Semi-annual Extended Questionnaire Universe Esoterica List (SEQUEL)

I've been holding on to these for a time when my blog suffers from severe writer's block (i.e. now). It's more of the silly questionnaires that I take so much delight in filling out. These two came across my social media a year apart. They're very similar, and somehow I managed to avoid repeating answers; I'm quite proud of this feat.

1. Favorite Smell?

Crawfish seasoning. I don’t know how long one can live off of nothing but crawfish, but I’d be willing to offer myself up for a research project.

2. Last time you cried?

When I had to answer the question “Would I find ‘The Firm’ under ‘T’?”

3. Favorite pizza?

Domino’s of the early 1990’s. I don’t know what they used to put in their sauce but I swear it was addictive. Probably crawfish seasoning.

4. Favorite flower?

That one right there. No, no, the one next to it. Yeah, that one rules.

5. Did you go to college?

Of course! I had no intention of getting a job until I absolutely had to.

6. Untie your shoes when taking them off?

Nope. I slip them on and off, freely and without consequence.

7. Roller coasters?

What about them? Yes, they exist, if that’s what you’re asking.

8. Favorite ice cream?

Not a big ice cream fan. I have hypersensitive teeth, so please don’t make fun of them.

9. Favorite past time?

1983 was pretty cool. Remember DTV on the Disney Channel?

10. Shorts or pants?

Shorts are pants. Don’t try to con me.

11. What are you listening to?

The fan on the ceiling goes round and round...

12. Favorite Color?

Blue. But don’t mention that to Red or it will get mad.

13. Tattoos?

Not too big on full sentences, are we? The only tattoo I’d get is a temporary one. And then I’d never use it so it would last forever and I could relish the irony.

14. Piercing?

Um...swordfish? Is this free association?

15. Color of hair?

Mine or yours? Mine is light brown. Yours can be whatever you want it to be, as I don’t know what you look like.

16. Color of eyes?

Last time I checked they were blue. I’ve been trying to cheer them up ever since.

17. Favorite food to eat?

As opposed to rubbing in my hair I presume? I think I’ve obligated myself to answer with crawfish.

18. Favorite holiday?

Halloween. I also celebrate it on April 1st.

19. Beer or wine?

Wine, by default. Beer is the burnt popcorn of the beverage world.

20. Night owl or early bird?

I’m functional around 10:30 AM and then again at about 7 at night. That makes me a coffee break ibis/crepuscular buzzard.

21. Favorite day of the week?

Thursday. I have yet to use up any of the weekend so I’m riding high on empty promises.

22. Do you have a Nickname?

I used to, but I lost it in the identity theft.

23. Pictures on your wall?

Three. That’s not a joke. I have a vintage Degas of the number three. It was supposed to be an eight, but he never finished it.

24. What makes you most proud?

The state’s legal requirement that I be proud.

25. Favorite music?

If you’re expecting me to narrow it down (and I have a feeling that you are) I’d say most anything that sounds both dramatic and danceable. “Stars” by Roxette is my all time favorite song.

26. Introvert or extrovert?

Introvert posing as an extrovert. But I do actually like roller coasters, to finally answer question 7.

27. Play an instrument?

I tried playing the piano. I lost.

28. Have a pet?

Excuse me, I have a son, thank you very much. Baxter is the greatest dog in the world.

29. What do you collect?

I told you before, never ask me about what I do! Now give me a second to collect my thoughts.

30. Mountains or Beach?

Whichever one allows for wacky hijinks and a valuable lesson learned at the end.

 

1. Favorite smell?

Why is this always Question 1 on these things? I think this time around I’m going to campaign for spearmint. Here it goes: Spearmint rules! Yay for Spearmint!

2. Last time you cried?

I had a migraine on Christmas Eve that provoked tears. Prior to that I had a history of crying wolf, which is likely why the villagers never brought me Excedrin.

3. Favorite pizza?

A cinnamon dessert pizza sounds pretty good right now. But I’ve always been partial to personal pan pepperoni pizzas from Little Caesars; small enough that I don’t have to share, and since it’s from Little Caesars nobody seems to want me to.

4. Favorite flower?

The Black Lotus. It’s the symbol of the fantasy D&D world I lived in throughout the nineties. It’s poisonous, but it smells like spearmint.

