The Portrait of Zool

** Excerpts from a Dog's Diary ** 8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing! 9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing! 9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing! 10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing! 12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing! 1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing! 3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing! 5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing! 7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing! 8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing! 1:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing! THEN...................... ** Excerpts from a Cat's Diary ** Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe... For now... Edit: Oops! Forgot to add that I got this off email

Three Dog Night rock!

Just then a very large portrait, magic-carpet like, glided into the Cabaret, only a few inches off the ground. the portrait floated to the front of the large central fireplace and tipped to a sudden halt, causing a stream of water, which had been cupped by the large gilt frame, to drain off the now tilted painting. "PBTHRTHBTHRTHTHBBBER CHICKEN!" sputtered Zool as the water drained off of him. The massive painting moved eerily, haltingly, slowly upright, first lurching one way and then another, before suddenly popping up off the ground towards the wall, it's hanging wire catching on it's nail and then slamming into place, hanging once again, if a bit akimbo. On the ground, from where the painting had been launched, was a very bedraggled and still somewhat stretched out of shape rubber chicken. "Well!" said Zool, wringing water out of his painted clothes as he peeked from between the unkempt strands of his drenched coiffure, which now looked more like a disheveled black mop. Bending over, he thrashed his great mane of a toupee like a whip as he suddenly stood, sending water shooting out of the painting and his hair pointing straight up off his head into it's customary extra-exaggerated shape, topping out in a flamboyant curl. "That's better," he said, once again approaching his formerly regal, if somewhat comic bearing. "If someone could just straighten me..." Zool looked around expectantly, but many were still straightening furniture, or too engrossed in shinies or their own discussions to be of help. "Anyone...?" Zool asked again. Again, there were no takers. With a sigh, Zool shrugged, braced his shoulder, and ran as hard as he could against the frame at the side of his painting. The portrait jerked into a level position. Picking himself back up, he brushed himself off, took up his silver handled walking stick, caught the rubber chicken as it leaped back into the painting, and resumed his eternal watch over the cabaret. Zool turned his eyes to Canid as Appy bounced out of the Cabaret. "You know," he said, an interested look in his eyes, "Poor Matt, my curvaceously comely crown, my pleasingly proportioned plumage, my amazing magical mane, and the coolest wash and wear hairdo ever, has always been shortchanged in the recognition department. Perhaps you could do something for my right-hand thatch, my rooftop mop, my shocking shock? If so, Matt and I would be forever grateful."

Ah, thanks for the clarification gals. Sounds like fun!

I'll pick the number 2. Incidentally, I am wondering what the relationship is between the number and the object? Is this according to a pre-arranged list, limiting the participants to 12?

ROFL Wyvern. The Portrait of Zool, long time pain in the Pen, died yesterday after having come unhung, as a complication of de-composition. He also suffered chronically from fading colors, blurring of the lines, saggy canvas, light in his shadows, senseless proportion, low oil, termites, peeling gilt, and complete loss of perspective. Donations should be given to Society for the Care of Ancient Retired Elders (SCARE) or the Society for Prevention of the Anguish of Rubber Chickens (SPARC). Services are scheduled for this friday at Bob's used art and thrift store. Zool will be on display over the fake fireplace for 30 days, and, if there are no takers, then on into the dumpster, and that great landfill in the sky.

