Revisiting: Temperature Variations, Creativity, and Weather Words

This time of year, this image is wishful thinking!

I wrote this little treatise on weather words a long time back. Since everyone is currently suffering weather extremes, it seemed a good idea to 'revisit' the issue. Just for fun...

Somewhere in the infinite gyrating cornucopia of song and story, tale and account, saga and romance that is the substance of myth, it was bandied/broadcast/broached about that Dragons love heat. Hot. Burning, boiling, sizzling, searing Heat! I don't know who first claimed this to be a fact/truth/non-lie, but I can attest as to the accuracy of the belief: NOT! 

Some Dragons, to be sure, do enjoy basking in sunshine, baking in warm sand, sprawling in the ebullient effervescent whirl of a hot tub...well, OK, even I enjoy such endeavors. But true heat--the blazing, baking oppressive heat of a Texas summer--ouch! 

S'not to say that I prefer cold. Should the temperature drop below 60 my toes freeze. Literally makes my great claws tremble. I prefer temperatures in the 70's, a nice middle/ central/in-between warmth. A centric mercury measure of sun tickled molecules. Makes for happy scales, happy toes, and a happy, more creative brain. When the temperature bumps up into the 80's, the brain and body still manage to perform, but not with quite the same alacrity as it does when it's 10 degrees cooler. Into the 90's... everything smolders, and I don't mean just my gullets and internal juices. S'hard to think, create, motivate when heat depletes ye olde energy! Once the silver, scintillating mercury blob bubbles into the three digits, it's all over. Tail drags, wings droop, ears sag, everything shuts down in protest. Not a creative spark in sight!

Which is why this olde Dragon worships conditioned air. Bless the HVAC. My cave is completely habituated to appease my humongous but sensitive self. Dries sweat, lets blood flow normally, perks up the heartbeat, invigorates the brain cells and the creative spark re-energizes. Flares, sparkles, gleams. At such times one can write or paint or craft or count their treasure trove. A great chance to imagine, think, apply, react, DO! 

If you're a writer/ speaker/teller of stories, the words associated with the vagaries of weather can be a succulent wealth of, well--Words! Here's a bit of Dragon advice: use that wealth to enrich your tales with most excellent/ marvelous/wondrous and varied descriptions. 

Rain is not just rain, but a roiling storm. A wind whipped tempest. A cloud stampede. An innervating inundation. A streaming squall, a horrific, harried hurricane, a galloping gale. Light rain is a shimmering mist, a cooling sprinkle, a dusting of moisture...dreamy, sleepy, refreshing. One can reach into the cloud shower and capture droplets, fling them in a shining spray, glitter the drops on metal and wood and leaves and fur... 

Heat turns the droplets to vapor, fog, shifting haze, miasma, murk. 

Winter Ice Crystals by yeimaya

Cold turns the droplets to frost, ice, rime, flakes, silvery and white and pale and pallid, with blue shadows, deep ice glow and variegated undulations of light on frozen surfaces. 

Don't you love/adore/ admire the flights of fancy so readily available in the mere serendipitous spew of weather relative verbiage?

If hot, stay cool. If cold, hug a heater. Once comfortable, savor the flavor of the elements, suck them in, spit them out, color and texture the visual display of your thoughts/ imagination/dreams as you place them on paper, papyrus, clay tablets or whatever writing paraphernalia you choose. Enjoy the summer wherever you are, but remain creative! Write!  Or Paint! Or Sing a Song...s'all in the joy of the doing.

The Dragon has spoken...

Tarot: The Cards – a Dragon’s literary/artistic perspective

A human I recently met (to my great pleasure!), Corrine Kenner, who is a magical mistress of analytical divination (she reads cards), has penned a fascinating tome called “Tarot for Writers”.  T'is a stimulating tool for sparking creativity and imagination via the prompt of tarot card imagery and interpretation.

As a Dragon of artistic and literary inclination, I believe it would be fun to taste a few tarot cards—I speak in metaphorical terms, not culinary!—and savor the flavor of the deck. 