5. Favorite animal?

The plesiosaur. They’re not very photogenic, but they chase away hippos.

6. Did you go to college?

I did. And I came back, none the wiser.

7. Untie your shoes when taking them off?

I never learned how to untie shoelaces.

8. Roller coaster?

I think that question is missing a verb. I love roller coasters, but the older I get the lower my tolerance for motion sickness and whiplash becomes.

9. Favorite ice cream?

Astronaut. Styrofoam of the future.

10. Shorts or jeans?

I get the impression that jeans shorts are off the table. But I’ve always been a shorts kind of guy. Jeans are too hard to get on and off ever since I double-knotted my shoelaces.

12. What are you listening to?  

The voices in my head, collectively wondering why Question 11 got edited out.

13. Favorite tv show?  

Ever, or right now? Doctor Who and The Middle are about the only things I make it a point to keep up with. But in regards to all time favorites, I’d go with Monty Python’s Flying Circus and/or Fraggle Rock.

14. Tattoos?  

Not a one, not now, not ever.

15. Hair color?  

Greying brown.

16. Eye Color?  

Blue. And blue.

17. Favorite food to eat?  

You mean you can eat food? Man, I wish I’d known that back when I was on the cruise ship.  I’ll go with the tried and true boiled crawfish.

18. Favorite holiday?  

Halloween; which is coincidentally my favorite film in the whole Halloween franchise.

21. Beer or Wine?  

That’s so awesome! Questions 19 and 20 went out looking for 11. In the meantime, I’m strangely proud of the fact that I don’t remember the last time I had a drink. I guess I got to the point where the cons outweighed the pros. But back in the day I could go for a glass of wine, especially if I was going away from a bottle of beer.

22. Night owl or morning?  

Morning...what? Star? Glory? Jog? Talk Show? Probably left to my own devices I’d gravitate towards a night owl routine. But there’s this pesky facet called societal expectation.

23. Favorite day of the week?  

Thursday. You can bask in the unattainable hopes of the weekend. It’s like a whole day of spearmint.

24. Do you have a nickname?  

Not that I’m aware of. You’ll have to check with the horrible people who keep snickering behind my back.

25. Favorite season?  

Andromeda-2, Batman: The Animated Series-4, Community-2, Head of the Class-1, The Muppet Show-2, Mystery Science Theater 3000-8, Once Upon a Time-4, Picket Fences-3, Quantum Leap-4, Sherlock-3, The Simpsons-5, Soap-2, Star Trek: Voyager-5, The X-Files-3, The West Wing-4 -wait, did you mean of the year? Um...autumn.

26. Favorite place to get away?

Probably Universal Studios in Florida during Halloween Horror Nights. A bonus: the Galleria’s Black Friday Sale is my favorite place to get away from.

27. Missing someone?  

I don’t think so. But just to be on the safe side can you describe who you’ve found?

28. Dream vacation?  

How big am I allowed to dream? Is a tour of amusement parks in Ohio and Pennsylvania followed by a couple of days near Loch Ness and ending on a month long tour of Japan out of the question? Because we can skip Ohio if that’s too much on your bank account.

30. Regrets?  

Yes. Are you the bellhop? Because, thanks for bringing up my baggage.

31. Middle name?  

Well my middle name is Robert. But among the main cast of The Middle, Charlie McDermott is the middle name listed, making him the middle Middle name. Hopefully one of those two answers is sufficient.

33. Go back to secondary school?  

With a Master’s degree? Those kids would SO make fun of me! Besides, I’m not the one who keeps losing question numbers.

34. Ocean or lake?  

I seriously have to choose between Billy Ocean and Veronica Lake? Bah! Who are you kidding? They both belong to the world!

35. Who do you think will do this?  

Do what? I can’t see what you’re doing. Are you making moose antlers against your head with your hands? If that’s what you’re doing, then I think I’m going to guess Elizabeth Banks. Yes. I predict at some point in the future Elizabeth Banks will make moose antlers against her head with her hands. That alone will make 2018 a better year.

And just as a way of closing it out, I've graciously accepted an invitation, that I'm pretending James Lipton gave me, to answer his "Inside the Actor's Studio" questions. I have a very active fantasy life.

