I’m pleased and honored to have been invited to be one of the judges for this year’s Ferro-Grumley Awards for LGBT fiction. New works, new writers, writers new to me . . .  In a word for all those words: Fun.

Come join us in Rivertown Detroit for an evening of Victoriana, of high fashion corsetry, music and Satori Circus, elegant and delicate dainties . . . We’ll be present with a performing meditation on desire, another way station on the road that leads Under the Poppy. Love, of course, is desire’s best boon companion, but the road can be a very lonely place for a man, and there are other companions, more fierce and fleeting, passionately uninterested in love . . . Not everyone believes in the power of the heart, or wants to. But “Without it, one is so very dreadfully, sinfully alone, is it not so? And anything may find its way into an empty hand.”

Tim Walker: these are sublime fun, these models-turned-puppets-turned-models-again. I can’t possibly choose a favorite amongst them but I know I would like to see them all in action in some dreamland of mist and trailing wires, I would like to hear the music they hear, I would like to ask that dandified pair a question or two. Viva imaginary friends!

Corsets? Yes, of course. Exotic beverages? Yes. A puppet? Again, of course (is any occasion complete without one?). An ivy-drenched brick warehouse, the moon glittering on the river, the flicker of oil light, your boot tips crunching on the gravel . . . yes.  And a meditation on desire, enriched by the experiences of the folk at the Poppy: naturally. Save the date, those in the Detroit/Windsor areas and all surrounding. More info as it arrives.

Oh … and what is your desire? Because you shall be asked.

The fox and the wolf, the other children call them. They share everything, these feral boys. The fox and the wolf, the totem animals, say, the familiars of the men of the Poppy, Istvan and Rupert. The wolf, the “lone wolf,” is truly an animal who lives in, hunts in, and prefers packs; the fox is solitary. Though “The dominant male and female fox form a pair that may last for life . . . The pair travel, hunt and feed independently but occasionally meet, either briefly or for longer periods during which they play or groom each other.”

None of this I knew when I was writing the story. You make it up, and it still turns out to be true.

Here’s the inside of the card: “Sexomania”, published in Punch, 27 April 1895:

And here’s the  outside:

And there are candles blazing on the cake and Champagne ready for the toast: and we owe so much to you, dear Oscar, for the gentleness of your wit and the relentless courage of your heart. Happy birthday! You will always have a table of honor at the Poppy, the Mercury, and any other place a mec may play.

(Note: you can see lots more at Fuckyeahwildeboys, so please do.)

Oh, my! Via the sharp eye of an alert artist friend (hello, Loralei!), here’s How to be a Retronaut’s collection of vintage actors (culled from a great collection on Flickr), some of whom are frankly delightful, others not so much (the scary Christian one, brrr!). This one I adore:Think of the fun they had together, messing with the mind of the world. Bil Baird once said that “A puppet must always be more than his live counterpart—simpler, sadder, more wicked, more supple … an essence and an emphasis.” Amen.

“Reading Kathe Koja’s latest novel, Under the Poppy, is akin to spending an evening in a Victorian-era opium den designed by Tim Burton and hosted by Baz Luhrmann . . .  [W]hat Koja has written in Under the Poppy is nothing less than poetry.”

This is really lovely to read, and a great compliment on several levels: “nothing less than poetry”; wow. Many thanks to Fiction Writers Review!

And I’ve been a fan of Tim Burton’s art for many years, and bow to no one in my admiration for “Moulin Rouge,” not least for its glorious, heart-on-the-sleeve bravado.  Imagine the films – imagine the collaboration! – that might result in a head-on aesthetic collision with the Poppy! Gentlemen, les mecs await you.