For instance…The Fool. What, exactly, is a Fool? In present day, it’s a derogatory appellation—he/she/it (no discriminate by sex or species) is viewed as an idiot, a ridiculous persona, one who acts silly or without true mental skill (in truth, I must claim this characteristic is more common among humans than Dragons).  Or—he/she/it is ‘one who fools’ others; ergo: a trickster, a hoodwink, a con. Neither designation is flattering.  

However, in the Renaissance (a time I remember well), when tarot cards originated, the ‘fool’ was the court jester, whose silliness was connived for entertainment, a mask born of cunning and wit.  S’not so dumb to earn one’s keep in a comfortable setting by playing, well, dumb. 

    

In tarot cards The Fool is 1) “…the happy wanderer who sees the world through the eyes of a child…he represents each of us—naïve travelers through life, off on a grand adventure, out to learn whatever experience the tarot can teach us;” one who “takes a leap of faith” (taken from “Tarot for Writers”).  In the lovely deck my Scribe owns (you didn’t think I could write and type with these claws, did you?), which is, of course, The Dragon Tarot, the Fool is “carelessness, frivolity, immaturity, and spontaneity”; “wild optimism without thought for consequences”. 

S’not really derogatory!  S’not too great to be careless or immature or giving no thought to consequences; however, none of those conditions is to be despised, and they are applicable to so many humans (not Dragons, of course).  Would be a wonder, I think, for more folk to see the world through the eyes of a child; refresh one’s viewpoint, see life as an adventure instead of a great trudge to be tackled one dragging step at a time.  Leaps and bounds, moments of flight (for those of us who have wings) during which the mere escape from gravitation, infinitesimal though it be, sets the heart pounding, the blood flowing, clearing the eyes and mind for maximum input. 

S’no great ‘foolery’, I think, to play the Fool in such a circumstance.

The Fool, visually…Dragon eyes are discerning.  Symbolism is subjective.  The Fool card in The Dragon Tarot depicts an energetic jester dressed in typical jester garb (bright red and green and yellow) on the edge of a cliff, a bag over his shoulder, a small Dragon at this feet.  The Dragon Tarot interpretation: “the bag is full of the natural talents the jester/fool could use to aid his journey, but doesn’t; the small Dragon symbolizes his cautious conscience, warning him to not get carried away and fall of the edge; the image warns one to temper enthusiasm with common sense…”

And what does this Dragon see? Colors!  As an artiste I love color, the simmering, shimmering emotions of tones and hues.  

Red: the color of fire and blood, energy, strength, power, determination—s’any wonder a Dragon loves red?  The Fool is obviously energetic, balancing life with-ah yes!-enthusiasm.  He’s determined to tease danger—foolish?  Perhaps…but these characteristics also express innovation, perseverance, courage.  

Yellow:  the color of sunshine!  S’a happy day to fly high in the warmth of the sun!  The color is associated with joy, happiness, intellect, and energy.  A color that arouses cheerfulness and mental activity.  Ho—anyone who balances on the edge of cliffs should be alert, happy enough with life that they make a point of…not… falling…over!  Yellow sometimes depicts cowardice, but what coward (a wingless one at that!) would walk cliff edges or begin a journey toward the unknown with such tipping/tilting/titillating joy?

Green:  The color of nature, growth, harmony, freshness, fertility!  It suggests stability and endurance (in our world, the ability of plants to survive is phenomenal!).  A balanced man has, indeed, a measure of stability.  At least in his physical aspect.  Green…growth in spirit and knowledge, which a journey may well bring; freshness, surrounded by clear, clean mountain air, and unhindered by the wisdoms of age; harmony, being in agreement/balance with one’s own body/mind/heart…as The Fool’s red, yellow and green are balanced in his garb.

The small Dragon—ah, well, a Dragon likes to think the little guy is serving as a companion on the journey, a tiny watch-Dragon to warn of pitfalls and help the intrepid Fool stay warm in the mountain heights…and perhaps light his campfire at night.  Add a little flame to the mix.  Dragons are, after all, most giving souls.