1. What is your favorite word?

I’d probably have to go with ‘moose’. I can’t explain it really, I just think it’s a fun word to say. I also like the concept of a moose. I know they’re dangerous, but they always seem so...at peace with themselves. Like, when you talk to one, it’s, “So, what’s been going on?” “You know, standing around, being a moose, doing moose things.” “Wow, dude, that’s really cool!”

2. What is your least favorite word?

There are a few words that I refuse to associate with; as such, typing them here is out of the question. But generally speaking, I have a skin crawling aversion to a lot of internet/texting slang that seems to have entered the mainstream. “Whatevs” and “preggers” particularly have me pulling my hair. If you ever want to hear a shower of profanity from me, let’s sit through a WatchMojo video with three or more easily pronounceable names that they get wrong.

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?

In an attempt to narrow it down to a single catch-all concept, I’m most fascinated by how character works; be it fictional characters, the character of people, the character of a social movement, the character of a society, etc. What goes on beneath the surface; the ‘soul’ if you will. Take all these dumb questionnaires I keep filling out. You probably know more about me from the way I dance around answering them directly than you would if I just gave straight answers.

4. What turns you off?

In a word, shallowness. Shallow people, shallow opinions, shallow conversations, I feel like I can’t breathe. You can imagine how much fun I am at family reunions.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
‘Monica’. It’s my own personal curse word. She was a girl I fell for a while back, and wound up  getting hurt over, to the point that her name began creeping into my vocabulary when I’d get stuck in traffic. Even today, I’m as likely to reach for ‘Monica’ as I am more traditional obscenities in pure reactions.

6. What sound or noise do you love?

You’d probably have to ask people more fluent in music theory than me to explain it, but there’s a carefully crafted tension-release phenomenon in certain melodies that unlocks something in me. If you’re familiar with the Anastasia soundtrack, listen to the last line of the song “Once Upon a December”. Apparently the melody’s second to last note is a leading tone, which inherently feels unsettling. Then it resolves on the tonic, creating this roller coaster effect. I never get enough of that.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

I’m an introvert, so the phone. My phone. Your phone. Anybody’s &%$#ing phone. And for similar reasons, the doorbell.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

I have a profession? I thought the library was just a temp job for the next thirty years or so. Honestly, I’ve always wanted to be a comedy writer, but at the library I’ve found enough outlets to placate that muse as well as have a regular direct deposit flow. I also dream of being a curator of a videogame museum.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Well I obviously left all of my past jobs for a reason. Factoring out the professions that I’m physically unequipped for (Furniture Mover, Acrobat, Playboy Bunny), I could conceivably get stuck in a sales on commission position or something in tech support, both of which I would hate everything about.

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

Well, hopefully confirmation that I’m supposed to be there. But formalities aside, I’d like to hear something to the effect of “You’re just getting started.”

Poetry Slam Revisited: Ten Degrees of Frost

I've decided it's that time of year again, where I dust off the thirty year old notebooks to see what I was writing back in my days of less-self-judgment. Mostly poetry. If you've been keeping up with my blog these past few years (Apparently I've just gotten a new follower from the Netherlands. Welcome!) then you might have stumbled across a mention here and there of a character named Misty, my recurring penname.

Rather than try to explain her, let me just take you back to 1987. I'm fourteen years old, socially awkward, in the early stages of chronic depression that won't be diagnosed for another two decades, and obsessed with puns. My ninth grade English teacher assigns us our one pick of several poetry projects, including the one I opt for; writing a parody of a classic poem. And thus begat:

Slipping Through Woods on a Snowbound Evening

"Now where on earth am I?" I ask.

To map out woods is no small task.

I see the snow will now arrange

Itself like oil in a flask.

My little horse must find it strange

To hear me sing "Home on the Range".

"Oh no," he cries, "This takes the cake

He now has reached phase six -derange."

To take this job was a mistake

But ninety dollars are at stake.

I guess I should have brought my jeep.

I loaned it to my friend. That flake.

The woods are freezing, thick and steep,

But I shall hold my wail and weep,

For I have promises to keep,

And days to map this snowy heap.

                                           -Misty Frost

I got an A on the project, probably out of pity. Although I daresay, as I try to get back into my fourteen year old self's head, I was quite proud of the result. I'm sure it's fairly evident that the poem isn't about anything; the oil in a flask simile was a forced rhyme, 'derange' being the sixth phase of an as yet unidentified sequence was pure syllable padding, and even the snow pun of referring to my friend as a flake was completely unintentional. By default, the name Misty Frost was the best thing to come out of the assignment.