~Brief Description~ The Portrait of Zool is without exception remarkable in the fact that it is the only actual portrait in the Piazza of Portraits. A long time fixture at the Pen, he has served in varying capacities as fool, foil, and Friday. He is usually hanging above the grand fireplace of the Cabaret, but has been seen just about everywhere else in the Keep, as need be, carried there by spell or portage by his faithful servant Grimmael. Also, being a portrait, he has no quarters or room he calls his own, often referring to his home if asked as simply "the walls of the Pen". Zool often tells stories, either in narrative, or by actually rendering the story through the illustrative powers of his chromozool paint, filling his entire frame with the visually dramatized tale. In general the enchanted canvas presents an impenetrable barrier between the two and three dimensional realities, though a powerful spell could send an object either way, and the chromozool paint has been known to do strange things on it's own at times. ~Appearance~ The Portrait of Zool is a massive, gilt framed, full size standing oil portrait of the Archmage Zool, made even larger by the meter high Elvis-ish ducktail hairstyle wig, topped with a flamboyant curl (Sometimes called a 'voobah'). He is ordinarily dressed in black leather boots, pants and jacket, trimmed in red, with one hand resting jauntily on a silver handled walking stick, his other arm bent at the elbow, cradling a rubber chicken. The background is by default an outdoor scene, somewhat foggy and indistinct compared to the sharp detail and bright colors of the portrait himself, but of a low lighting, overcast and greenish, appearing to be the overgrown ruins of an ancient stone castle or fort. He can appear inanimate for long periods, only to suddenly come alive at inexplicable or opportune times. ~Personality~ Zool is equal parts passionate, headstrong, impetuous, impulsive, rash, vain, ambivalent, sentimental, drippy, insecure, simpering, idiotic, and brilliant. When corporeal, his days were marked by one ill-conceived confrontation after another, often disastrous, always in error. Incapable of subtlety, he would often machinate plans so grandiose, and demanding such ardent means, they were doomed from the start. Adept at the plain magic of science, he would often construct great machines, either of simple function (such as a 100 meter high vacume cleaner) or of such circumlocutious intention as to defy intelligible description (such as the 'Nowvator', which Zool himself is still scratching his head over). He was never very good at magic magic, but the Eradication archetype fit him so well that he often was able to succeed through sheer force of personality. ~History~ Zool was an Eradication Mage of Terra Old, transplanted as a permanent fixture of the Pen so long ago it was still just a plank tavern. No one is sure just how he came to be transformed into a portrait, but it is rumored that he somehow so enraged his muse (yet another ill-conceived confrontation) that she abducted the mage from the netherworld he had escaped to at the fall of Terra and took him to a hidden place, where she committed unspeakable acts of retribution upon his person, eventually delivering him to the Pen in his present state where he has resided ever since. In denial to this day, "I was framed," is all he has ever had to say about his ordeal. ~Skills & Familiars~ As with most frauds, his real powers lay not so much in his own skills as in the skills of those around him. Through the years Zool has collected a number of Familiars, which is fortunate as in his portraitured state he is unable to directly interact with the outside world, other than through the few means afforded by his peculiar enchantment. Grimmael: Grimmael isn't actually a familiar, but has been Zool's faithful servant almost since day one. This is a good thing, as Zool is one of those people who really couldn't function for long without a caretaker. In Terra Old, Grimmael ran the household and did his best to keep Zool out of trouble in the first place. Now that Zool is an oil painting, he is charged with dusting and carrying Zool to any place that (Zool feels) demands his presence. Grimmael is of indeterminate age, appears of european descent, and is hideously scarred and impaired on the entire right side of his body (It is just like Zool to demand such aching tasks of such a dreadfully handicapped person). No one is sure why he has bonded to Zool so loyally, how he became so scarred, or what the horrible secret is which causes him to wail from nightmares when he sleeps. The rubber chicken: The rubber chicken also came with him from Terra Old, where they had shared many adventures together, starting with a sword fight with Ozymandias himself. The rubber chicken is a rubber chicken; plucked, stretchy, empty of sinew, bone, or brain, yet somehow capable of great feats of strength and intelligence. Often managing to bail Zool out of the sticky situations he gets himself into, the rubber chicken has also been known to play a trick or two on Zool, which vexes him to no end. The rubber chicken, being made of a very flexible latex rubber, has the ability to go between the two dimensional and three dimensional worlds, making it Zool's only reliable connection to the 'real' world. Matt, the toupee: Everyone needs to make a living, even in Hell. In the days of Terra Old, there were many unemployed Archmages around inbetween incarnations, as you could well imagine. It was during one of Zool's many MANY deaths that he tried a short career as a hairstylist, and even started making a name for himself (as the hairstylist from Hell), especially during a dubious exploration of the 'flaming hair' look. This resulted not only in his own permanent baldness, but also the end of a short (but brilliant!) career in fashion. Deciding to weave the most stylish pretend-pompadour in the history of Terra, he was inspired one day when he spied the long jet-black flowing tresses of a napping demon. The Demon awoke with hair much shorter, but Zool was probably even more surprised when his newly fashioned toupee seemed to have a mind of it's own. Fortunately, the furry familiar is not malevolent, but has been quite helpful, even eventually protective of Zool, on many occasions - though not also without the occasional good natured trick. Matt was a favorite among Zool's friends, as it loves an accepting lap, an appreciative pet, and emits the most soothing purr when happy. Unfortunately, Matt is also unable to leave the confines of the portrait. ~Capabilities~ Being an oil painting, Zool is capable of movement only in a two-dimensional space. The enchantment allows him to speak and move or do anything else as long as it follows the rule that the rendition remain as true to the subject as possible at all times, within the limits of the medium. He needn't manifest as Zool, however, but does have the power to present (or should I say 'represent') anything he can imagine. Disguise is an option, but if anyone looks closely his frame never changes, and there is a brass plate screwed to the bottom of the frame in plain view which reads "The Portrait of Zool". His figure appears to shrink if he walks into his background, though he can only go so far, limited by the resolution of the brush strokes. He can see and hear what is outside of his frame, within the normal capabilities of his eyes and ears on the canvas. He appears to breathe, but of course he does so only in the capacity of remaining a true rendition. If necessary, he can slip from one painting to another, though he dislikes doing that as the portrait's hosts never take kindly to strangers, and there are far too many paintings of great hunts and battles in the keep. Though there is no real substance to them, he has the power of manifesting the image of any object with him in his portrait, which he will often do to make a point or assist in the telling of a tale. Zool has no weapons, and little magic. There are some simple protective spells that protect his portrait itself (e.g. from fire or water), but otherwise, his only defense or offense is what he can say or show from within the confines of his painted prison.