There you have it—a Dragon’s take on The Fool card.  S’not enough darkness, you say?  What can I tell you?  The only thing I know of darkness are deep caves, starless nights, and my own gullet, which grumbles when empty.  S’darkness enough for me!  

The Dragon has spoken…

Creativity - A Dragon's Thoughts on the Subject

I have been cogitating about creativity. 

Create- to make, generate, fashion, form, produce, craft, or construct something, be it a thought or a physical item.  Ivity- not a word onto itself; however…true cognation can delve beyond the ‘notness’ of it.  Therefore, ivity = I, which is a word onto itself, and vity…ummm…I can grasp good use of the ‘v’, such as vital? Vivid? Voracious?

Is it not a vital activity, to create? Is creation not a vivid release of imagination, vision, insight? To be voracious is to be avid, big, rapacious…insatiable! Creativity is the insatiable explosion of mind into matter.

Creat-i-vity, a lovely tumble of mind to hand and eye.  Of hand and eye to word or brush/stylus.  Of word to sentence, of brush/stylus to image.  Writers and Artists are the creators of Books and Art, and in some cases, both.

 

The Creativity of Books and Art, I think, is the manner by which human beings (and some Dragons, I’ll not exclude intelligent species such as myself!) expand soul and mind, interact, teach, share their culture, their intelligence, their dreams. S’not such a difficult conception! 

Admire ye, then, bipedal and winged beasts alike, the Writers and Artists among you.  How else do you pass on knowledge, insight, memory, beauty, imagination.  I.  Imagine.  A Nation…without Books that connect us to the past, to the current, to the future.  Without Art that visualizes what has been, what is, what will be, what might be.  

Thought.  Pondering.  Ideas.  Color.  Splendor.  Spirit.

Creativity: Admire it. Share it!  The Dragon has spoken.

On Noise and Explosions, Politics and Ire, Vinegar and Honey

Verily, but there is so much noise/din/clamor/RACKET in the air these days it is an absolute agony for Dragon ears! When one hears All So Well as a Dragon does, no twitter (nay, I mean sound, not text) goes unnoticed.

Americans are a fractious and oft antagonistic/belligerent/hostile variant of the human species, so seriously do they take their personal philosophies. So much thought and passion gone rampant inside those little human bodies and heads--s'wonder they don't explode! Detonate! Splatter outward like sparkles from a skyrocket. Pyrotechnic spew. Which would be a fascinating sight, but hardly pleasant either for the exploder or the recipient of their spraying/spreading/effervescent molecules. Do you think the resultant discharge would be in tones of red, white and blue? Just a thought...

Religion. Law. Politics. Value systems as varied as colorful leaves spiraling in autumnal splendor--orange and ginger, red and ruby, crimson and russet and chocolate and yellow...lovely in their individual expression, but mix them, chop them into tiny/minuscule bits and the color goes dark. Somber. Scareeeyyyy....grrrrrrr.

Civility and passion seem, to my Dragon senses, incompatible. Irreconcilable. Mutually exclusive. Dragons were once that way, to my chagrin. All fire and spit and it WILL be my way...or not at all. But we learned the error of our ways. Naught comes from flash fire and anger but incineration of all that is dear to one's being. From passion set free and spent without regard to feelings, respect, or simple common courtesy.

In today's impassioned atmosphere, blistered as it is with the ire of righteous indignation and virtuous resentment, manners no longer exist. Vinegar, not honey, has become the ingredient of choice in the recipe of verbal debate. Personally, as a discerning Dragon, I have a sweet tooth. A palate titillated/tingled/teased by saccharine constituents, sugary components, tongue tasty bits of politeness. Gobbled up, such tidbits stifle irrational reaction.

Sigh. If only set minds were as easy to work with as words. Seek ye, olde writers of stories, tales, and narratives, the richest, mind rejuvenating expressions you can ferret from whatever language you consider your own. Make an old Dragon happy, and give every written account an incomparable flavor that will please the reader, improve his/her mood, provide clarity of perspective and, please Lord, return kindness/tolerance/graciousness to their expression of humanity.

