...that I will be deleting my FA account sometime within the next week or so. If you want to keep in touch with me and don't already have a different method of doing so, reach out.

Shit's fucked, y'all. I'm getting the fuck out of here.

Bork

(originally drafted to facebook)

I've been thinking a lot lately about my problem with language, which is tied into why I stopped writing. I've been reluctant to write about it here, because this space seems so weirdly performative, and that's a large part of what I'm trying to get away from. I think the value in airing stuff like this here is the value of other people's perspectives. At least that's the optimistic way to look at it. The cynical outlook is that the value to me in talking about it here is just attention in the form of comments and reactions, and that it would be better to keep it to myself and work it out on my own, or with the help of only those already accessible to me through less broadband channels. Right now I'm hovering over posting this or not posting it. Maybe I will post it on FA rather than FB because I am less self-conscious about potentially appearing as a madman there than here.

Finished the Ionesco, and I'm not really sure what to say about it. I mean... it's high absurdism: very entertaining, and more or less incomprehensible. I know one of his other plays, "Rhinoceras" is considered a metaphor for creeping fascism, so there's probably more going in these than was apparent to me, but I am not familiar enough with the historical context in which they were written to pick up on all of that. Certainly it is clear that the work is satirizing the mannerisms of high society, and on that level I an appreciate it; beyond that, I got nothing.

Rather than randomizing the next book, I was starting to get concerned that by the time I read Rabbit Redux, my memory of Rabbit, Run might've started to fade, so I started on that one next, am about 50 pages in, and it is TERRIFIC. Will probably plow through the rest of the Rabbit series (Rabbit Gets Rich; Rabbit at Rest) after.

Here is one passage from early in Rabbit Redux that just floored me (though, I was tripping at the time, which may've been a factor) (for context, was written in the early 70s, set in 1968, Rabbit is at this time in his mid 30s):

"The bus has too many Negroes on it. Rabbit notice them more and more. They've been here all along, as a tiny kid he remembers streets in Brewer you held your breath walking through, though the never hurt you, just looked; but know they're noisier. Instead of bald-looking heads they're bushy. That's O.K., it's more Nature, Nature is what we're running out of. Two of the men in the shop are Negroes, Farnsworth and Buchanan, and after a while you didn't even notice; at least they remember how to laugh. Sad business, being a Negro man, always underpaid, their eyes don't look like our eyes, bloodshot, brown, liquid in them about to quiver out. Read somewhere some anthropologist thinks Negroes instead of being more primitive are the latest thing to evolve, the newest men. In some ways tougher, in some ways more delicate. Certainly dumber but then being smart hasn't amounted to so much, the atom bomb and the one-piece aluminum can. And you can't say Bill Cosby's stupid.

But against these educated, tolerant thoughts rests a certain fear; he doesn't see why they have to be so noisy. The four seated right under him, jabbing and letting their noise come out in big silvery hoops; they know damn well they're bugging the fat Dutchy wives pulling their shopping bags home. Well, that's kids of any color: but strange. They are a strange race. Not only their skins but the way they're put together, loose-jointed like lions, strange about the head, as if their thoughts are a different shape and come out twisted even when they mean no menace. It's as if, all these Afro hair bushes and gold earrings and hoopy noise on buses, seeds of some tropical plant sneaked in by the birds were taking over the garden. His garden. Rabbit knows it's his garden and that's why he's put a flag decal on the back window of the Falcon even though Janice says it's corny and fascist. In the papers you read about these houses in Connecticut where the parents are away in the Bahamas and the kids come in and smash it up for a party. More and more this country is getting like that. As if it just grew here instead of people laying down their lives to build it."

It's just... hella unnerving being in the head of a character I so aggressively disagree with., but also enlightening, like a window into a different way of thinking.

I did finish Yon Ill Wind, and it did NOT get better. If anything, it got worse-- near the end, Anthony shoehorn in this wholly unnecessary digression that includes a both dumb and offensive "AIDS" pun for no clear reason. I haven't disliked a book that hard in a long time; will probably never read anything by Anthony again.