A familiar face in a familiar portrait peers down at the tattered green ears with the misshapen grin. "Goodness!" says Zool. "Is there something we could do for you? You seem to be a bit... tattered."

With a creaking clanking crash the disintegrating cart toppled onto Wyvern, spilling it's fragile contents all over him and making the main aisle for the cabaret impassible. "OUCH! OH! ACK! OW!" said Wyvern as every move he made brought him crunching down onto the lttle broken bottles which covered the ground. The 'ink' was all over him now, which wasn't particularly opaque as it was sticky and oozey. "YuUuCH! Anyone for sssome ink?" The portrait of Zool chuckled from his safe vantage point up on the wall. "Wyv, Wyv, Wyv, when are you gonna learn?" "Ah, help an almost dragon out Zool - I'll cut you in, 0.001% of the net profitss," said Wyvern with a hopeful gleam. "Riiight - we'll talk about what you owe me later." Zool reached to the lapel of his leather jacket and reaching inside pulled out the rubber chicken. Whispering in his rubber ear, he pointed at the kitchen door, then gave the rubber chicken a toss. With a slight *Pop*ing sound the rubber chicken reached three dimensions and hit the floor running, heading under the tables to avoid Wyvern's mess. Going into the kitchen, the rubber chicken immediately headed for the sink, where he put his rubber beak over the tap and was just barely to reach the handle. Giving it a spin, he was surprised to find a lot more water pressure than he had anticipated - a LOT more. Immediately his rubber body was distended, and expanding fast, leaving him unable to reach the handle to shut the water off again... "...don't worry, we'll get you out of this - and we aren't going to have you set off any disaster like you usually do," said Zool, then looked up at the kitchen door as it popped open. "What the...!" Spilling out of the kitchen door was what looked like an immense translucent yellowish blob. It filled the door completely, then got bigger, and bigger, and bigger - and still wasn't through the door yet. Finally it came through, and seemed to fill the entire back of the cabaret. Just discernible at various spots were tiny appendages sticking out of the immense ballon-like mass; two stubby little rubber legs, two stubby little rubber wings - and tiny head with dotted black eyes, a red comb, bulging cheeks and a clamped beak. "It's the rubber chicken - and he's full of water!" someone screamed. "Puk - GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!" said the rubber chicken. A tidal wave descended on the cabaret. The ink was washed away, and so was what remained of the cart, and so was Wyvern. Zool saw something headed his way that could easily be described as the business end of Niagara. Thinking Quick, he whipped out a Quill. It shone an iridescent silver swept with rainbow hues that changed as the light struck it, while the shaft from about halfway up to the tip of the nib glowed with a soft internal white radiance. He dipped it into a nearby inkwell, whipped out some paper, and quickly wrote: The deluge quickly drained through the floorboards of the cabaret, leaving all neat and clean. The water kept coming. Zool's eyes grew large as saucers. Snatching up the bottle of ink, he read on the bottom: "DRAGONIC BRAND SEMI-AUTHENTIC AKASHAN INK WELL." Then, it was too late. The wave roared to the far end of the cabaret and up the wall The Portrait of Zool was attached to, unhooking it and washing it in a torrent through the cabaret exit, carrying people, furniture, the remains of ink wells, and a rubber chicken with it. "WYVEEEEEEeeeeeerrr..." Zool's cry was quickly lost in the roar of the rushing water.

