Category Archives: Carnival of Words

Do You Want to Solve a Murder? by Disney’s Sherlock

Little Sherlock:
Mycroft? *knocks*
Do you wanna play detective?
Come on, let’s go and play
I don’t see Redbeard anymore
Well, since 9:44
It’s like he’s run away
We used to be best buddies,
and now he’s gone
I wish we could find out why . . .
Do you wanna play detective?
You can be my boss detective!

Little Mycroft:
Bugger off, Sherlock. (Idiots can’t be detectives!)

Little Sherlock:
Okay, bye.

Teen Sherlock:
Do you wanna see a crime scene?
There’s been a robbery at the mall
I think investigation’s overdue
I’ve started seeing clues
Like pictures on the walls
It gets a little lonely
My mind-palace rooms
Just watching the words rush by . . .
“terminally single. sleep-deprived. secretly gay. likes umbrellas.”

Teen Mycroft:
Brother dear, must you ANALYSE me!

Adult Sherlock:
*knocks* Mycroft?
Brother, please, I know you’re in there
Working out, I can deduce
But I wish you’d stop ignoring me,
You see it’s boring me,
There’s really no excuse!
See, Lestrade is being useless,
John’s on a date,
There’s no one I can impress!
Do you want to solve a murder?
It doesn’t have to be a murder . . .

Go play with your FRIENDS, Sherlock.


I saw a post on Facebook with the same idea (but as a text conversation) and couldn’t resist writing the full version. I kept its title (do you want to solve a murder?) as well as the boring-ignoring bit and the final “Prick.” So whoever came up with that, thank you, you’re brilliant, and you’ve kept me amused for minutes. (-Minutes? You’re slipping. -Twenties, dear readers. Comes to us all.) The rest I made up, most of it while giggling to myself.

Seriously, though (or less so), sing to the tune of the Frozen song and with BBC’s Holmes brothers in your mind palace. Enjoy!

PS. I wish there was something I could do to actually have Cumberbatch and Gatiss sing this together. Then I can die happy.


But my dreams keep bleeding through.

I can’t seem to focus or get my thoughts organized. I’m having flashes of déjà vu, as if only one foot were in reality, and one eye was looking out through a different window. Things are not happening in order in my head. I keep getting jolted back and forth and losing things.


This is not a brand-new malady- at least it isn’t for me. But my life is, at the moment, a bit of an Eat All You Can buffet, and my plate is heaped to the heavens. I can’t afford to drop any of it. I seem to be frighteningly close to stumbling. Again. I’m far too volatile. I need to stabilize.


First of all, I’m beginning to reconsider my path, which is alarming. This has occurred to me thousands of times already, and I have always heeded it and also have, as a result, shunted myself off into lots of very diverse directions. I’ve done everything short of becoming a professional assassin (which may yet be ahead of me) and I know that if I don’t stick to my guns in a single field- I’ll spend the rest of my life spinnin’ and grinnin’…. *breaks into song*


And to think, for the first time in a long time, I actually like my job. Not to the extent that I feel motivated and enthusiastic to go to work- I still have that AAAARRRRGH feeling each time I get up and go- but at least it’s not a feeling of dread or an intense desire to file a resignation letter. I’m not completely immune to the stress, but most of it bounces off, at any rate.


Yet there’s still that niggling feeling at the back of my head that a job shouldn’t feel like a job- that for the kind of person I am, it should be a field that operates almost entirely in the imagination. Perhaps I’ve never lost my idealism. Perhaps I’m in the wrong universe.


I suppose I should ignore this feeling and get on with Life.


But part of me will always be listening for a sound. That sound.


Random skull thing.

Sad Songs and Solitude. (And coffee.)

This means I am in my happy place. I love being alone. I love it to the extent that when I have to go on long stretches without it, I miss it like an old friend.

It also gives me time to tinker with online photo editors. Now here’s what got me photo editing:

My laptop’s a peckish little diva, and each time I try to install Adobe Photoshop, it fails CATASTROPHICALLY. (The All Caps makes me worry in a Dalek-y sort of way, pardon the Doctor Who reference that may be lost on you.) So, right at the start of this long weekend, one of my Melange colleagues suggested an online editing site, Picnik. There I went and voila! A child with cyber ADHD and a brand-new toy. (Disclaimer: I don’t mean photo-editing on a professional level- just a few fun tweaks here and there for miserably failed cellphone-cam or self-taken photos to make them look just a tad better than random blurs. )

Now, thanks to Tori Amos’s music, I’m feeling a bit Zen and much too lazy to write about the highlights of the past few days, so here are some of those pictures instead (not my best editing attempts, but probably serve the best purpose):

That’s Cattksi, reading at the last Really Really Bad Poets thing. Hers was a poem about boobs, and while there were lots of unbelievably GOOD ones that night, I thought hers particularly rocked.

Vince and Jingle’s improvisational pocket performance at Handuraw (from PAK’s “CHANCE?”). YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

You still can, of course- there’s always another one every last Thursday of the month at 7:30-ish. (Or you can time travel- your call.) But “Chance?” was one of my favourites so far. I rolled on the floor laughing (in a literal sense, even) for most of it. So glad I decided to sit this one out. There are times when being in the audience is very, very rewarding.