After that, I diverged from my list to read Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel, a young Canadian author. The premise is that a global plague causes a collapse, and the book follows several characters, jumping back in forth between pre-and-post collapse timelines, gradually showing the surprising way their lives overlap. It was poignant and beautifully written, though I found the resolution frustratingly anti-climatic. Maybe this was deliberate. But overall I enjoyed it a lot. It got on my radar because Vermont poet Wess "Mongo" Jolly mentioned it on FB-- I'm glad he did.

After that, the rng gave me Urshurak, by Jerry Nichols, a high fantasy novel from the late 70s. I was really into high fantasy as a kid, and had been reading this when I was 12, when I lost it in airport about 60 pages from the end. The unresolved story's haunted the back of my mind ever since. Having just tonight finished it gives me a sense of closure, and that's great and all, but honestly... this is not a very good book. The writing is stilted and clunky, the characters painfully stock and underdeveloped. It has beautiful black and white and full color illustrations by the brothers Hildebrandt, which are prooobably the best thing about it.

I also found it alarming to think that maybe I enjoyed it less now than I did is a kid because my imagination is a little atrophied. A minor character dies about a third of the way in, and I remembered being very attached to and saddened by his death-- this time, I didn't care about the guy at all, he was like cardboard. Maybe when I was younger I imagined more detail into the character than the author provided him, making him more real to me. In any case, it is now behind me.

Which brings me to where I'm at now:

August 1914
The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Blind Assassin
Drown
A Frolic of His Own
Four Plays (Ionesco)
Howl's Moving Castle
Ink
Invisible Cities
My Name is Red
The Myth of Mental Illness
Naked Masks
Notes from Underground
On the Road
Out of Our Heads
The Path to the Spiders' Nest
Rabbit Redux
Secrets, Lies and Democracy
Something Understood
Timbuktu
The Wounded Land

..and rng picks Four Plays (Ionesco)-- the last plays currently on the reading list. My only previous experience with Ionesco is years ago seeing the plays "The Bald Soprano" and "Rhinoceros", both terrific and completely bonkers. This book contains the former, + "The Lesson" "Jack or the Submission" (probably not what it sounds like), and "The Chairs". Plays read pretty quick and all told, this is less than 200 pages, so this shouldn't take long.

So, the Synge collection contained six plays-- all he wrote (apparently he died young) and, man... I don't know. I guess he's famous because he documented a particular kind of rural early 20th century Irish life that hasn't been well-documented elsewhere... and he definitely has an ear for dialog... but as story, none of these where at all compelling-- except the last one (Deirdre of the Sorrows), which he died before finishing. And many of them were kind of offensive in how they trucked in Irish and Roma stereotypes. I guess that is an author whose work I am familiar with now, so there is that.

About half way through, I was getting a little sick of reading the Irish dialect, so took a break to read Timbuktu, by Paul Auster, which I thought was terrific- I haven't actually read that much Auster yet (this and 3 other books), but he's one of my favorite authors. This one in particular might be of interest to furries because it is written entirely from the perspective of a dog, and does so with great sensitivity and insight. I enjoyed it a lot.

After returning to and finishing Synge, the process of randomization lead me to Piers Anthony's "Yon Ill Wind", which I am currently about 80 pages from finishing. I was a big fan of Piers Anthony in High School and this, published in '96, was the oldest book in his absurdly long-running Xanth series that I hadn't read. I thought it might be fun to return to, as like a nostalgia thing. BIG MISTAKE... it is terrible. It's clear that Anthony sees Xanth as his cash cow, and doesn't really put a ton of effort into making them actual good books. Never again.

I've been remiss on keeping up with this, but I do want to keep record of what I've been reading so:'

Last time, I said I was gonna be reading A Wizard of Earthsea, but that was sidetracked by a coworker unexpectedly loaning me an omnibus of the first three books in the Sector General series, Hospital Station, Star Surgeon, and Major Operation, by Scottish scifi author James White, which and of whom I had all but never heard of before.

The series concerns a hospital in deep space. The first book is an anthology of several minimally related stories with some of the same characters, and it is hit or miss. Only one of the stories I found to be outright terrible-- concerning telepathic dinosaurs. Some were better, but none really struck me as particularly great. The 2nd book, about a first contact with an alien civilization, and the ensuing conflict, I enjoyed more. The 3rd was also a first contact story, in which, it turned out, one of the two intelligent species on the newly-contacted planet were continent-sized beings not capable of communication with the other intelligent species.

