Dragons in every cave, beyond every hill, in the depths of the sea, and the height of the skies. Dragons were vast, terrible, and oh, so fearsome. They were the fears and mysteries of the world, and they loved it. They sailed in the air, and lived in the spirits of everyone who knew in their hearts they were real. They were as beautiful as you wished, and as terrible as you feared. And  the best and bravest people, wouldn't hide from Dragons, they would seek them out. Some would fight them, others would steal from them, and the best would learn the dragons secrets, the scerets of belief, and become magicians and wizards."

Nan looked away, and the room seemed to sparkle a little less. "And with each brave person, and each wise person, more people went over the hills, and into the caverns, and in their hearts the Dragons became smaller and smaller, and a little less magical. They discovered the Dragons secrets on their own, and thought to themselves. 'Maybe there aren't any Dragons at all!' And with that...The Dragons began to die away, and the remaining Dragons became afraid. But one Dragon said. 'Humans are fickle! They'll believe anything! We'll use our magic, and disguise ourselves as people! This time will pass, and when they believe in Dragons again...We'll spread our wings and come back!"

The shadows in the room grew darker, and Molly could barely see Aunt Nan. She sounded so sad. Sadder than even Molly. "But it's been so long," Said Nan, "That many of us...Many of the Dragons began to believe they were people, and forgot they were Dragons. And now, I think there's only one left. And she must be so very lonely. The belief would have to be so very big for a dragon to take wing again..." And Nan cried, and the tears fell down to the ground, clattering on the floor, in the shape and size of jewels. Molly picked one up, it was a crystal the shape of a tear in bright emerald green. And she looked up at Nan...

And up...

And up...

And Up!

The Dragon was beautiful. Each scale as bright as lovely as the tear Molly held in her hand. It was vast, and its gossamer wings spread out twice as long as the Dragon's long neck. The room was a vast cavern covered in jewels and gold and little cups of hot chocolate. The dragon continued weeping, her eyes the same color and warmth as Nan's. "The people who can believe in Dragons," said The Dragon Nan, "Can use their belief to make anything, to be anything, for anything is possible when you believe. Do you believe in Dragons, Molly?"

"Oh yeah!" Squealed Molly, eyes wide and bright.

"You're just like your father," said Nan, "He's quite the wizard, you know." And with that, the Dragon Nan, folded her wings against herself, and they became a shawl, and the shawl, became a sweet lady again. "He visited me when he was your age. Take my tear, bring it to him, and let him remember what it means to believe." Molly nodded eagerly, took the tear, gave Nan the biggest hug her size could manage, and ran out the door, racing to the trains as the sun fell.

Molly's father had finished putting his papers back together, and was settling to finish his work, just as the sun was setting when the door burst open, and a very young girl scrambled on top of his desk, and took all the papers from one side of the desk and -threw- them to the other side, letting them fall like a thesis-patterned blizzard. She put her hands on her hips, standing like a polka-dotted conquearor and shouted at the top of her lungs:

"Teach me Magic!!!!"

Her father scowled, and looked her straight in the eyes, and Molly didn't blink once. "Where's the Dragon?" Her father asked in a low voice. "Did you bring it here?" Molly shook her head. "Don't be silly. Dragons can't fit on trains. Everybody knows that." And she opened her hand, and showed her father the Dragon's tear, glittering like an emerald. "But I believe in Dragons, and I can see Dragons, and Nan says that's all I need."

Her father stared at the jewel, and took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. He pulled from his own pocket a jewel that was as blue as the deepest part of the ocean. "None of your brothers believed me when I told them about Dragons. You're the first. Nan is right. Belief is the first step in becoming a wizard. There are two other steps. One I will teach you, and one you will teach yourself. And you will be a wonderful wizard." He kissed Molly on the forehead, his tears falling just like any person's.

"But before I teach you anything, Miss Molly...You will clean up this mess."

Molly nodded eagerly.

"NOW!"

And with a squeak and a bounce, that's what Molly did. It's what any Wizard's Apprentice would do, after all.

Drabble: The Devil's white shoes.

“Don’t be such a child,” said the Devil as she took a drag from her cigarette. “I didn’t make you do this.” She stepped over the broken ruin of my Margaret, the congealing blood on the floor moving away from the Devil’s immaculate white shoes. “Humans are nothing but primal urges and traumas carefully nurtured over time by friends and family into crazed little hate machines, contained only by their better angels.” She bent forward, her eyes burning as brightly as her cigarette. “I’m just the angel that will never tell you no.”

And I took her hand to hell. 

One...One...One...

When I took my first meditation class, I was told to count my breaths. If I ever lost count, I was to bring myself back to one, and begin again, and do it over and over even if the result is

One...

One...

One...

Today I begin to understand the lesson.

One of the best things that coming in early for work has done is that it has enabled me to dance.

Since 2010, I've replaced reading with the news feed. Nonstop, 500+ posts a day, full of all the awful things people do, the destruction of the economy, the collapse of the environment, and the eventual outings of hateful pastors. After spending 15 minutes with a friend talking about history, I realize that newspapers were a blessing, and I no longer care about the outrage of the day. I want my stories back.

I know I'm not very good with a boomerang. At the same time, it's the only craft I know where it's fun to fail, and exhilarating to succeed.

The universe can be saved with a well timed pizza.

The first time I met a masker, and saw that under the glamorous woman's mask  was some guy in his 50's, I had hope.

My boyfriend knows all the awful things about me, and still cuddles me to sleep. With him, my dreams are different.

One...

One...

One...

100/100 24

The podcaster glowered at his guest from across the table. The comedian nervously adjusted his tie, the white fabric with pink polka dots a reminder of better times.

"I never understood you as an act. I could never figure out if you were playing it straight with the jokes, or that this was some sort of Andy Kaufman homage where the audience was supposed to hate you. I just look into those eyes and feel like i'm not talking to the real you. Comedians are supposed to be truth-tellers, and you're so artificial. "

Fozzie waggled his ears in desperation.

100/100 23

We all sat together, inebriated on cheese and cheap wine, flipping through the DVDs trying to find something that would signify the closing of the year. We gave up and selected the one that all of us had memorized, providing a soundtrack to our final celebration. All of us, actors, painters, producers, and writers, watched the minutes go by, bracing ourselves for the tomorrow that held our hopes and fears. Each of us at that moment wanted this year to be -the- year, and the television uttered a single line as the clock struck midnight.

"The hammer is my penis."