When I'm high and I have no desire, I then know that when I'm not high but 'desirous', I know really nothing of true desire.

On behalf of all Medievaldom, I am suing the Magic Kingdom.

I always felt there was something dizzy about Disney.  And sure enough, Mickey Mouse has just been uncovered as a big rip-off!

Take a look at the character in this 700-year-old Austrian church fresco:

Now, study Mickey’s 'uncanny' similarity to it:

Disney is litigatively doomed!  Even though Walt tried a quick one by reversing the colors (Medieval Mickey was red and the background black), by superimposing these images I have clearly obtained court-compelling evidence of cultural profiteering:

Learn more about this breaking news here.

And now that I’m fired up, I’m going to start perusing great tomes of Medieval art work for the source inspiration for all the rest of the cloned Disney klan.  You’re on notice Donald Duck!

And riled as I am, I have also advised worm to sue Xanga for copyright infringement on the design of the eProp’s artwork.  Just check out worm’s eProp:

It’s clearly an eProp…but it’s a copyright ©, too!  All hail worm, future xanga-awardee, Xangod, and guardian of propping!

Did you all know that toreibjo is back? (Well, as back as any of us be!)  And he's writing about death (no, not seanmeister's sweetie).

In his book, Good Faeries, Bad Faeries, Brian Froud depicts Death as 'just another' faerie, unpreferred, amongst a torrent that frolic in and haunt our world.

I see Death as natural as having sex. (Which I haven't had for a remarkable spell, so maybe Death will leave me alone, too?)

Do posts on blogs die as they get swept into the past?  Here's one from a year ago:

There’s not an enemy that can do me harm:
I alone enable, empower, ennoble
(or drag myself salaciously down). 
So it’s always been—shall it always be?
Or have I missed the subtle signs
of an ominous, incorporate malignancy?

Why is it I always surge
beyond the restrictions I find erected?
Never yielding to merely hold and protect
that which clearly’s found as mine—
Bounding instead headstrong against time
again and again and again?

Countless are the secrets of my youth interred
in a haze of non-consciousness
—as if time capsules waiting to be exhumed.
If only now I can again trick the trickster Death
and dance down that rejuvenating gauntlet of doom.

Oh yes, it is a good day to die.  But a much better day to live.  So live.  So love.