Lakes and Crakes

While many believe in a monster (known colloquially as ‘Champ’) who inhabits Lake Champlain, this photo shows disturbing evidence of another type of monster living in these quiet waters—a giant swan (known colloquially-er as ‘Gilberta’?).

Dino Brush

Trepidly tiptoe down the road—Dino Brush roars tidings of parties from the country roses. 

At Rest and Play

Monsters lounging in masks- common disguises employed widely and frequently for a variety of purposes. Used here as recreational devices.

 Photographed by Monster-Spotter-At-Large, Kate Neely.

To Create

I have spent a year and a half of time pouring and tearing hairs out at my book baby. 191 single-spaced pages and half a bald head later, the first draft is finally done.

This whole book is but a draught—nay, but a draught of a draught. Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience !

While my book is literally “but a draught,” this quote from Moby Dick reflects the appalling and awesome amount of work that still needs to be done.

But for now: Celebration dance!

Animal Collective

Monsters make masterful music.

 Idiomatic tragic, they bend ears to their winsome wills.

Bejeweled

Ever unrelenting, monsters pace the outer edges. They stare in from dark places that we learn as young children to fear. Places of shame. Places of wild disorder. Places of disobedience.

Places of vanity and cannibalism.

These bejeweled dragons nearly shocked me off the sidewalk with such a spectacle. To retaliate, I bought the plainest socks I could find and nibbled my fingers when no one was watching.

Olde Monsters: Money

Some aspects of monstrosity are those which come hand in hand with living in a capitalist society. Money makes the world go around; there is no limit to what can be put up for sale.

Trinkets, food, clothing, potted plants: these are the obvious examples of things which are available to be bought or sold. Buying any of these objects exemplify (even as this example simplifies) the utilitarian aspect of money. The idea of weaving yards of material out of cotton fibers to barter it for apples does not appeal to me. I would much rather wipe the butts of the elderly or speak in broken English with Thai people to make money I can buy apples with.

I’m not concerned about the buying and selling of tee-shirts or fruit, but I quake at the idea that happiness or love (themselves intangible and abstract) are able to be bought with the same money with which I buy socks. I do not feel loving, loved or even particularly happy when I buy socks. Even when I feel grateful at purchasing fruit, my gratitude stems not from ownership of fruit, but from the growls in my abdomen which are quenched when I eat the fruit.

I fear for the future of the beautiful young man pictured here. His pose indicates that he not only believes in the statement graffitied behind him but is enthralled with its message. In order to counteract this message, I will buy socks fervently and with growing depression until I can make this person understand that money does not equal love/happiness. I encourage all of you to do the same.

Bougainvillea

Vine curls around Tree, and pauses there breathing. It lays slack, a noose unnoticed, until with grins and cackles its shackles tighten. Tree pants lightheaded, stretches for lost rays. They crackle thick in the air above, but are a spilled cup, a dropped key.

Trees’ leaves tremble in a humid zephyr.

Vine wrestles, maneuvers branches to push Tree, a drowning swimmer, down, and lounges on the well lit stage. Vine’s face turns and greedy-gulps the sun.

Tree pines: its leaves falter, its branches bend. Its toes are pinched, roots shunted aside by Vine’s rampage underground. Energy that burned, pulsed, pushed slows. A tap now barely drips. Arms wither, and Vines’ legs plump.

Vine relishes in new audacity. Its legs roil with strength. They grow thorns. Black spikes on tendril fingers wrap Tree’s side and sink in, knives into flesh. The knives are hollow fangs that tear and pluck at Tree’s tender sap. Vine laps ravenous at holes bored in Tree’s trunk. Tree staggers empty, a husk held upright by what is sucking it to a dry death.

The absorbing fires: Tree sighs empty into Vines unforgiving and unapologetic smother: A blanket on a rage.

But in air above, pouring over empty rotting branches, sinuous appendages and teeth: blossoms. Blossoms pink, pouring, constellations that dip and play in a canopy of more and more blossoms. They drip through sun, filter past Tree and Vine and fall crisped onto the ground, paper thin hearts.

In the dying light, when life does rage, the tree aches. It presses up through shrunken roots and begs muted Vine to make this last drop crinkle open, one final blossom.

One final burst of flame.