The Dragon has spoken...

Listen and You Will Hear...Comments on Writing Sound

A Dragon hears everything. We have auditory organs of phenomenal/ wondrous/enviable capacity. A drop of water, a thunderous surf, a splattering of rain--s'all a roar in a Dragon's mighty eardrum. Resounding, echoing, a rich froth of air compressions drifting/wafting/racing from one point of the moment/the space/the spot within existence where it originated, to the receptacle of one's inner ear where it becomes a meaningful density/reality/truth to ye olde brain. Sound...touching without touching. The invisible expression of a happening.

Even so...not every Dragon listens to the world about him/her/it. Being able to hear--and hearing--are two different things. As a writing Dragon, it behooves me to overcome the distractions that draw my attention from hearing and settle down to listen to the world that I may write about the world. At least about its sounds. Sounds have been made visible in the written word. Actual sounds: ahh (a reaction to something cute), beep (an annoying horn sound), boo (a ghost speaks), burp (a good meal speaks), caw (crow lip), chirp (bird talk), clip (scissors at work), clomp (a walking horse), clunk (a dropped bucket), ding-dong (a doorbell, or an idiot...), eek (fright), fizz (Dr. Pepper speak), gong (a resounding bell tone), hiccup (too much to drink), hiss (snake speak), ick (something nasty), meow (cat talk), moo (cow compliant), oink (pig talk), plonk (something dropped? Splattered?), pop (a wine bottle opened), quack (a duck rather than a fake doctor), rat-a-tat (a...trumpet??), ring (a telephone---unless it spits out a song instead of a 'ring'), splat (a bug on a windshield), swoosh (me flying by very rapidly), tap (a cane on a sidewalk), tick (clock speak), toot (a horn or a fart), varoom (me flying by even more rapidly), whirr (hummingbird wings), whomp (an elephant stomp, or--in my books, this is the sound of my mighty wings flapping), woof (dog speak), yikes (fear comment), yip (tiny dog speak), zap (electric shock).

Those are our interpretations/explanations/elucidations of 'actual' sounds. Descriptions of sounds are fun as well: bawl (the act of sobbing), belch (the act of burping)...you get the picture; however, those are another discussion. Sounds, the making of and the hearing of in the written sense, can be quite nice beyond the mere clipped presentation of a single word. One doesn't want to overwelm with an aggressive adjective or an audacious adverb, but there's nothing wrong with a little activating nudge of word play to enhance a written sound. That enhancement can determine the very meaning/implication/connotation of an otherwise simplistic sound. Let us try a few...

A melodious ahh...a strangled ahh...a breathy ahh...a sharp ahh---each descriptive tag lends the 'ahh' a different emotional value. How about a bodacious boo...a piercing boo...a wailing boo...a muted boo. Or, a riotous burp...a cavernous burp...an endless burp...a growling burp...a gurgling burp...a bone-breaking burp---oh, those provide a plethora of images/visuals/mental illustrations of the belchee (or is it belcher?) in action! Now--a Dragon burp could well be called a volcanic burp.


A caw can be grating, spine crawling, hair raising, irritating... An unpleasant sound, a caw, so I personally would not assign it more kindly venue---however, perhaps someone else would not be uncomfortable with a soft caw, a quiet caw, an agreeable caw, or even an amusing caw.

The very mood of a sentence can be styled by the manner in which a sound is expressed. A chilling clomp, a frantic stomp, a heart jerking bang, a fragile fizz, a soothing effervesce, a hideous hiccup, a bowel clinching hiss, a mournful moo, a resounding splat, a grin making toot, a sizzling zap, a treeeeembling drip.