I enjoyed writing poetry, but I found it more comfortable to do so through a persona, and I got rather attached to signing her name instead of mine (perhaps as a defense against the many compositions of crap that followed). I obviously hadn't had as much experience writing fiction back then, so Misty essentially became my first real character. Now in case you don't write fiction, I can understand why some of this might register on the insanity meter. I think it was Ray Bradbury who suggested that the defining trait of an artist is the ability to step into the world of insanity, but to also willfully step out of it bringing a manageable dosage of that insanity with them in order to make that bit of something for the non-artists. I'm paraphrasing.

As a character, Misty created herself. From the moment I signed her name, she was a reclusive writer living in a cabin somewhere. Black was her signature color; black hair, black dress, black hose, black shoes. The Goth scene hadn't become a thing yet, but I expect she could easily have been mistaken for a participant, when in fact she was too antisocial to have accepted it as part of her identity.

Now despite her Poe-ish demeanor she actually started off as pretty cheerful, happily churning out goofy ice-themed light verse every several months. But the seeds for her snobbery about her own work were planted almost immediately. It was around that time that I came across a few other parody versions of this same poem written by kids my age, and I instantly honed in on the fact that mine was the only one that correctly followed Robert Frost's rhyming pattern (AABA BBCB CCDC DDDD). Misty picked up on that as well, which began her assertion that rhythm and assonance equated with quality, even at the expense of meaning. It's this kind of mathematical approach to poetry that literary giants like Lewis Carroll have mastered, and to this day Misty does not let me forget how important it is to her.

A Question to Lewis Carroll

Whose words are these I think I see?

His world is swirling vimfully

And splashing staining streaks of paint

That shade surrealistically.

My anima should find it quaint

As festive phantoms fancy faint

Kaleidoscopic fields of woe.

Each bears an emblem of its saint.

So soon I'm tangled in the show

Upon the stage of indigo

Surrounded by the flock of sheep

Devoted to the vasty snow.

Remaining here, the phantoms weep,

Entice my dreams to grander leap,

And miles to go before they reap

Majestic chasms stark and steep.

So this was 1992, five years later. I was in college, and for whatever reason I wanted to revisit the Robert Frost parody idea. I personally think this one is better. It's not a 'haha' kind of parody, nor does it pretend to be, and I think it does a respectable job of at least painting an abstract image. Now if you were to ask Misty about it, she would refuse to ever tell you what the titular question was, expecting you to work it out yourself. But I, alas, am not Misty, and perfectly willing to spoil the fact that the poem is an acrostic. Nifty, huh?

Innocence

The herb of inspiration in her eyes

The tender smile which common folk admire

The kindness to a man of men unwise

She soothed the burden of the village crier

Her voice angelic, sent from holy gate

To ease the dull of those in marveled need

That she was able to alleviate

Was much a puzzle to the wicked breed

More rogues and knaves had she than had she rage

As calculated masks would not derive

With vacancy of youth upon the stage

As few recall, to wreckage did she drive

Her smile divine was sealed in bitter cold

Her marveled ease undone, her puzzles sold

This was about a girl named Amy, and I'm comfortable saying that because lots of girls are named Amy and nothing else is going to identify her. It was 1989 and I had another English poetry project, this time to write a sonnet. I sat next to a girl named Amy in the class, and I flippantly decided to use her as the subject of the poem. For the record I didn't have a thing for her, which is kind of an oddity among the revolving door of love forlorn limericks and the like for which I was notorious in my teens. I basically took every anecdote about Amy I was aware of and jigsaw pieced them together into a series of only-I-used-to-know references. She actually did get in a car wreck at one point, but fortunately she was okay. Unfortunately I only got a B on the sonnet.