The series in general is full of fascinating ideas, but the quality of the writing is quite poor, and none of the characters felt very real or well-developed to me. It was frustrating-- I felt like if White's ideas had been in the hands of a more skilled craftsman, they would have been realized in a more satisfying way. Is it is: the book did not leave me feeling much interested in reading more of the series. Maybe some day, but certainly not a high priority.

After that, the random draw lead me to read Dr. Mutter's Marvel's. a biography of 19th century American doctor Thomas Mutter, a pioneer of early plastic surgery. I had drawn this earlier, but circumstances distracted me, and it went unread at the time. The book was written by an old friend from the New York poetry scene, Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. I enjoyed it. I feel like I cannot make any critical assessment of this one because of my friendship with the author. In some respects, I feel I judge it too harshly, and in others, maybe too lightly. So I will just say that I enjoyed it and leave it at that.

After that, the random draw again yielded A Wizard of Earth Sea by Ursula K. Le Guin. I'd been aware of Le Guin for many years, but never read anything be her except a couple short stories. This was terrific: vivid, compelling high fantasy. I've ordered the 2nd book in the series, will add it to the list when it arrives. One thing in particular that struck me about it was that the vast majority of the characters are non-white: a rarity in high fantasy. It got me thinking about the Thomas Covenant series, the first three books of which I also read recentishly, on my husband Oscar's recommendation (in addition to the books on this list, I am also always reading one of his recommendations). There is a character in the second book-- Hile Troy-- who I found myself picturing as black, even though nothing in the book states his race or describes his skin tone. A cursory googling reveals that the character is widely accepted to be black, but I can find no explanation with regard to why! It is puzzling.

In any case. After that, the random yielded Sherman Alexie's short story and poetry collection, War Dances, which was also (mostly) terrific. I had read one other Alexie book years ago-- just stories-- and had been itching to read more for a while. The stories are across the board great-- poignant, well written, and relatable-- but I found most of the poetry not to my liking. A lot of it rhymed, and felt awkward and forced to me. Not that rhyming poetry can't be done well... I just... Alexie is a widely respected poet, and I am definitely willing to read more of his stuff... but based on this book alone, I don't get it. I love his prose, though.

After that: Largo Desolato, a short play by Czech playwright Vaclav Havel. Havel, if you are not familiar, was in the 70s and 80s a dissident who opposed the communist government, and a key player in the Velvet Revolution that bloodlessly overthrew said government-- and later president of the new government. He was also a very entertaining absurdist playwright. Largo Desolato, written a couple years after his imprisonment, and several before the revolution, comes across as overtly biographical-- about an dissident being censured by the state, and the high, perhaps unrealistic expectations, of his followers. It's only 56 pages, but an interesting an enjoyable read.

This I finished yesterday, and am now starting on a collection of six plays by John M. Synge, an Irish playwright with whom I have no familiarity, except that I've long been vaguely aware of him as an author of note who is ostensibly worth being familiar with. So, here goes!

I couldn't find my copy of Dr. Mutter's Marvels, so ended up reading Robin Hood instead. I actually finished it several months ago, but forgot to so indicate here. It was, honestly, pretty bad. It's shocking repetitive-- like more than half the stories are basically Robin Hood or someone else from his band meeting a stranger, getting in a trivial fight with the stranger, then inviting the stranger to join the band. The stranger invariably agrees, presumably dropping completely out of his old life. It was... kind of weird.

Between that and now, I read Extremely Loud, and Incredibly Close on the recommendation of a coworker. It reminded me of Hard-Boiled Wonderland, in that it had two different stories going on simultaneously, one of which I found interesting and well written and the other of which I didn't like at all, and unfortunately (in both cases) the author spent more time on and seem to be more interested in what manifested to me as the less interesting story.

