The Letters...

Dear Ms Nixie, I write with news of the gra vest tra vest y. I bring word of the sua ves t in vest ry, the finest, li vest,  in vest igatory har vest and study of sheer manhood. I speak in the bra vest of tongue, well aware in the economics of heart, that truth has brought with it a di vest iture of promise and yet.... still hope lives and thus I find myself here looking for the vest advice. Ms Nixie, I know only the jersey, the sweater, the darling pullover ...oh that whole piece, sleeves and all. Born unto a long line of Aran Islanders, it has been bequeathed that I shall always know the warmth of Galway at my breast (with the promise of snug arms too). The trouble now? The vest is yet to come. I have my heart entangled in nothing but the in vest ment of love and yet my family would never have such scandal. Nixie, the two shan't meet, the vests and the jumpers, the coverings and the raw will of brevity, even in the face of a cold, dark winter. It has been taught and told and

Dearest Nixie, In time travelling the lost frontiers might it be in history that we find our future? I am here to say it is so and prithee may we ponder and in pondering may we remember this: " When in doubt mumble. When in trouble, delegate. When in charge, ponder." James. H, Boren It seems I am in rather a good spot of trouble Dear Miss and I've come forwards ..."Where the world is ancient, the world is new, the dreams are yet to come true..." Howard Draper , in rather the bit of a mumbling mess. Regretfully, I, all but an afterling of neither grace nor finery and from the year 1128 Anno Domini,  must but soul serf a practical peasants lot in the trantles of my wenchly wattle cruck, knowing full well, resistance is all but feudal. You see upon arrival I was named. I was titled lowly. I was given little of nothing and my birthright only toil and depreciation. And yet.... I found everything and more in the cockles of a good hat! Might I make your acqua

Dear Ms Nixie, I write to you in good fairy faith with eyes wide open and defences at the ready, however I feel they may already have been breached.  Forgive me, if I might sound a little slowpoke, for I find myself in a dazed stupor, spending entire days loafing at the waters edge. You see it seems the charm of a certain Mr. C. Harmander has overwhelmed my resistance and, as is, with all of our kind (the jiggly type), we lack inherent defence against the fire types. Oh my, not even a puff of magic dust can solve the fire types willingness to resist our charms. Just one smoking sashay of his flaming caboose and the fluff in my puff goes to a jiggling mess. You see, It's not just the size of his tail, it's the way he uses it that renders me weak at the appendages. It seems my voice has sent him to sleep. The frequency was all but wrong. Oh dear, what shall I do? No matter how much I pound him or play rough, nothing can quench his wandering eye for every little sassy ponyta tha

Dear Ms. Nixie, This may come as somewhat of a kick to the shock stick and I hope you don't mind a brief wrong thing at the right moment kind of interruption from a rather unlikely subject. In fact I do believe I hope you do mind. I hope you mind an awful lot. Although this is a ruthless world and one must, to some degree, be ruthless to cope with it where people as an individual can be genius but in the mass may form the headless monster, a great brutish idiot that goes where prodded, I have also said more importantly that only the unloved hate, only the unloved and the unnatural. I'm nothing of a saint at all. I have been troubled, clear as a bell, difficult, high as a kite or a firecracker going off, forever tortured and yet forever hopeful of more love nevertheless. I am for the people. I cannot help it even if I was never a perfect man. I want you to mind and to matter as ever after as that might be possible. I want that for many people. And that is what brings me to you

Dear Ms Nixie, I write to you in search of answers but as the wise have thought it, often answers come with only the right questions and so I come with questions. For isn't it so that all of us are truly a question of sorts in one way or another, remote - yet close together and shrouded in mystery? How do I turn one insignificant thread in an immense and miraculous pattern into something valued, something seen? Are we "Destiny itself like a wonderful wide tapestry in which every thread is guided by an unspeakable tender hand, placed beside another thread and carried by a hundred others.?" (Rainer Maria Rilke) Or if the tapestry or carpet "of history that seems so full of tragedy when viewed from the front has countless comic scenes woven into the reverse side"...is " truth,tragedy and comedy, the twin marks of history.." ??? (Jose Ortega Y Casset. And then again.. What is yellow, brown and hairy, besides cheese on toast dropped on the carpet? Sew

