Omphalos Dada Yow Blog

In an effort to solidify and make it easier for me to update about my sites, I have merged all my blogs into one. So this is the new spot for the Omphalos Dada Yow blog. Since I have reduced the activities on the site to submissions only (I don’t search and request anymore) and also any print /online productions take a little longer updates will be less frequent. But all Omphalos Dada Yow updates will be identified by the lime green (background) and black (text) posts and by a link on the right.

The (new) Whimsical IceBox Blog

In an effort to solidify and make it easier for me to update about my sites, I have merged all my blogs into one. So this is the new spot for the whimsical icebox blog. Since we retired from online activities and the print productions take a little longer and updates are less frequent. But all Whimsical Icebox updates will be identified by the yellow (background) and black (text) posts and by a link on the right.

The Greg Smith Book Signing

Today, Nov. 14th 2009: I went to see, support and buy the book “FINAL PRICE” by J. Gregory Smith (for which I did the cover art.) It began, as all visits to book signings should begin, with an author chant in the parking lot. As we made our way toward borders I quite boisterously chanted "GREG SMITH! GREG SMITH! GREG SMITH! GREG SMITH! GREG SMITH!GREG SMITH!" So everyone knew who we were there to see. There was Greg, right up front, looking like a newly minted author; wide eyed, beaming with a big engaging smile. Borders had placed him by the front doors for maximum exposure and he was already talking to an interested reader. We approached him first thing with much clamor and he immediately introduced me as the artist. “and he is the artist now!” I felt like I was on the tonight show. Thanks Greg! We stayed just a little awhile. Just long enough to draw attention but not long enough to seem like life support. Of course Greg had already sold three copies and thats was better then my best year! Its always tough for newly published authors (or any artist really) because people don't usually take a chance on things, new things especially unless some bigwig like Oprah mentions it. Its ashame really because as any writer/artist knows that is where the best, most fertile work lies. Its the earlier work before they get discovered when their work is rich, raw and masterful. They poured out that passion which has driven them to this point. The golden area before the big companies snatch them up and start laying on all the pressure and suggestions. Its the early work that gets them noticed because it is fantastic. Greg Smith's "Final Price" is no exception and its very likely this is the book that will put him on the map! hey you! go by the book and if you don't like it you can kick me up the arse! GREG SMITH "FINAL PRICE"

When Worlds Collide by Justynn Tyme

Deep, in the recesses of time and space, Two bright planets whirl noiselessly. One full of wind and weird, the other full of weird and wind. Tensions swell and gravity yearns, As the two pirouette around each other. In great explosions, they clash, Sending shudders through one another. As they converge toward a singular point, Pieces splinter away and return again. In the quiet that transpires, There is now, just one world. A world of energy and light, Invigorated by weird winds. © 2009

are gloves enough?

i feel stupid all of the time now. Not in a super negative self critical way but for the life of me I don't know what to do or say at this point. I have spoken of gloves and I have promised gloves but gloves don't built houses and don't make banks and don't make ill-regular sized hands take off their gloves. Its just my inexperience of reversable gloves that is dictating my fate, maybe possibly. I want to take those sweet and delicate hands and put gloves on them in my house so I can see the face as it smiles. Yeah I want those hands to pack up all those handy things and come here, of course and share my handy things. Should I say that? Even though those hands tapped my hands at the idea. I don't know. it more then my hands are worth to give those hands torn cuticles. But am I saying the right things? Am i doing the right things? If I can't put gloves on those hands I don't know if I ever want to put gloves on any other hands. I may just put my hands in my pockets and never ever take them out, ever again. What the hell do I do - I can wait at the shop but is that really saying anything. Those hands knew I was waiting at the shop and did not comes because the gloves were too tight. Can I afford to go in the shop? All these questions. Maybe I fail because I all I see are gloves. Maybe I don't see the hands? I just don't know.

Brain Pimple #438

is it me or is it harder to connect with people in this age of instantcy? the thought of blogging, sawing the log, causes my brain to ice over. a mist rises like a fist, and a dead calm falls over the temporal valley. beaver, otter, fox and blotter - all flee the forest seeking field clover. today is the first day of the last day of yesterdays tomorrow Tuesday. Now everyone can be seen and heard by anyone anytime anywhere. air went into the airstone but later I found a puddle on my desk top. when one is up, two come down, loaf around, raise and then leave. in the absences of thought words pour easily because they're aimless. I went to see my doctor today - he said I was infected with campsites. Don't use the internet for health questions. its too too scary, trust me. blistering blue bottle barn bird ate a flustered fallow fence font frog. I had an operation, then did a paragraph from my face to my arm pit. when the win-windy blows-ohs the reed bends but doesn't break ache. yakka tiki tunnel funt loopip pipnipple twattlatte cicrogumpo dengiffont. define the correct order of this ultra-complicated sub-episodic ify word: yawn yawn, man yawn, wake up if I can't see my back pockets does it mean they are made of pit loons. does everyone take real interaction, friendship, intimacy for granted? interaction, ontraction, extreme lactation, mean caption, train station. there is, at this time an earwig on a door knob thinking of Paris fog. what has begun, must end once its over, and begin after its started.