Tonight, I just finished the Welcome to Night Vale novel, which was a fun read, but basically fan service; I would not recommend it to anyone who was not already a fan of Night Vale. I've also acquired-but-not-yet-read Urshurak, a high fantasy novel I read most of as a kid (circa age 12 I think), but lost in an airport about 80 pages from the end. And that brings me to:

August 1914
The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Blind Assassin
The Complete Plays (Synge)
Dr. Mutter's Marvels
A Frolic of His Own
Four Plays (Ionesco)
Ink
Invisible Cities
Largo Desolato
The Myth of Mental Illness
Naked Masks
Notes from Underground
Out of Our Heads
The Path to the Spiders' Nest
Rabbit Redux
Secrets, Lies and Democracy
Something Understood
Timbuktu
Urshurak
War Dances
A Wizard of Earthsea
The Wounded Land
Yon Ill Wind

By process of random selection from this list, reading A Wizard of Earthsea next.

And oh hey, I hope all y'all at BLFC are having a great time!

Forgot that I'd also acquired Sherman Alexie's short story collection War Dances, which means I have to redo the selection for next book:

August 1914
The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Blind Assassin
The Complete Plays (Synge)
Dr. Mutter's Marvels
A Frolic of His Own
Four Plays (Ionesco)
Ink
Invisible Cities
Largo Desolato
The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
The Myth of Mental Illness
Naked Masks
Notes from Underground
Out of Our Heads
The Path to the Spiders' Nest
Rabbit Redux
Secrets, Lies and Democracy
Something Understood
Timbuktu
War Dances
A Wizard of Earthsea
The Wounded Land
Yon Ill Wind

New selection is Dr. Mutter's Marvels, nonfiction by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, an old friend from poetry circles. I typically struggle with nonfiction-- I enjoy it while I'm reading it, but I have a hard time retaining it.

Finished Zorba the Greek today. It's the story of an intellectual (the narrator) and a worldly adventurer (Zorba) who go to Crete to operate a lignite mine. Much of the text is philosophical meditation about the nature of man, God, death, &c. I think like a lot of Herman Hesse's work, or the movie Waking Life, this book may strike people really hard if they are exposed to it in their late teens or early 20s, but much later than that, and a lot of the ideas in it seem old hat. Much of the writing is beautiful, but after a while it starts (to me) to feel a little "overwritten". Just: too much lush imagery-- I kinda felt burned out on it after a while. Also, there's a shocking amount of misogyny, as well as some homophobia. I guess Zorba is supposed to be a powerful, compelling character, but I did not find myself moved by his story. Not a book I'll be holding on to or revisiting any time soon, though I am curious to see the movie.

ETA: On further reflection, I'm not really being fair to the book-- there were no small number of moments I found striking or profound-- it's just that overall, it didn't really seem to add up to much, and left me feeling underwhelmed. Much of the book seemed breathlessly taken with it's own depth, and I just didn't see it, most of the time. I 100% acknowledge, though, that maybe part of the problem is that I'm not steeped enough in Greek culture to really "get it".

Bought book 4-6 of the Thomas Covenant series, so Book 4 is now on the list:

August 1914
The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Blind Assassin
The Complete Plays (Synge)
Dr. Mutter's Marvels
A Frolic of His Own
Four Plays (Ionesco)
Ink
Invisible Cities
Largo Desolato
The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
The Myth of Mental Illness
Naked Masks
Notes from Underground
Out of Our Heads
The Path to the Spiders' Nest
Rabbit Redux
Secrets, Lies and Democracy
Something Understood
Timbuktu
A Wizard of Earthsea
The Wounded Land
Yon Ill Wind

By process of random selection from the list, my next book is The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, Howard Pyle's 1883 collection of the traditional stories. I am a little worried about being able to relate to something that old-- but I will give it an honest try!

Finished Rabbit, Run today, on the long bus out to visit a friend in Duvall. It's one of the most beautifully written, insightful books I've ever read, but horribly depressing. In brief: published in 1960, it's about a guy in his late 20s with a pregnant wife and 2 year old son who feels trapped and spontaneously, without any premeditation abandons his family. Fun times.

