Monthly Archives: January 2012

Yeti Another Monday

Six am found me explaining the difference between my house and a bed and breakfast to some very frustrated travelers. What I found so interesting was their fierce belief that I was somehow putting them on and that this WAS the bed and breakfast they were looking for.

At what point would you, as a traveler, realize that perhaps you were off your path? Would it be after the walk through the graveyard of lost pets, the climb up the steps onto my (admittedly) rickety front porch, or upon meeting yours truly in a dressing gown at the front door? Would it be whilst listening to the cacophony emanating from the third floor (the specimens in the laboratory loathe the doorbell)? Or perhaps when the pygmy yeti took it upon itself to retch across the parlor after eating a bowl of plain, dry Cheerios cereal? I would have thought Bubo tearing up a rat in the front window or Mordecai playing his sitar from the Widow’s Walk would have done it. I underestimated these folk.

These intrepid travelers only turned back towards the street (after my incredibly simple and succint directions, I might add), when one of the gargoyles relieved itself directly onto the porch.

A hail of pebbles is disconcerting. As is the stone gargoyle above you moving across the house east, into the sun. They left quickly.
I have thus been cleaning the parlor rug. Between the flivvervaats and the yeti, baking soda and vinegar may not be enough. It might take petrol and a match.


Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

Deep in Mongolia, near a castle built by Tsogt Taij, lives Gomez. Gomez has a farm of 73 acres, and he toils over his coffee crop, determined to grow a blend that brings to mind clear skies, warm earth and grass for as far as the eye can see.

He calls his blend Zanabazar, after the first Jebtsundamba Khutughtu in 1640. Unfortunately for Gomez (and, quite frankly, the rest of us), coffee prefers warmer and lusher climes, and until he gets his state-of-the-art greenhouse yert built, Zanabazar is just a dream.

Gomez also raises goats on his land, and since he’s rather short, he wears tall golden ears so that he’s easily found amidst the herds. He reads poetry to the goats as they wander the acreage, and his deeply resonating voice echoes across the quiet skies.

Perhaps future generations will sip Zanabazar and raise coffee wherever they please in yerts full of warmth and fertile earth. Perhaps future generations will see drawings of Gomez in his gold ears, poems etched into the walls above his image, like in the Khoid Tsenkher Cave.

And we, we shall admire Gomez for his dreams. For his faith in the beauty of simple things – like goats, coffee, and poetry. We shall dream big dreams for ourselves, and will stare on hills towards the sky, barefoot like Gomez.

Wearing gold ears.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

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Mordecai arrived late last night (or early this morning, depending on your point of view). His hands were purple – as though he had been dying fabrics in indigo – and the circles beneath his eyes were especially dark.

I didn’t ask any questions – I learned long ago it’s much better if I don’t ask questions – and simply put a hot pot of oolong tea on his nightstand whilst he was soaking in a hot bath of lavender and thyme.

This morning’s bright sunlight truly illuminated Mordecai’s windlestrawness.

Windlestraw is a noun. Originally it merely meant a dry, thin stalk of grass. Of Scot, Irish and British origin, the word eventually came to mean anything weak or feeble, especially a thin unhealthy person.

It comes from the Old English windelstrēaw, from windel basket, from windan –  to wind plus strēawstraw.

My brother has always resembled a windlestraw, though if you know Mordecai, you know that he is stronger than a minotaur and as healthy as they come. He just looks terrible.

But don’t tell him that. He’s rather cocksure.

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Half Melted Owl

It appears I keep the house to cool at night for Bubo’s liking.

This morning I woke to find a snowman on my dressing table. He was holding a lit candle and was not melting one bit.


They are so passive-aggressive pre-coffee. Post coffee they’re just aggressive. It’s a no-win situation, really.


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