Just so we’re clear

As I posted on my other blog:

Gangleri's Grove

I have lately been getting harassed by a mentally ill individual so I am going to state this here so there is no misunderstanding. 

The material I post here and on any other website that I maintain (including but not limited to boneladyblog.wordpress.com), unless otherwise stated is mine. You do not have permission to use it in any other capacity. You may not use my images or my articles. If I find that you have stolen my work, I will take legal action. 

Is that clear enough for  you? 

Get therapy and stop spewing your pollution on me. Stop trying to make me part of your insane, delusional world. You are sick. Get help. 

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The World War I doughboys of New York City

this is really awesome. I had no idea there were so many WWI doughboy memorials in NYC. I have the beginning of a nice day’s visit here. We’re in the 100th anniversary of WWI and I believe today is the anniversary of America joining that war. I also have a first cousin twice removed, Wesley Heffner, private 1st Class in Company B of the 26th Infantry who didn’t make it home from France. He died at twenty years old in 1918. It’s important to remember. Our memories give our dead renewed life and restore to us our roots.

Ephemeral New York

No one quite knows where the term “doughboy” originated.

Coined in the 19th century, it may have come from the doughnut-like buttons on soldier uniforms, or it might stem from their doughy rations.

But this nickname for the millions of American infantrymen (and thousands of New Yorkers) who fought in World War I endures—as do the bronze doughboy statues that were funded by veterans’ groups and ordinary citizens after the war’s end in November 1918.

With April 6 marking the 100th anniversary of the United States’ entry into what was then known as the European War, take a look at a few of the nine doughboy statues standing in city parks and corners.

At the top left is the doughboy of DeWitt Clinton Park in Hell’s Kitchen—an excerpt from war poem “In Flanders Fields” carved in granite below him.

The Abingdon Square doughboy, pistol at the…

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First in a New Cento Series: Seven Deadly Sinners

I’ve been reading the early Church fathers quite a bit for some of the graduate classes I’m taking. Last night, I found myself greatly enjoying one particular book and I thought “some of these lines would make a great cento.” I decided to take seven of the Church Fathers, write a Cento for each based solely on one of their works and fit them into the seven deadly sins schema. *G* Here is the first. Kudos if you can not only tell me who it is, but what work this is from:


I came to Carthage
and all around me hissed
a cauldron with illicit loves.
Clouds of muddy concupiscence
filled the air.
The soul fornicates.

I rushed head long into love
by which I was longing to be captured.
I was glad to be in bondage,
tied with troublesome chains.
I loved to suffer
and sought out occasions
for such suffering.

I pursued a sacrilegious quest for knowledge,
which led me down to faithless depths
and the fraudulent service of devils.

How I burned, how I burned
with a longing to leave earthly things
and fly back to you.
My error was my God.

Who am I?

(from lines: 3.1,2.2, 2.14, 3.1,3.4,3.5,3.8,4.12)

Yep. LOL

“Latin is the best thing that ever happened to humanity. It leaves you zero room for nonsense. You don’t have to be a genius. But it requires laser-sharp concentration and total maturity. If you don’t know what time of day it is, or what your name is, or where you are, don’t try Latin because it will smear you on the wall like an oil spot.”

                                –Reginald Foster (Quoted in this piece). 

Exactly why it should be required in middle, high school, and college!

Story Magic


All this year has been about story, its power, and Story as a living thing. There’s a Greek word μῦθος, from where we get our word ‘myth’ that captures something of it’s nature: it is something worth being recorded, remembered, and retold. But even that falls short in true. Story is what sustains us. It’s what provides continuity throughout the triumphs and nadirs of our lives. It’s what connects us with everything and everyone that has come before. It’s what enables us to connect to those in our world now; and yet, it is so intensely personal.

I’d burn down the world to preserve the tales I tell myself. They’re that important to me, the stories I weave in the darkness of the night when I’m lulling myself to sleep, or the tales that enfold me, spinning out from day dreams. I have come to cherish my Stories enough that I’d sacrifice just about anyone or anything to preserve their integrity. It doesn’t matter how seemingly irrelevant or simplistic our stories are, they are precious and sacred.

I’m not talking about religious experience. I’m talking about our imagination’s ability to engage with storytelling, to experience through words another life, to be moved emotionally by another’s words, to create in our minds doorways to other places.

I value my interior life deeply. I always have. There is nothing more precious that I could share with someone. There is nothing more important save the Gods and the work I do for Them that I share. It has a value that goes well beyond the here and now, these threads of imagination and creativity that sustain like nothing else. They are, like the arts, the best part of our humanity.

We can remake ourselves through the stories we tell. This is partly why it’s so incredibly important to steep children in fairy tales and fantasy and literature. It provides nourishment on a fundamental level. Years ago I remember an argument with a fundamentalist Christian relative. She was dead set, adamantly so, against children being allowed to read any type of fiction especially fantasy. Imagination might free them from the chains of their monotheism of course. I was viscerally horrified at the mental and emotional paucity of what she would have encouraged in children, a type of prison for the mind, a crushing of the spirit. We need our stories to enable us to survive in the world.

Story has the ability to teach us. We gain power through their telling. It is an arena where we can fail and learn and grow and hopefully succeed gaining knowledge, power, and healing that we can bring back to this world to transform our lives. Story is how we pass on the knowledge and wisdom of the ancestors. It is how we forge connections to them to our Gods, to ourselves, to our world.

This is in part why I share my stories with very few people and why I grow so enraged when I’m reading and someone, however well meaning, insists on talking to me. I may not show my anger – usually it is either people who are lonely and want to connect or people who themselves don’t like to read who do this. I do my best to be patient and respond with kindness however painful the interruptions might be. When I am about to lose myself in another world, to crawl into another world where I can live and breath, love and thrive and someone forcibly drags me back to mundanity, it’s a very special kind of agony.

So tell your stories. Fall in love with certain books. Write your fanfictions. Keep a poetry journal. Take a stab at nanowrimo. Day dream. Become the hero or heroine of your own tale. Fall in love with words. It’s important. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

A Cento for December 2016

Hiding my face I fled,
and the grey wind hissed behind me.

He revealed His mysteries,
so the dreamer went blushing into battle and died.

So many winged creatures
sculpted out of flight to peer from a ledge

wine is spilled on promiscuous lips

tiny dried up men speaking pure light

Do not go gentle.
Do NOT go gentle.

I will not die like the shadows of those mountains,
who are cast down by the body of the nighttime sky.
I will not die…
Dark is better for devotion.

I collect small things.
Within my bones and atriums
I can hold your pieces.
The lance of my eyes is unsheathed.
Terror has rent the fabric of the sky.
I am at the mouth of the cave. I am willing to crawl,
from death to resurrection.

Immortality exists under the World Tree, where three roots pierce the ages…
The clock will always strike midnight and history repeats.

From the thunder and the storm,
I alone tread the red circle.
I celebrate our old eternal custom,
our purifying rites.
I won’t run off.

My thoughts have a spirit’s wings,
my memories a desert wind;

Down on your knees, Achilles,
a fresh grief will flood your heart.

[With respect to Alice Oswald, Ada Limon, Mina Loy, Amy Lowell, Cynthia Manick, Marianne Boruch, Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa, Marilyn Hacker, January Gill O”Neil, Euripedes, Etheridge Knight, Dylan Thomas, cairo mcflarlane, Andal translated by Ravi Shankar, Edgar allen Poe, Christopher Logue].

Cento by G. Krasskova