Welcome to this page of nonsense writing and whimsical illustration
This tale begins in a rather peculiar way, with an ending we are all astutely familiar with, and ends with something we may well be aware of, but have even less than a clue as to how it began.
When the famous Dickory Dock welcomed ships made only from hickory trees that bud yellow-green hickory catkins, as the dock was built likewise and steadfastness was everything, and before the renowned Hickory Clock was erected, neither the Town Mouse nor the Country Mouse had ever visited the area. In truth, the two were equally steadfastly resolute to stay in their respective homes and be generally rather miserable. At this time, the great and wise Dog had not yet deciphered the mysteries of reflections, and woodcutters came either honest and rich or wishing a river did always bring axes. At this time of development and learning, there was one Master Tortoise and one Crackerjack Hare, and they were both, for want of a better word, incredibly obsessed with being better than the other.
By now you must recognise the ending with which this tale will begin, but first some amendments to the tale must be made, as, as with any tale, fable, yarn, allegory, or there of, the lines between what happened in exactness and what just happened are oftentimes smudged, as if made of more chalk than truth...
In Truth Stories
An assembly of stories that resolve, in truth, how things were and have most suredly come to be. Inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories, explain your questions away like moths from a light turned off. For who is not the better to know why, for instance, the Chameleon wears a coat of mirrors? And if there is only but a grain of truth, we should be mindful to go against it.
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The Allegaurus
Through all misgivings there is a lesson to be learnt, if only it is to clasp givings more tightly. Inspired by the fabled Aesop and other Greek writes, this huddle of allegories met here, highlight those subtle misgivings that fault us, so that it might be easier to move forward. As, as it is, most are standing still, and it is very difficult to know which way is forward if you are standing still.
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What Novel
‘It is a story of a novel,’ it said without intending any help from it. ‘Well that’s no help. A novel what?’ The question asked with a foolproof balance of fervour and glibness. ‘Well to know that, you’d have to read the story.’
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Blog
How is it we can judge a record of thoughts? And who would hold such a record if it could be judged? To be neither a miser or wastrel of ideas, we must intend to become the midget vassal. This brave logging, or blog, is a record of such intentions.
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To Fall Asleep
If not a dream I'll eat my scarf,
Though don't you laugh, the first stayed home.
To market went the second half
To buy roast beef, but lost its comb,
And vendors comb the square like sand.
Like sand submerged in deeper fog,
Have you not seen the hidden land?
Where floats that older grounded log
That clogs the wind and all it pulls
And stacks up cards until it fulls?
Find the hay within the heap.
Pinch yourself till you fall asleep.
Of course you dream, you spicy clams.
To dream's to come to hope to change
To what you aren'ts become you ams,
What's normal gets to better strange.
So better run with broken feet.
The feat, to see with light not lit.
So better sit where there's no seat.
See tapestries that aren't yet knit.
So better bake what can't be boke.
Sow words never before heard spoke.
Sow seeds in soil you cannot reap.
So pinch yourself to fall asleep.
Is this a dream? I dare say so.
Though most best part's not dreamt of yet.
Where trees sink low and ships up grow
Three-and-ten birds sing in duet.
Have you not seen the king bee queen?
Or queen bee lord, as she affords,
And fords not cross but rivers wean
And rivers flow up city-ward.
Where water jumps from falling rocks
Colliding up the city blocks.
Open your eyes but don't dare peep.
Pinch yourself till you fall asleep.
In-dubitably, you dream, but
This dream's only in your head.
From butter churn the mildest cream,
Cook toast until it turns to bread.
While as you cook count on the sky
Where turns the heavy beastly herds.
Have you ever seen an elephant fly?
Under each ear the dusk drops, stirred.
Therein the dusk the dust moves still.
Sheep slumber round the turning mill.
Count the fence which jumps the sheep.
Pinch yourself till you fall asleep.