Oh, sound can be a veritable scene maker/image builder/mood elevator in one's story. Allow the reader to hear what the characters hear, to respond to what their surroundings and actions would generate in a real world of wafting air compressions. But...my writing wizards, be you human or otherwise, do not overdo the making, the building, the elevating. There is seldom need for more than one enhancing 'tag' to enrich the written sound. Avoid the "huge noxious gaseous throat-rattling up-from-the-depths of the gut burp"...t'is a wee bit overdone and by the time the reader realizes one speaks of an esophageal feat, they've lost track of the tale's direction! [NOTE: If, however, this elongated burpal description is the writer's style or voice, if it falls within the overall format of the novel, t'is perfectly acceptable!]

Write on ye lovers of words and tales, stories and make-believe and what might have been, but wasn't. Pluck the wealth of the physical world out of reality and into your imagination, and sprinkle what you've plucked like petals over your pretend world. Listen, and you will hear...

The Blame Game...Even Dragons Do It!

Readers/friends/patrons of the written word, today I am overseeing a debate/discussion/ dialogue between two of my cohorts, the white Dragon Saavinstor from Cynmynmire, and the red Dragon, Braavistor of Tasymur. They are opponents in the campaign for the important position of Head Dragon of the Exalted Cave of Camaraderie in Isoladia. I've brought the two together to expound on/explain/regurgitate their viewpoints, qualifications and plans should they gain the position of Head Dragon.

[Me] "Welcome, Saavinstor and Braavistor to my humble interview cave. Settle your haunches/ rears/backsides where you will and we shall begin. I will start with Saavinstor who--"

[Braavistor] "What! Why would you start with him? I am just as important/significant/ essential a Dragon as he!"

[Me] "Indeed, you are both important personages, Braavistor, but to preclude/avoid/prevent just such a complaint, I decided to base the opening remarks on age. Saavinstor is, I believe, a few hundred years older than you?"

[Braavistor] "But that's age discrimination! Next thing you'll be saying he's better suited for the position because he's got those few extra hundred years sagging/drooping/slumping on his skeleton and wrinkling his brain."

[Saavinstor] "Sagging? Drooping? You rapacious pup! S'not a sag on my anatomy! I'm as firm as ever. The only wrinkles on my brain are excessive folds of gray matter that prove my intellectual fitness and superiority!"

[Braavistor] "My scales are harder, my claws sharper, and my arteries/veins/vessels still flow freely, which means my brain is far more active and viable."

[Me] "Perhaps if you would--"

[Saavinstor] "Are you suggesting a few years of seniority are indicative of clogged arteries? Slower thinking? Reduced cognitive ability? Now that is age discrimination. No older Dragon would ever vote for you."

[Braavistor] "I'm not speaking of all elderly--uh--ancient, uh, more senior Dragons, just you."

[Saavinstor] "To malign one, is to malign all. I shall report you to the Society of Wiser Dragons by Reason of Longer Experience, as well as to the Organization of Artery Clogged Dragons, to whom we should all be kind/compassionate/sympathetic!"

[Braavistor] "I am not unkind to the less arterially able! And I shall report you to the Department of Youth is Just as Capable for suggesting I am less capable/competent/ proficient for the mere sake that I've been breathing a few less years!"

[Me] "Well--now that that's settled...Saavinstor, please relate to us why you believe you are the best Dragon to take on the Head Dragon slot/spot/position."

[Saavinstor] "As you know, I have long advocated the necessity of camaraderie/friendship/companionship among our species. Our tendency toward territoriality does not compel--"

[Braavistor] "You have just insulted the Agency of Territorial Enthusiasts."

[Saavinstor] "I merely mentioned a Dragon behavioral pattern that is--"

[Braavistor] "And if one does not adhere to this 'behavioral pattern', are you suggesting they are not proper/complete/real Dragons?"

[Saavinstor] "I said no such thing! There are no set patterns/models/guides that specifically determine one's level of Dragonous!"

[Braavistor] "Then why did you bring it up?"

[Saavinstor] Growl!

[Me] "Perhaps you would allow Saavinstor to finish/complete/end a thought?"

[Braavistor] "Are you suggesting I'm rude?" Grrrrr

[Me] "I'm suggesting you allow us to get on with it! Unless you prefer to remain/stay/linger here all day?"

