Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Monday, January 28, 2002


I have a confession to make.

The Pooka does have a vast weakness for epics of a grandiose scale. Nay, not even a weakness for that is too simple, too mild. It is a passion, one carried from womb to now when the womb used and worn out is my own.

(The Pooka hath also benefited somewhat from the merits of a good stiff glass of Tully tonight, so bear with her.)

Epics indeed, on the scale of the greats like Tolkien, of movies grand and limitless like the Great Escape, or Good, the Bad and the Ugly, or even the humourous epic of It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. My tolerance for such vast visions is limitless. I am the watcher, the subservient idolator ready to cast my soul to the wind to earn the favour of yet another epic narrative to capture my attention.

It has been a night to encapsulate such visions. A young Clint Eastwood, grim, impassive, but with that subtle impishness in those blue eyes that drags you merrily into the full grasp of a true rogue at work ... to the brother of that same vision, as the Cooler King denies his imprisonment with every bounce against concrete walls.

For the novice, for the poseur: I am their Bitch. Period.

Give to me the illustrative epic. I do not wish for a trite happy ending, but for the ending as it is written for the stars and not for the frail psyche of a human spirit. Give me death, give me life, give me the grandest of struggles to both surpass and embrace them both.

I submit, I surrender.

Good night.

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