Well hello! Welcome to the February promotions announcement! Curious about who is getting promoted? Wondering if it might be YOU? Weeeell, you're just gonna have to read the announcement to find out. In fact, I think it might be fun if we could all imagine we might be the one getting promoted. As we all know, the Pen is a magical place, where anything might happen, at any time - you just never know. It could be something epic and dramatic, it might be something subtle but with the implications of a fifty megaton blast. What do I mean? Read on, and discover.... * * * * * It is rather quiet in the Cabaret, as usual at this time in the evening. You come in after a hard days work thinking to find a seat, have a refreshment, and relax with a good book, some dinner, and whatever entertainment presents itself. A good plan - if only it had a chance... You head to the back corner of the room, where the lighting is softer and the low noise lower. With a sigh you plop yourself into one of the comfy chairs - only to feel something under you. "What the..." you start, and reaching around, half standing, pull out a thin leather manuscript before plopping back down again, regarding the object in your hand with puzzlement. "Someone has left something here," you think to yourself, but looking around you see no one with any interest in where you are sitting or what you might be holding. Curious yourself, you look closer at your find. It is a well worn leatherbound manuscript, of odd size, thin, but of some heft, bound with a strange silver cord through four holes in the left edge. Artfully crafted and stained onto the leather cover is the likeness of a writing Quill, and a strange quill it is. It shines with an iridescent silver swept with rainbow hues that change as the light strikes it, while the shaft from about halfway up to the tip of the nib appeared to glow with a soft internal white radiance. Not knowing quite what to expect, you open the cover. The words are in a strange, archaic script, but are easy enough to read, and pleasant on the eye. There are a few flourishes here and there which decorate the pages, which are few. You notice that the pages themselves appear to be some kind of high quality though clearly hand made vellum, are fairly loose, and that the page numbers begin at XXVII, indicating they must have been taken from a much larger book. Thoroughly intrigued now, you commence to read: The wind outside howls and claws at the tightly closed shutters. Inside, a generous fire roars in the fireplace, yet my father shivers and labors to breathe. My mother and I kneel next to him. Behind us is the doctor, and behind him is his valet and our servants. All have come to ensure his every comfort at this most difficult time. Long has his road been, but all roads must someday come to an end, as his does now. "Rest yourself," I said. "Long have you loved me, nurturing me as one of your own. You have asked nothing of me for your love, but gave as the fruit tree gives, and the river, and the very air I breathe. You were simply yourself, sharing your essence that I may suffuse it with my own and live, nay, flourish, made strong by your strength, and learn to love by your love." He smiled at these words, and weakly reached out to me. I grasped his hand, which had no strength of it's own. He spoke to me, saying, "Do you remember my first great adventure?" I nodded, but he went on, his eyes no longer upon me, but appearing to look out over the horizon, far beyond the stone walls and expansive grounds of our home, through the fierce weather and out into the bitter night. "I was gone for three years. Our family fortune was made, allowing all our other adventures and happy days here in this house. I have regaled you on many nights of that time, of how I had set off with only a legend for guidance, of the many foreign lands I crossed, high mountains I climbed, and vast seas I had sailed. Of how showing a crazy hermit at the edge of the great desert simple compassion, sharing our dinner, while entertaining him with stories of our travels, was the final key to the final lock of the goal of our journey." He said 'our', though it was only him. He often spoke like that - such was his view. "I have not told you everything," he confessed. "Now, I think, is the time to tell all, as before you might excuse what I have to say as the ravings of a lunatic mind, but now..." His voice failed him as his