And here are some of the things I do at work when not actually working. Our team reprised our role as the Stryfe Academy: A School for Disturbed Young Professionals, with a short impromptu skit (that’s me in the tartan skirt)…

And the week before that- our version of The Bride of Chucky

Once again, we had no time to put our performance together, so I scribbled a silly rhyme in between calls, put on my storytelling voice, and let them follow my cue. There’s all sorts of improv, you know. Some sorts involve murderous living dolls. Basically.

I don’t really recommend it, but you can read my Chucky rhyme here:

That said, I’m chuffed to bits to be given plenty of chances to draw on people’s faces, mess up their hair, and make them don strange costumes at work. Every half-decent living carnival’s dream.

There’s more, of course, and it involves night photo shoots with lots of mud and rusty boats, and blinking, and other fun things like that- but I can tell y’all about it in the next post.

PS. The sad songs I was talking about were “1000 Oceans” and “Hey Jupiter” by Tori Amos. I won’t tell you what kind of coffee it was. ‘Cause I’m wildly deranged like that.

Silver Hammers. Houseflies. And Body Parts.

I wake up around noontime and “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” is stuck in my head. (Not on it, at least.) Which isn’t entirely surprising, considering that it was the final sing-along at “Wits” yesterday.  And also because it’s the most cheerful song about multiple murders ever written.

(Here’s the point where you ask me what this “Wits” thing is about.) Now, I could go into detail about Were-turkeys, woman tractors, Gollum singing, animated meat pies, and such, but it might be sufficient to say this instead: Neil Gaiman. Josh Ritter. Bill Corbett. Kevin Murphy. Will Wheaton. Adam Savage. John Moe. A brass band. In one show.

(Of course I was sold.) So I watched it live yesterday. Well, in a sense. Along with eight hundred-odd people, I streamed it live and happily took part in its Twitter feed, which also broadcasted live on stage during the actual show. The show itself was very educational- I now know, for instance, that Eleanor Rigby was actually a serial killer known only as “The Face Cutter-Offer”, and kept people’s faces in jars by her door.

I could go on all day. Or you can just watch it here:

Apart from medicine majors going “BANG BANG” with silver implements, a series of funny poems by Christian Morgenstern were another good start to my morning. Here’s a sample:

At the Housefly Planet

Upon the housefly planet
the fate of the human is grim:
for what he does here to the housefly,
the fly does there unto him.

To paper with honey cover
the humans there adhere,
while others are doomed to hover
near death in vapid beer.

However, one practice of humans
the flies will not undertake:
they will not bake us in muffins
nor swallow us by mistake.

If you liked that, you can read the rest at . Thanks to Meewa for pointing me in that direction.

It also may be particularly helpful today. “The Really, Really Bad Poets” are on again tonight, and I promised to read something this time. (The only thing I’ve read so far at the Bad Poets shindigs was one impromptu haiku, which doesn’t count for much. Except that it does, cause it’s Bad Poets.)

It’s not because I’m afraid what people will think of my poems, since I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. Thing is, I seldom feel the urge to write poetry at all. I only try my hand at it every now and then. My most recent (successful) attempt was a triolet (eight lines with some specified to repeat), and my most recent unsuccessful one was that, er, sestina I told you about in a previous post.

Considering I’m STILL struggling to put together a poem about body parts (which happens to be the theme tonight), it’s not too late for you to try one as well. Feel free to join “The Really Really Bad Poets” tonight at The Outpost, and read one of your good ones or better yet, one of your really terrible ones. It might be the only place you can read those awful ones on a microphone, no less, to a willing audience. So I’ll see you there, I hope.

A Baby Step Into The Blogosphere

Today I set about writing a poem. A really bad one, to be specific. And I tried, you know, I really tried.

A wonderful mentor (also known as Neil Gaiman, who is probably not aware of being my mentor and is also good with bees) once said, “When you don’t have anything to write about, when you’re not able to write, just write.”

So here I am. Writing.

For starters, a word of advice. After getting down thirty lines of poetry on a Word document, do remember to save your work. I forgot to do so while dashing off to something I was late for. Naturally, when I returned, my thirty lines had vanished to, well, whichever place lost words scamper off to.

So save. (You probably know this by heart, but eejits like me obviously need reminding.)

And also because I’m an eejit, I’m back to square one and staring at a now-blank Word document. And I’m here precisely because I needed to un-blank the page and ranting (in a civilised manner because I’m proper like that) felt justified.

With that, I take a baby step into the blogosphere. Here, I’ll tell you more about bad poetry, improvisational pocket performances, life as a choirgirl, and other unlikely things I’ve gotten myself tangled into. I’ll tell you my dreams without any bothersome attempts at analysis, just because they’re wonderful stories. Be warned- there may be spells of fangirling about whatever it is I’m obsessed about at the moment. Mostly I’ll just be frolicking around in a carnival of words and ideas.

Welcome to my brand-new creative trampoline. Feel free to give it a bounce.

Me and my imaginary books.