About half way through, I was so taken with the language, I went ahead and bought the rest of the series, Rabbit Redux, Rabbit Gets Rich and Rabbit At Rest, so book 2 is now on the list, along with Something Understood, which I forgot I had. Once again selecting the next book at random:

August 1914
The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Blind Assassin
The Complete Plays (Synge)
Dr. Mutter's Marvels
A Frolic of His Own
Four Plays (Ionesco)
Ink
Invisible Cities
Largo Desolato
The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
The Myth of Mental Illness
Naked Masks
Notes from Underground
Out of Our Heads
The Path to the Spiders' Nest
Rabbit Redux
Secrets, Lies and Democracy
Something Understood
Timbuktu
A Wizard of Earthsea
Yon Ill Wind
Zorba the Greek

Via randomization, up next: Zorba the Greek, a book about which I know next to nothing. I just bought it a couple months ago because I had a vague sense of having heard of it and being under the impression it was supposed to be a "good book".

This is just for my own benefit, primarily to keep me from going into bookstores and buying more books until I've whittled this down a little. These are the books I have and intend to read but have not yet read (not counting poetry books, which are accounted for elsewhere):

August 1914
The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Blind Assassin
The Complete Plays (Synge)
Dr. Mutter's Marvels
A Frolic of His Own
Four Plays (Ionesco)
Ink
Invisible Cities
Largo Desolato
The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
The Myth of Mental Illness
Naked Masks
Notes from Underground
Out of Our Heads
The Path to the Spiders' Nest
rabbit, run
Secrets, Lies and Democracy
Timbuktu
A Wizard of Earthsea
Yon Ill Wind
Zorba the Greek

Selected via randomization: starting in on rabbit, run tomorrow. I tried reading it once before, couldn't really get into it. If I stall out again this time, it comes off the list unread.

Things are slowly getting back on track.

Right now, I am working on putting together the manuscript for what I will hope by my second book, tentatively titled "Dingo Logic". If anyone wants to see the rough draft when it's fully assembled, hit me up.

...more than halfway through 2015, and the rerelease of Zebra Feathers is nowhere in sight. Not planning a big rerelease tour, and I feel like any momentum that review might have spurred has already fizzled out. Feels like big opportunity missed. It is disheartening, and demotivating.

Also, one of my band members, the violist, dropped out. She really added a lot to our dynamic; I'm not sure what, if anything, is next for me, on the poetry front. *frump*

Stephen Burt, a respected literary critic (and also a poet whose work I admire a lot) wrote this shockingly positive review of my book, Zebra Feathers: http://coldfrontmag.com/reviews/zeb.....s-stegosaurus/ (the review also talks alot about furry so, you know, check it out).

My publisher is gonna re-release it as an e-book sometime in 2015, and with the clout of this review behind it, I may try to parlay this re-release into a big tour. I am pretty excited.

Two reasons:

a) There's too much good stuff out there I haven't experienced to actively seek out bad stuff.


b) There seems to me do be a certain intellectual snobbery in watching something explicitly to make fun of someone else's ostensibly sincere creative efforts.

This is probably Oscar's and my biggest point of divergent on media consumption.

The last three pieces I've put up, I guess the format was not accessible to a lot of people, so I'll be resubmitting them momentarily as .txt. Pieces in question: "Menu at Chez Canard" (formerly just "Menu"), "In the Dream" and "Turtle : Dove".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7FGLJfHW5s&list=PL2DcNkn8HAwR_7sj9S_shla9Wc521w6YW&index=5

I near be like to spewed me bezoars.

Dear FA,

Today I learned that in 1970 the performance artist Willoughby Sharp took LSD while wearing a diaper in a giant crib, ostensibly to "recapture his lost childhood".

Love,
Morris

When I lived in NYC, I frequented the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Friday nights, the house was always packed. The show opened with a spotlight poet performing a 15 minute set, followed by a 5 person, 3 round invitational slam-- no elimination, and no time limits (!!!). The slam typically wrapped up around 2 or 3am if I recall correctly, and after the slam, about After the slam, maybe 95% or so of the crowd would leave, and anyone who remained could sign up and read a piece. I would usually stay until the open mic wrapped up around 5am, then grab a bite at Odessa or Veselka before heading home.

Some nights around 4am, the Reverend Pedro Pietri, one of the founders of the Nuyorican, would show up, and comandeer the mic for a while, then take off again. This is him a short piece I badly paraphrase from time to time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSd6JJVsRyU


He died in 2004-- 60 years old-- of stomach cancer, for which he had eschewed conventional treatment. I've always considered it a tragedy that he pursued only alternative treatment methods when he perhaps could've survived, but lately I've been thinking maybe he knew what he was doing, and had just decided that he was ready to die.


