Ahhhh, dear readers our precious Winston, was not the first visitor to Madame Dauphine's little shop of horrors, there was another, more vile creature – who had afternoon tea with her, the very same day. You see the one such Irishman, with the unmitigated gaul - the one who could and would extort from Madame Dauphine, was knocking at her door - in the humid heat of the Veaux Carre afternoon - was the infamous Doran Eamon. He stood with such quiet repose, gently tapping his cane upon the grey wooden doors. He stood tall and prim and proper with a subtle bald dignity about him. His brown jacket and trousers only overlooked - by the rich chocolate of his bow tie.
“Mr. Eamon, please forgive me for keeping you - Madame is waiting in the parlour.” Doran walked patiently behind the servant ,as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “Madame, Madame! Such a pleasure to see you again.”
“Sit my dearest Doran and tell me what brings you out in the heat?”
“If you insist – I will proceed straight most to the truth, but not before a bit of English tea.” As he sat in a grotesquely over wrought piece of nineteenth century wingbacked wretchedness, he continued. “If you wish to continue with the marvels you keep perched in your attic. You will give to me the offer of I deem respectfully appropriate.
“My dearest Doran, why are you doing this? What is it that you want for this favor amongst friends?”
“Listen my little madame. I demand nothing less than your daughter for my continued silence.”
“I will take your Celeste away and she will be safe with me. Safe from what could befall you, given your penchant for wickedness.”
With a word devoid of emotion, full of hollow humanity and wrapped with rings of wickedness, she simply asked “When?”
“Oh. I shall be leaving here with her momentarily. Please see to her reainess. She will require nothing but the clothes on her back.”
“Bring her down immediately.” She nodded to the
Butler and then nodded as well to Doran, and excused herself from the room.
“Young Celeste was led down the grand stair and presented to Mr. Eamon.
“Oh My! You look absolutely stunning Miss Celeste. I do look so forward to showing you Paris. If you would be so kind as to ride with me in my carriage. We have precious little time.”
little harpies with their crows
little harpies peck at their meat.
my little harpies with a twist
and a shutter.
my little harpies are all
with their beeks full of
my oh my, what makes
my little harpies
“What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something which is specialized or which is done by experts who are artists. But couldn’t everyone’s life become a work of art? Why should the lamp or the house be an art object, but not our life?” —Michel Foucault
It was a dusty dirt road that led to other dusty dirt roads. There were no crossroads, there were no cars, there were no trucks, only endless rows of corn and a small tractor with a man's head tucked under the hood. “Why do I persist in living in a world of nostalgia and broken, outdated, romantic notions of what I think farming should be?” Lester often spoke out loud, it was the curse of being alone. Well, being alone most of the time. He hurried along with the task at hand, jumping back onto the rusted bucket that he fondly called a tractor. It would take weeks, no months, no years to harvest all this corn, with his bucket of bolts. Time was a luxury that he tried desperately to squander.
the logic diagram behind the geometry is amazing.....