When It's Over (Redux)

Today I go out walking

With nothing left to do

My body is a zombie

And my brain is numb as glue

I sit beside a spring

Which sifts a simple song

How memories, with jumbled,

Having, stuff a mess, is wrong

I lay for hours in the clay

With willows by my side

Absorbing dew-dipped moisture

That gathers in a slide

The crystal ribbons sop me

I don a shimmered vest

Their current trickles over me

And babbling fills my chest

So when I was flipping through the primary sources where I've keep all my old poems I came across this one in a compilation book. Almost every time I transfer a poem from one source to another I do a little bit of revision. When It's Over was a 1990 poem that I wrote when I was going through post-Godspell withdrawal, and I included it in the poetry slam blog from about three years ago. But curiously, four years after I originally wrote the poem I copied it into what was going to be my official pocket poetry book and wound up revising almost every damn thing about it. I'm not sure if that means I'm technically parodying my own work, or ripping myself off, or just being temperamental. But regardless, I think it would be fun to compare the two (of course I mean fun for you, I'm busy).

Kitten

Lazy

Why do you waste your life away?

Hey, I best I could run

Faster than you!                            

We could chase

a butterfly!                                    

Just think of all the things

Your paws could do if-                  

YIP

That's the spirit!                            

Come on!

Life is too short                            

to neglect the wild freedom

of excitement.                              

Get up!

This is the incredibly rare free verse poem from Misty, and it desperately needs an explanation. I had a friend in college (probably 1992-93) who also wrote poetry. Most, if not all, of it was told through the eyes of a cat. And the poem of hers that just struck a chord of intrigue with me was called Puppy, where the cat was saying "Go away, I do not wish to play" and so forth. And for the fun of it I decided to write a parody of her poem, in her style, from the perspective of the puppy. All things being equal, there's no reason I should ever have dug this up, but for some bizarre reason Kitten makes me smile. So there you go.

Blind Fury

Come on, it's fun. Just try it once.
A savage for an idle dunce.
A surge of anger driven mad.
You'll feel a rush you've never had.
The joy of lashing out insane.
So what? You snapped. They can't complain.
They've done it too. You've heard them brag.
They never waved a warning flag.
Or triplicate permission slips.
It's just a brief apocalypse.
No exit plan, apology.
No rhythm, meter, rhyme, pattern, comprehensible sentence structure, or anything to the effect of a carefully choreographed show stopping number or recognizable soliloquy.

So what's the problem? Lose control.

You think it stains your sacred soul?

Or those you harm will turn away?

Or counter back and make you pay?

You take their claws, abide their bite.

I think you've earned the gentle right!

Or has your wrath been driven tame?

Politely nurse a wounded frame?

Perhaps your pride is meant to fall,

Perhaps your stride is but a crawl,

Perhaps there's nothing more to do,

Perhaps there's nothing left of you.

For as long as I can remember, I've had this meta-interest in what fictional characters do in their off time. Chuck Jones once told a story about meeting a mom and her daughter at one of his public appearances. The mom introduced Jones to her daughter, adding "He draws Bugs Bunny". The daughter shook her head and corrected her mother's assessment with "He draws pictures of Bugs Bunny". After a brief reflection, Jones realized it was the daughter who was correct. Bugs was a living entity that existed somewhere beyond the scope of human perception, and it was the privilege of an artist such as himself to occasionally translate the adventures of Mr. Bunny into a palatable form for audiences to experience.

It was this kind of relationship I had with Misty. She existed, but always in a separate room; overhearing elements of my life and providing commentary on them. In high school and college, she and I kind of experienced things together; but once I graduated, she seemed more inclined to disconnect and go back to whatever ether sphere fictional characters come from.

Blind Fury was written in 1996, two years out of college and probably the point in my life where I felt the most lost. It was the one Frost poem where Misty was speaking directly to me, not actually encouraging the tantrum described above but challenging my reasons for keeping my emotions inside (in her own insensitive way). It's no coincidence that this type of poem happened towards the end of the Misty-era. The ability to play make-believe doesn't have to crash and burn in your adulthood, but the dynamic needs to evolve with you. Children have imaginary friends to help nurture their own personalities. Adolescents have false personas to aid in filtering the complexities of the world into a survivable redirection. Your mid-twenties is when you feel yourself growing up without having to really force the issue anymore.

Visions Fade

My tears are welling viciously-

My sight is but a blur-

I grasp in vain to ascertain

The loss I must infer.

You slip between my fingers-

And I plummet to the ground.

I'm wailing pleas on broken knees.

You're nowhere to be found.

Encompassed in the darkness

Your deserting leaves behind-

With deep regret, I'm searching yet,

I am, without you, blind.