Dear Ms Nixie, The name: E.N.Chilada The Home: Nth West Nevada  Descends from: E. Zapata The Dance: With Ponce Sonata  (and a whole lot of and in the Salsa)….. That is me, si, si, and I write with questions and answers and a great love of walls, a great love of love and more love and graffito and graffiti and the sweetie geeky and streety treaty flavours alike…. Ahhh, some fruity tooty and jalapeno patootie….. the marriage of diferencia.  It was once said; “Graffitti is revolutionary in my opinion, and my revolution might be considered a crime. People who are oppressed or suppressed need an outlet, so they write on walls-it’s free.” Terence Lindall Now the trouble I find, is a man comes along, wanting to be El Presidente, trying out for the part, wanting the whole shindig….. And he says; “We must build the walls…” And I say;  “Un momento…Actuallly you speak my language but ah, let’s not get ahead of the road runner or the Merrie Melodies just ye

Dear Ms Nixie, The name: E.N.Chilada The Home: Nth West Nevada  Descends from: E. Zapata The Dance: With Ponce Sonata  (and a whole lot of and in the Salsa)….. That is me, si, si, and I write with questions and answers and a great love of walls, a great love of love and more love and graffito and graffiti and the sweetie geeky and streety treaty flavours alike…. Ahhh, some fruity tooty and jalapeno patootie….. the marriage of diferencia.  It was once said; “Graffitti is revolutionary in my opinion, and my revolution might be considered a crime. People who are oppressed or suppressed need an outlet, so they write on walls-it’s free.” Terence Lindall Now the trouble I find, is a man comes along, wanting to be El Presidente, trying out for the part, wanting the whole shindig….. And he says; “We must build the walls…” And I say;  “Un momento…Actuallly you speak my language but ah, let’s not get ahead of the road runner or the Merrie Melodies just ye

Dear Ms Nixie, Are you still open for advice? I hear the quill has been hung and the final thread of silk spun…. But all the same I seem to have found myself in a little spot of volatile compound. I’m writing to you incognito and indispensable to all manner of casual nexus for time is the traveller, a tale teller, a head turner but then again, and yet….three hours too soon is better than a minute late. That’s what got me into geochemistry in the context of the geological and archaeological record. What would the geochemical record of human activities and civilisations be in the geochemical record of the future? Now I heard it through the grapevine and I’m just about to lose my mind about news of some real deal Time Travellers on the loose. You see I’m most inexplicably drawn to the romance of science and the science of fiction and upon a chance referral to the last blogger post here two worlds collided and they shall never tear us apart. You see, it struck me that, to solv

Dear Ms. Maid. E. N. Marion, I believe you are a time traveller filling in for the honourable columnist Ms.Nixie who is presently on hiatus, possibly seen in close proximity to the Duke of Melbourne and most probably ready to rumble (with the John Pertwee Appreciation Society). I too am a time tourist my dear lady. And on the subject of who and the time space continuum, I seem to have wormholed my way from the woods right back to the year C496 (with a wee little help from a rose and a bridge and an Einstein aka Einstein Rose Bridge.) I'm here to tell you, indeed I doth survived reasonably unscathed but for the odd sudden collapse, radiation burn and liaison with some rather exotic matter (although twas indeed the exotic matter that acted as a stabilising device). Suffice to say we did stabilise the porthole and it is bequested upon me the honour of imparting the truth now on the subject of this. Bridges are indeed essential, as alerted by yours truly my dear, and though those wit

Dear Ms Rossetta, It's unusual for a woman such as myself to write for advice rather than remain the recipient of woes and foes and puppy dogs tails. Although, I must say, there's been plenty of snips and snails from lassies too, apposing with the most vigilant rejection, sugar and spice and everything nice and vice versa. It goes both ways. What I mean to ask is, how did you get on with Mr. S. C. Rouge? Did you manage to win his affections and where pray tell might the magical key be found now, just out of interest, er, for interest sakes or... perhaps I  might also be interested or would that vex you Ms Rosie? I hope I haven't made cause for offence and that in our correspondence, we might exist within the stylings of a Jane Austen novel. Oh I could think of nothing more romantic at all. And on the subject of hope my dear fine lady, if you were to pierce my soul I am half in agony and half in hope and so no piercings just yet. But please remember this, There is nothing