Intellectually, I think I've been ready to die for a while-- not that I'm in any way suicidal, or eager to die, or anything like that-- just, I feel like if I were diagnosed with some terminal condition, I might shrug my shoulders and go with it. I'm happy to keep living, but I've already had a good life.

But while I say this and hold it to be true intellectually, I know from some of my experiences with psychedelia that on an emotional level I am terrified of death. Whenever I get to the part in a strong trip that feels like I might be dying, instead of just letting it happen and letting the trip take me where it will, I get panicked and pull myself out of it.

I've stopped tripping, because I feel like unless I can get through that fear and commit to the trip, it's just a waste of time, and more than likely going to be a thoroughly unfun experience. I don't want to deal with that.

I'm writing this from the bedroom of two friends, Scott and David, who have a dog, Tavi. Tonight David stated that he found Tavi to be "derpy".

I suggested that he was referring to Tavi' apparent lack of awareness or concern for his surroundings. For example: at a party, Tavi will lie at the top of the stairs-- a position which across one axis separates the living room from the kitchen, and across another, the kitchen from the bedrooms and one of the bathrooms. So: a major thoroughfare, which any awareness of surroundings would demonstrate to him would be be a place to avoid at this time.

David told me that Tavi was very much aware of his surroundings at all times, but that this was his Spot, and he would remain there when he so chose, and fuck anyone who laid challenge to that: they had best step around. Scott-- David's boyfriend-- cut in to add that Tavi loves being the certain of attention, and that he remains in this location because it forces people to interact with him.

Scott wears elaborate costumes (many of which, at must be said, are badass and sexy), and tells detailed and involved stories about his past exploits. David is a self-styled "badass who just doesn't gave a fuck". And I am generally pretty spacey and unaware of anything except what's going on in my own head.

I think we've each projected our own foibles onto our interpretations of Tavi's behavior.

The fundamental issue on which the question of the morality of zoophilia hinges is whether an animal is capable of clearly expressing consent. So: my question to proponents or practitioners of zoophilia is: how can you know whether an animal is consenting or you are only projecting that interpretation onto her or his behavior?

--To be the best at what you do, do something no one's ever done.

--If you are the type of person who talks a lot about all the assholes you have to deal with, chances are there's only one asshole in your life.

--Being a good person is less about always doing the right thing than it is about realizing when you didn't do the right thing, and fixing it.

I guess I'm gonna start this as my "journal no one ever reads" journal, because if there isn't at least the illusion of someone reading, I find it harder to write effectively. The possibility of audience gives me a reason to focus and articulate.

Because of the holiday, I found myself thinking about Scott Kirkpatrick, He was a DC poet who I met on the road in 2000 and had bonded with pretty strongly. I had kind of a crush on him.

The last contact I had with him was when I was down in the DC/Baltimore area to do a couple gigs and I crashed at the place he and a bunch of other guys (non-poets) lived at. I was kind of an obnoxious jackass in a lot of ways on that trip. I don't feel like recounting them right now. But that was the last contact we ever had. There was no big fight or anything, it's just I think I let my guard down enough to really weird him out and offend or hurt him a few too many times. I don't have any clear recollection of what year beyond that it was '01-'04.

Not too long ago-- a couple years maybe-- I was wondering what he'd been up to, so I googled him, and found this:

http://www.details.com/culture-tren.....tt-kirkpatrick

For me, Scott is the face of the tragedy of war.

I think this article makes a nice companion to the previous journal entry, and in fact, may better answer the question I posed at the end of it than I was previously able.

http://www.businessinsider.com/gran.....s-happy-2013-4

Back in April, I made a journal entry about how I was a finalist in Write Bloody's 2012 book contest.

Well... I did not win.

But in the wake of that, I got contacted by Evan J. Peterson at Minor Arcana Press (an even smaller indie press) asking if they could take a look at my rejected manuscript.

They are publishing it.

It'll be released on January 1st, with cover art by  birds

You can see a trailer for it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t17B2vyTCHY

and if you are inclined to do so, you can preorder it here:

http://minorarcanapress.com/stegosaurus.html