[Braavistor] "S'not that comfortable a cave. Go on white Dragon, finish whatever is brewing/stewing/sloshing about in that excessive gray matter."

[Saavinstor] "Bah! How can one think in such a malevolent atmosphere?"

[Me] "Actually, I take offense at Braavistor's statement/comment/derogatory remark, as well as yours, Saavinstor. I believe this cave has a very convivial atmosphere. Seems perfectly comfortable to me."

[Saavintor] "My reference is to the unpleasant mien/countenance/attitude of my opponent! What can one expect of a red Dragon?"

[Braavistor] "He's slandering my color! This is unthinkable--you biased buffoon!"

[Saavinstor] "All buffons will object to that! Red is as red does! Always an ill temper and a short fuse!"

[Braavistor] "Ha! I caught you at it. Decimating the character of some decent stick of dynamite/explosive/detonating device. Growl--you are unacceptable as an opponent, you sanctimonious wicked white !"

[Saavinstor] Roar! "You screaming scarlet malicious maniac!"

[Me] "Sorry, apologies, regrets fellow readers and worshippers of the written word. The discussion on Dragon Camaraderie is temporarily postponed..."

The Fruits of the Labor...or...Eating the Words.

Dragons do not eat words/written expressions/ visual statements. No substance to them, you know. At least not in the caloric/energy/joules sense. Oh, they are a 'meaty' matter, but not in the manner of beef, fowl, or fish. Nay. Rather we Dragons generate words. Our phenomenal minds create clever contextual concepts. Engender energetic expressions. Spawn spectacular seeds of stimulating speech. Ah, well, you get the gist.

Words come naturally, nowadays, to us Isoladian Dragons. I have no idea how the beasts derived in other lands/worlds/places of authorial imagination communicate. For most of them I anticipate growls, grunts and roars are most often the vocabulary of the day. One cannot visualize much conversation, let alone accomplishment, from that. But to each his/her/its own.

'Tis any wonder I prefer Dragons with a flare for vocabulary? Lexicon? A glorious glossary of gab?

Such as that young Dragon who wings through Naomi Novik's books, Temeraire. Her historical fantasies are incredible. Or the old codger of cinematic fame, who managed to talk his way onto the big screen/monitor/display in Dragonheart. Even better--Jo Walton's Dragons in Tooth and Claw are chatty, intellectual, perfectly worthy beings who thrive in a world not unlike that in which humans dwell. Now there are Dragons worth their salt (not to be sprinkled on their words, which, of course, we have already determined are not eaten).

Ah, so...why do I discourse on wordy Dragons? Because I must point out that we Dragons are late arrivals to the marvels of language. Dialogue. Conversation. We speak, and subsequently write, because we remain enthralled by not only the process, but the wonder of the capacity/ability/ aptitude of the deed! The novelty has not yet worn off. Humans attained the skill so long ago, they no longer truly appreciate the miracle of it. Oral communication is a phenomenon in itself (at least it is for us; how would you like to manage verbalization's via a hard length of jaw over a forked tongue and eventually through fangs?) I for one doubt you could manage it. We Dragons do because we've no option, and we possess stubbornness/ persistence/tenacity without equal. And--we love the endeavor, the mental connection, the ready, heady interplay of knowledge.

The written word, however, is even more splendid. The rendering of brainwaves in visual form upon parchment/papyrus/dinner napkins. The embodiment of thought in a physical shape. Vigorous verbs. Artful adjectives. Noble nouns. Squiggles that, when appropriately arranged, expose the wisdom of the ages. The exultation's. Every soulful sentiment slipping out. The prettiness...and the pettiness.

I ask in all curiosity: do you write because you love words, or love words because you write? You have probably not given it due thought, any more than the chicken when asked to determine whether or not it preceded its egg/shell/ fertilized embryo! Perhaps because I am a Dragon I view the question from a more simplistic perspective than you more complex humans. For us it is the former rather than the latter. And the latter is not without worth because exercising your ability with words builds appreciation of those building blocks. Those structuring stones. Those edifying bricks of ideas. Oh, as a poetic Dragon would say: good, better, best, never let it rest, until the good is better, and the better best. Even a youngling human understands this!