body was wracked with another bout of coughs, then he rested. Sensing the end was near, I dismissed the servants, then resumed my place. We said nothing, only waited, each with our own private thoughts. I was not too concerned with what he might say, but prayed only that he be allowed to find peace before leaving this mortal coil. After several minutes, his eyes opened, and he resumed. "The hermit was not the end of the journey, but showed the way to my desire. His gift was not the item irself, but the knowledge of it's procurement. "To open the heart is to open the gate, the hermit told me..." he spoke cryptically, then lapsed into silence again, his eyes closed. Again we waited, hardly daring to breathe. We didn't have long to wait this time. "It was finally at the great Library of knowledge, at Akasha, that I found my goal," he said. The Library of Akasha! That was, of course, a legend, a myth. My mother and I exchanged glances briefly, not knowing what else to do. Did he really go there? Such outlandish words must be the ravings of a feverish man - yet he did not seem delerious. No matter - it was his moment. "The wonders I saw with my own eyes, held with my own hands!" There was such a look of awe and wonder on his face - years seemed roll off of him, for a moment. "The Great Map of the World, The Ancient Book of the Five Magics, The Tome of the Seven Gods... All knowledge was there! I could have spent lifetimes there, just reading, absorbing the entire Cosmos and it's secrets - but alas, my time was short... " He began to cough again, and wheeze, and the shivering returned. He closed his eyes, the weight of his years again falling upon him. He rested again. When he began speaking again, it was slowly and with great effort, without opening his eyes. "It was there, at the gate of Akasha, that I found it. The great Library is a wonder, but it can only contain what IS. The Quill - The Quill is the power of what could be... Just as the Cosmos imagines us, so we too can imagine... In my desk... the oak box..." He motioned feebly, and I got up and walked to his writing desk. Raising the sturdy lid I saw a flat oak box which I had often seen, but thought little of. I brought the box to him. "Open it," he whispered. I did, and unwrapped the silk cloth I found within, to find The Quill. It shone an iridescent silver swept with rainbow hues that changed as the light struck it, while the shaft from about halfway up to the tip of the nib glowed with a soft internal white radiance. All in attendance stared in wonder at the thing of beauty revealed. My father opened his eyes, and a little energy returned to his expression as he spoke again. "With this Quill I have written all of the successes we have enjoyed. With this Quill I have written all the fine weather for our vineyard, groves and crops. With this Quill I have eased our suffering, abated our anguish, and seen to our comfort and happiness, and now it is yours. Take up the Quill, and write. Write. Write..." Again he motioned weakly, then seemed to fall into himself and collapse, speaking no more. I was torn, but followed his wishes, going back to the desk and readying ink and paper, not knowing quite what next to do, but in my hand the Quill seemed to take on a life of it's own, focusing my hand and mind. I put Pen to Paper, and wrote. I wrote of the weather breaking to shine a beam of light upon our home, and indeed the newly rising sun did shine between our shutters. I wrote of the Gods collecting over the thunderheads to silently witness the passage of my father, and immediately thunder Boomed from overhead. I wrote of the astral sun shining forth from it's infinite domain to give it's warmth and energy to those remaining in their hour of need, and I felt it sustain me. I wrote of the Reaper's grim compassion in coming to relieve my father of his pain, and he did go with much joy. And so The Quill did pass from one to another, and the position of Quill Bearer was maintained from one generation to the next, with the curious yet awesome power of manifestation in imagination. There the story ended. You look up and slowly put the manuscript aside, then suddenly realize everyone is now looking at you, or rather above you. You turn your gaze above to see The Portrait of Zool looking down at you from his perch on the wall. "Congratulations Mardrax, on your promotion to Quill Bearer," he said. The cabaret erupts into cheers.