To those who slumber peacefully,

Unhindered in their dens,

I scream my will in terrored shrill,

I've lost my contact lens.

So here's a couple of things I've learned about fictional characters from Misty. One, there is no distinction to them between comedy and drama. A 'serious' poem or a 'light' poem are only measured by how well they work, never by what specific reaction they produce. Two, the world of reality is not their concern. They don't care if they're understood; that's a reality-dweller's preoccupation. They care if they're experienced. And three, they are not at all impressed with their creators. The few who are even aware of our existence probably don't fully comprehend that we aren't like them; i.e. fictional. After all, they're never going to have to deal with hangnails, or tax season, or low blood sugar dizziness. Why should they waste their energies trying to wrap their heads around these things?

POSSIBLE WARNING: I tend not to think of anything I've ever written as all that horrific, mainly because of how many times I've deliberately tried writing in horror and have never quite pulled it off. But with that said, gun violence is a particularly sensitive topic right now, and it's impossible to predict how people may or may not react to this subject material. Basically I had a nightmare in 1994, woke up, rolled over, grabbed a notebook, wrote down words, went back to sleep. It's not based on anything else.

Oh my God

I've been shot

I've been hit in the head

Feeling numb...feeling faint

Am I dead?

Am I dead

Now I'm falling...my head

Maybe blood. Maybe sweat.

Didn't think he would do it.

Not dying

                 not yet

They're coming...can't save me...

I grabbed it...so loud...

Not ready...won't let it...

Surrounded...the crowd...

now cold

going black

silence

still on the floor

feeling faint...

feeling numb...

feeling nothing...

no more

I obviously didn't realize it at the time, but this next poem was the one that closed the door on the Misty period of my writing. It was 1997. I was 25, and while I'd taken to writing story fragments with some frequency, I had stopped believing in what I was writing. And that's kind of a funny lesson. You don't have to believe in what you're writing to technically assemble a story, but you can't fake it with poetry. Now neither of those cases guarantees a correlation to overall quality of result; there are plenty of crap poems that the writer truly felt something for, and many cases where an indifferent story accidentally got the elements right. But I expect that most writers who dabble in both forms feel that poetry has a stronger grip on their soul.

Footprints

Been sitting by myself and out of place

Hoping someone else will rescue me

Watching banners drape around my face

And gathering the few that I can see.

Locked myself inside a cell I've built

With cardboard posing as the marble walls

To hide inside with pity and with guilt

As if the structure needs a mast, or falls.

I can't be Emmy, Chuck, or Rob, or Ed

For each of those have already been done.

I have some destination in my head

I'll never reach until I up and run.

I've run from everything for which I'm meant,

And yet they snare, as if I'm standing still.

I run and run, an aimless malcontent

To something in my life I can't fulfill.

And so I'm on my way. Alone I guess,

To nowhere special. Heading towards the skies.

I'll never wind up anywhere unless

I leave my box to wither where it dies.

I wish I had a fanfare as I leave

But it would be irrelevant to show,
And time is but an errand we receive,
And when the time is done, it's time to go.

After what was essentially Misty's terminal poem I took up other writing pursuits; or more accurately, I stopped writing for about three years, questioning if I'd lost the knack (or for that matter, ever had it). I still haven't resolved the question, and I don't expect I ever will. But I've at least come to understand that something about writing calls to me. When I feel like it's working, I feel like I'm alive.

So what of Misty today? If I were to tap into that area of my brain here in 2018, what would it look like? Well, let's find out, and see where the words land.

Connection

Dot to dot

Dot to dot

How much mettle have you got

Tie the knot

Pull it taut

Now you're lying in a cot

Dot to dot

Quite a lot

Now your plot is getting hot

Now it's not

Now it's shot

Now your dreams begin to clot

And they rot

So distraught

Like a drowning aquanaut

Overwrought

Afterthought

Seems your slot has missed a spot

Dot to dot

Dot to dot

Dot to dot

And dot to dot

All the things that you forgot

Every nuisance that you swat

All the paces that you trot

Every raging megawatt

Brought your yacht the caveat

Where Montserrat is fraught with sot

Dot to dot

Solar blot

Petals blooming in the pot

Dot to dot

Dot to dot

How much mettle have you got?