Sunday, October 14, 2018

Magic 8th Ball

This small ball is to celebrate Holly's Horrorland turning 8!

First, have a piece of birthday cake:

Then go here to magically make yourself Funko Pop size,
send me the picture to post and be entered to win a prize!

[You can take a screen cap instead of registering to save your picture.]

The winner of the prize will be picked randomly next Sunday.
It's a $20 Hot Topic gift card, which you can use to get this cereal:


Now let's get the ball rolling with this song featuring Elvira:


Queen Holly Ween (My alter ego)

Ladan Soodmand

Christopher M. Quinn

Jason Durham

Monday, October 1, 2018

The Widow's Song

Listen to The Birthday Massacre's Pins and Needles album here.

The cover art is by My Pet Skeleton. I love it and this pin here:

That widow reminds me of a poem by Paul Verlaine,
which he later turned into lyrics for Ernest Chausson.

They're both in French. Here's the English translations:

O Hearken To The Gentle Lay

O hearken to the gentle lay,
That only weeps that it may please; 
Discreet it is, and faint as breeze
That ripples o'er the moss in May.
The voice was known to you (and dear?),
But now the singer hides her face,
A widow veiled in desolate lace,
Yet haughtily her grief doth bear.
And in the long folds of her veil
Which flutters on the autumn breeze,
The wondering heart, adoring, sees
Truth, like a star, now gleam, now pale.
It says, this voice you know again,
That only goodness is our life,
And that of hate and envious strife.
When death is come naught shall remain.
It tells the vast felicity
Of simple hearts that true love mates,
The tender happiness that waits
In peace unwon by victory.
O welcome the sweet voice, whose glad
And artless wedding song returns.
Go; naught so soothes the soul that burns
Than making other souls less sad.
They are but fleeting pains that flay
The soul that suffers without wrath,
And sure, undoubting, is its path!
. . . O hearken the sagacious lay.

[Note: Lay is an old word for song.]

The Very Sweet Song

Hear the very sweet song,
Which cries only to please you.
It is discreet, it is happy:
A shiver of water on some moss.
The voice was known and dear to you,
But now it is veiled,
Like a desolate widow
But still as proud as she
And in the long folds of her veil,
Which palpitates with the autumn breezes
Hides and shows the surprised heart
The truth like a star.
It said, the voice recognized
That goodness is our life
The of hate and envy
Nothing remains, once death has come.
Welcome the voice that persists in its naive nuptial song
Go on, nothing is better for the soul
Than to make a soul less sad.
The soul which suffers without anger is in pain and in passing
And since its moral is clear
. . . Listen to the very wise song.