OH, when I was a kid Tom Swift was it! http://tomswift.bobfinnan.com/ts2.htm

I loved the Xanth series, up until pretty much the end, where it began to sound like even Piers Anthony was tired of them. I have a distinct love of 'speculative non-fiction', and Dr. Seuss Books. For a real treat, try reading them while listening to Enya CDs. My tastes have always been towards the road less traveled. Having grown up in the 80's I was intrigued one day to find Boy George's autobiography 'Take it Like a Man' in the bargain bin. As you can imagine, I'm careful who I reveal that to. I found it to actually be a fairly interesting book. I actually own one of Leonard Nimoy's books of poetry. I was a great fan of Richard Bach in the 80's, and Robert Heinlein, and Ray Bradbury, though Ray is the only one I find to still stand up to the same respect I had then. Lately, for empty fiction I find the style of Steven Brust to be fulfilling, along the same style as Harry Harrison or Keith Laumer in years past.

Ack! So sorry to hear about your tribulations rev - Do take care of yourself!

I remember. What a historic discussion that turned out to be.

*Zool had been determined to stand back and let more enlightened opinions expound - but just can't resist GeldrinHor's wonderfully adroit explication.* Grinning broadly, Zool steps forward, takes a deep bow, then steps to the background once again.

Ayshela, I am very gratified to see you addressing the points in my purposely opinionated post. It's one thing to talk about 'honest, open, uncensored discussion', and quite another to do it. (I understand it was pretty unsettling to some, and for that, and my at times unconventional way of making a point, I take full responsibility, and sincerely apologize. Believe me, my bark is worse than my bite. ) I sincerely appreciate your seeing beyond the objectionable opinion and tenor, and honestly, openly, discussing it. Speaking of the original objective, what I was 'objecting to' is the same thing that has been objected to here at the Pen for years. It almost seems as though what I was expected to do was go counter to years of Pen policy - that I was actually somehow expected to spontaneously set Pen policy! I would, of course, never do that. This is a membership run site - I do not set Pen policy, the membership does. Ayshela, you make your points eloquently and convincingly. More importantly, however, has been the large public outcry asking for - you guessed it - general discussion at the Pen! I think that's pretty clear. As I said, it is a membership run site. Ask, and you shall receive. And one other thing - for those who wish to see change in the Pen, there is a method in place to do so. Start a thread, build a referendum - get a vote on the matter! It really is that simple. And thank you, Ayshela. Once again, I must ask forgiveness, and hope that I have not sufficiently damaged your opinion of me to make it difficult. If it means anything, your response, as explained above, has given me a great respect for you. I fully appreciate the difficulty of rational calm in the face of strong emotion, but you have proved yourself to me. Thanks, and apologies, again, -Z

I must say, I like your attitude Whisky. Truth be told, the site has been rather inactive for quite some time - but recently, as you have noticed, activity has picked up again. And fear not! What the new members, and the old, have been saying does not go unheard. We the management have been in intense collective conference concerning community collaboration! The Pen has always been a membership driven site - so when the membership changes, so must the Pen. Rest assured, Ozy and I are of one mind in ensuring that the Pen serves the members in it, and not the other way around - if you know what I mean. Big news coming soon.

1. hot 2. combust 3. fire 4. funny bone 5. joke 6. head bone 7. satisfaction 8. rough 9. cross-grained 10. countersunk 11. thou 12. vain 13. laughable 14. dexterous 15. soul 16. drain 17. webbed 18. pour 19. palm 20. vindication 21. spurt

Whisky, you have my profound apologies. You may not know this, being new, but there is a private forum for the elders to discuss matters, but for some reason it was decided to discuss this in public. I don't know why, but I pride myself on being very flexible - I do hope, again, that you can forgive me.

Let's see if I've got this right. You posted this obviously KNOWING your own conduct may seem innapropriate to some - literally stating as much - and when I openly invited all honest opinion no one objected... was it just somehow assumed I was excluded from my own invitation - or is it simply that Ozy is the only person here who may take liberties and be honest? How does the censorship shoe feel on the other foot Ozy - and all that implies? If it's any consolation old friend, that's exactly the reaction I expected (well, at least I still have posting rights. ) Everyone draws the line in the sand somewhere. For years the Pen has drawn it one place - and EVERYONE wants it drawn somewhere else, where THEY judge it should be drawn, of course. You see, I have been on forums which ARE what many here claim to want, and honestly, I can state it's not everything everyone is thinking it's cracked up to be. You want the enchilada? Fine - you have to take the WHOLE enchilada. I can see how that would turn out - real quick. You may consider this an object lesson. Enjoy.