The written word is not only the building block of ideas, but of civilizations. Those who love words, write. Those who write, love words--or will learn to. Ergo--if you love to write, then teach/impart/ gift those who lack the skill so that they, too, may taste/savor/relish the fruits of the laboring pen/quill/keyboard.

I speak of fruit metaphorically, of course. Remember--we do not eat the words! If you swallow them, spit them out. If you spit them out, then spread them about. Water with feelings. Fertilize with enthusiasm. Watch your garden grow: sentence, by paragraph, by page. Articles. Novels. Laws. Edicts. Libraries. Universities. Cities. The world.

Ah! The very thought makes my gullets growl! Or is that my brain, formulating scrumptious, succulent, yummy words?

Writing the Molecules--The Joy is in the Details

This morning I shall discourse about Writing the Molecules...those tiny aspects of our perceptions that flesh the bones of the written word. First, I shall explain why these nuances/gradations of physical awareness are so important to a Dragon. Ah, I mean a writing Dragon.

As a Dragon I have remarkable, extraordinary, notable senses. No eyesight is keener. I can detect a gnat fluttering/flickering/flitting 'mid blossoms and bumblebees a mile away. Indeed. Five thousand two hundred and eighty feet. Twice one thousand three hundred and twenty feet. Ha! Did I say keen? A telescope cannot match me for optical acuity. 'Nough said.

My auditory organs are without peer. I am an acoustical wizard. I not only see the gnat, I hear it release the end result of its digestive process. Intestinal gases. Fart. And a tiny toot it is, little more than a minuscule gut groan. A sigh. A whimper. Yet my ears absorb the passing molecular tremble as if it were the great rage of St. Helens coughing pyroclastic chunks like hairballs. I hear everything. Dew dripping resounds like continental rifting in my notable ears. 'Nough said.

And my nostrils--! Have ever a more admirable set of olfactory sensors deigned to exist? Not merely large, as befits a beast of my size and mass, but responsively receptive. Scent sympathetic. Sinus scrupulous. In less delicate terms--merely for the sake of clarification, you understand--I smell that tiny toot. 'Nough said.

Not to mention, sense of touch. Tactile perception. You thought I had no keen sense of touch because my body is armor plated, my toe-tips clawed? Short of stripping off my scales, I do have my accessible spots, dear friends.

This confession is not to be shared with Gryphons or their detestable ilk! Thankfully, Gryphons cannot read. They've the brain-capacity of a kumquat, but you must not tell the stinkers. They've good memories, for all that a walnut would fill what passes for a cranial cavity. So...now that you have promised no loose lips, I will share this truth--there are four spots on my anatomy that are very sensitive to contact: my muzzle, that velvety area of prehensile upper lip and the soft spot between my nostrils; the tip of my tail; my forefoot pads (same as your palms), and my leg pits. You would call them arm pits, but even though I use my front legs with much the flexibility of the human arm, biologically speaking they must be referred to as 'legs'. Ergo--leg pits. Front and back. Because this is--more or less--a 'family friendly' site, I exclude discussion of my--ahem--reproductive region. The details of that section remain under the sole proprietorship of my mate, Riastor.

However, back to tactile perception--did that gnat sit upon my muzzle, I could feel its gas pass. Assess its tiny legs tracking over my skin. My upper lip, foot-pads, and tail tip can detect soft, rough, smooth, irregular--well, you name it, I can feel it, with no less keenness than your own human fingertips.

Why do I list my sensory capabilities, you may ask? To point out that as a Writing Dragon, I have the same aptitude (superior, actually) as a human does to absorb/suck up/take in my surroundings. Therefore, I am well able to decipher the world with my body parts and describe/discuss/expound on it with gleeful intensity. I love what I see, hear, smell, and touch. So should the characters of whatever tale/story/yarn I pen. (Oh, very well. Excuse me! What my scribe pens for my clumsy claws.) In any case, All writers, I believe, should love these aspects of their characters. After all, are their characters not intended to be alive. Breathing, existing in the magical but viable realm of the imagination? Doesn't a reader (you may correct me here if I am wrong...but a Dragon seldom is) want to read the reality? The reactive senses of the character moving through his/her/its story?

