Diving into the rabbit holes of sketchy draft posts has been the best thing about #nablopomo. Some of have just stopped me in my tracks - they've been nothing more than a hodgepodge of links and a little text, like this one:
I start copying the links to see where they go.
Oh!
I love that image!
The next one's the same. So's the third - although the third one tells me the image is the Boggerslosh, from The Utter Zoo.
The Boggerslosh conceals itself
In back of bottles on a shelf.
I fell down the Boggerslosh rabbit hole because I'd bought a book of postcards when visiting the Gorey house a few years ago. The Boggerslosh is the only postcard that I didn't mail off to someone. I kept it because it reminded me both of my mother (who was fond of blue & green glass bottles) and of the Gorey house (with its collections of oddments and glass bottles).
I decide to check my Gorey library. I do not have The Utter Zoo - and it is not included in either Amphigorey or Amphigorey Too.
Tucked inside Amphigorey, though, is a photocopied note in my mother's handwriting:
Amphigory
A nonsense verse or composition - a rigmarole with apparent meaning which proves to be meaningless.
Rigmarole
A succession of confused, meaningless or foolish statements; prolix and rambling or incoherent talk.
Ragman Rolls
Document having many names or seals (i.e. Papal bull) - from rolls of deeds in which Scottish novels swore allegiance to Edward I of England in 1291.
I do not remember discussing rigmarole and ragman rolls with my mother, but I love knowing that she cared enough to look up amphigory and follow it back to Edward I.
Aimless archeology paused, I return to the draft post.
The Wuggly Ump, by Edward Gorey
It eats umbrellas, gunny sacks,
Brass doorknobs, mud, and carpet tacks.
The Wuggly Ump is in Amphigory, but - sing tirraloo, sing tirralay! - I also have a battered 1963 hardcover, complete with dust jacket.
What I cannot find is the photo I took at the Gorey house, of the small pile of carpet tacks on a mantelpiece. I know it's here somewhere.
Funnily enough, there's a new biography of Gorey just out, called Born to Be Posthumous. I did need to read aloud much of the review at the breakfast table yesterday. Like:
Even some of Gorey’s most ardent fans assumed he had to be British and long deceased. Such intricate, gothic scenes were supposed to unfurl from the pen of a wan, wraithlike neurasthenic holed up in a garret — not some towering Midwesterner partial to floor-length fur coats and busy days attending the New York City Ballet.
Even though I generally don't love biographies, I might need to put that one on my Christmas list.
I meander here, I meander there. And thus concludes a month of posting, nearly every day.