Wow Ayshela, you certainly do have a way with words! Where I speak of 'opening the context', and Whisky calls it 'turning it into something else' you see CENSORSHIP. Nowhere do I say anyone *can't* write about something, though you do put those words in my mouth, completely disregarding my point that we have been in fact discussing what Whisky came here to talk about. I have only asked that any topic be topical to our activities here. Why would that be so disturbing to you? Should we change the name of the Pen to 'The MOUTH is mightier than the sword!? Instead of writing, should we just talk, talk, talk, in an unending circle jerk of opinion and counter opinion? Where is the creativity in that?? One wonders why anyone should come to the Pen at all when there are thousands and thousands of sites where anyone is welcome to say whatever they want. Where is that in our standard, I wonder? Let's see, perhaps instead of "...establish good fun, ensure values, increase board tranquility, provide common sense, promote humor, and secure the development of good writing...", what it SHOULD say is "establish contention, ensure conflict, throw out board tranquility, provide strong opinions, promote hostility, and, (most important of all, perhaps?) let anyone post whatever they want whether it has anything to do with promoting good writing or not". The context of the discussion was changed, though the subject remained, for ( I repeat) anyone to remark on as they saw fit. Please explain to me Ayshela, or anyone, what *point* was lost there? You are quite right, brave detractors, putting a subject into the context of sharing and comparing experience instead of shoehorning the discussion into an I agree/disagree debate does defuse the contention. You got me there. It stands *changed* - but the *point* of Whisky's story was quite unscathed. Others have given *warning* that perhaps some would be offended by their posts, but their OPINION simply HAD to be expressed, as though the earth would swing off it's axis or their head would explode if they were not allowed to stand in opposition to some GREAT perceived crime - the crime of simply being true to what the Pen has been true to for many years. That standard was written for a reason - which it appears that even the eldership has forgotten! Very well, if you want the fences struck down and to have at each other, go for it. You win, Pandora's box is open now - enjoy what you have wrought. And if I have offended you - well, perhaps you should have heeded your own warning. Go on as you see fit. I am going back to what I came here for - to write.

Thanks Whisky, I appreciate your forgiving nature. It is indeed inspiring. As it sits everyone has the choice to speak to your example specifically, or to speak more generally. I may not have said so directly, but the first paragraph in my original response above was directly addressing what Irshad Manji was doing and my opinion of it. Thank you again for sharing.

I also appreciate what Ozy wrote, as I said Whisky, and appreciate that he felt you were being "censored" In my own defense, I beg you consider why I consider it to not be censorship at all. Honestly, you went on to post virtually the SAME post and subject matter, and it was accepted, even discussed and lauded! All rev and I asked was that you put it into the context of SHARING information and what you found inspiring about it, with an invitation for others to do likewise. Are you still sure I should schedule that swastika tatto? We all love Ozy to death - part of the reason he founded the Pen was his exhuberant nature and love of people. I'm not surprised at all he came and saw the situation and stuck up for you - but censorship? Really? Whisky, if you felt wronged or harrassed, I sincerely apologise. I'm sure I speak for rev also (correct me if I'm wrong) in that was not our intent at all. Keeping you from bringing the subject to the Pen was not our intention either. We just wanted to keep it in an open context - go ahead and share - it is, as I have said repeatedly, an inspiring story - but do so in a topical context that likewise invites everyone else to share too. I hope that at some point or in some way you can understand our aim, and will be at peace with it. Hopefully, many others will give their opinion on what Ozy has brought up, especially those who might have felt similarly wronged, and we can get this all out in the open.

I'm glad you bring this up Ozy. Truth be told, this has been brought up several times of late, and this is an ideal opportunity to discuss it. I really can't disagree with anything you say. OF COURSE we are a community, and OF COURSE community is built through sharing our views and our lives. Who could argue with that? Who would argue with that? I don't, nor will I ever. And we at the Pen do that all the time. We do it on IRC, and we do it in PM - and we do it on our private members only forum, away from public eyes PRECISELY because these matters can be so divisive and inflammatory. Precisely because of that we do it privately, in an environment of trust and acceptance, away from the indifference, ham-handedness, or even outright hostility that always seems to come with such personal openness at a public forum. The community is there, the openness is there, cherishing all views and all manners of sharing for those willing to take the time and make the effort to make the connections they are comfortable with. For anyone else, who just wants to pull up their soapbox and shout over the crowd, well, there are a thousand sites for that. The Pen, however, has a slightly different, more personal and productive focus, IMO.

Like you, I am definitely inspired by people who stand up and try to make a change for the better. It is very important that individuals continue to look at the things taken as incontrovertible truth from the past and redefine them to fit contemporary times, values, and needs. In this way they are kept 'alive' and growing, making sure they continue to serve the people that follow them, rather than the other way around. This is important in government as well as religion. What inspires me artistically is another matter, having more to do with matters of the heart and soul rather than how I relate to others in society. Art is about feeling and awareness, which may extend to society but is usually illuminating of the self. It is about contacting the real reality, inside, where what is outside comes into contact with my true Being. It can seem capricious and haphazard, but really has more to do with my internal receptivity than any external quality of what is inspiring - thus exactly what I find inspiring is hard to quantify. Thanks for a wonderful topic!