The details, my fellow writers--and readers who enjoy what we produce--I reiterate, are the fleshy draping upon the bones of the work. Would you have your character(s) perceived as mere skeletons stiffly sauntering about his/her/its world? Nay. Naynaynay! Mobilization requires muscles (I mention this my first book, The Dragons' Veil). Muscles would wither without flesh to encase and succor them. And flesh reflects the world--is it not the aspect of the body most in contact with the world?

You see the wisdom? Insight? Acumen? If you would enrich your words, my fellow writers, and in turn enrich your imaginary worlds, then utilize every facet of the real world in which you dwell. Sight, sound, smell, touch--the north, east, south, and west of the compass of by which you guide yourself through whatever tale you are inspired to pen/type/dictate.

Drat! Speak of the devil/imp/mischievous sprite! What is that gnat doing on my muzzle? Off, annoying speck of insectal indolence, and take your tiny tootings with you.

The Fat Assed Dragon - or why I'll never get a butt tuck

Tonight we will discourse on weight. Mass. A load on the rear. Very well, fat asses, if you will. I come before you as an advocate of staunch sterns, beefy buttocks. Rousing rumps.

Were one to approach this subject in an erudite manner, they would point out that statistics indicate today's average/normal/typical Dragon is a good ton--2,000 pounds, to be exact...more or less--heavier than his predecessor. Of course, when you live as long as we do--ho, a few centuries are mere child's play!--you wing your way through so many socio-economic-cultural changes that an alteration in size/mass/bulk is to be expected. I mean, does it not make sense that when civilization improves and food sources increase both in size and quantity, that one's appetite grows in direct proportion? Appetite is natural, wholesome, hearty. Absolutely, positively there is Nothing wrong with a good appetite. Not that there aren't lean times. I've seen my share of skin and bones living, Dragons grown so emaciated they are little more than a shiny skein of scales draping a skeleton! Pathetic. Sad. Wretched to behold. It happens when resources are depleted. In simplistic, basic, unsophisticated terms, skinny deer equate to skinny Dragons. Few deer equate to very skinny Dragons. No deer--its too horrific to express in a public communication. The same can be said were I to speak of cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, birds, and even fish, small though they are.

The point to which I come is this: fat is strength. Gaunt is difficult to look upon! Ergo, a fat-assed Dragon is good. A healthy rear, tush, derriere gives one's tail power, suppleness, vitality. A gathering of adipose globs upon the haunches provides an excellent cushion upon which to settle when one lands, to comfortably ensconce one's rear when sitting on sharp cave rocks. And swimming! Fat floats, my dears. Water loves cushy fat. Ever hear of a Dragon drowning? Impossible. Unfeasible. Brawny buttocks bunch and bounce across the waves, skim like silk through surf, drift like flotsam over wild white water. Substance, solidity, immensity--the joy of heft is without equal. Why, then, one must inquire, would any Dragon select, choose, prefer to be narrow of girth, scrawny of leg, bony of butt?

There you have it. The anathema to this theme is the dreaded, dreary, dismal diet. The abominable cut down. Fast. Starve! The state of mind that denies the necessity of food. Fare. Groceries. Chow. As if by not eating, one believes they don't want to eat. Detox. Purge. Cleanse. Flush. Eliminate. Scour the innards of every minuscule spec of cellular stoutness.

Resist, my fellow Dragons. If you would have the strength, the essence, the vigor to fly amid the stars and flirt with frigid peaks, eat. Gorge. Stuff every gullet, bowel, nook and cranny with the glorious profusion of edibles laid before you. Salute, I say, the tremendous tush!

Sigh. I'm hungry. Anyone have a plump bovine on them? Or a doughnut?