A Stray to Botaram updates on Tuesday and Thursday. The comic is being upgraded; size and resolution may change.


Title: Another Hunt
Chax: There are a few khirriks near the top of the Kollen, but they’re up a bit high for me to jump right now. I don’t know if this is even possible, but do you think you could try to hunt one for me?
Aun (surprised): Hunt? You mean right now?
Aun (taking time to mull it over): Well, it’s… what’s that word you love? “Unprecedented.” I only feed once a day, when the Chimmer’s in the air. I’ve never had to do it twice, so I don’t know what would happen! (Aun stares down at his frenting rod.) I can’t see that it would hurt to try, though.
Aun: Okay, I’ll do my best for you. Let’s try to find a place that’s close enough to the khirriks, and far enough away from… all that filth.
Chax (smiling): Thank you. I greatly appreciate this.
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Too Much Power…

As of this writing, I am back online in a warm and well-illuminated house. I’d like to thank our neighbors, Laura and Alexis, for sharing the use of their generator during the first few days, and our friends, Betsy and Stefan Burr, for opening their house to us, sharing dinner with us, and lending us their generator in our time of need.

However, it seems that while wrestling with setting up the heavy generator, I dealt my back a blow from which it has yet to recover. I am therefore bedridden for now, and so am postponing the next entry of Botaram to the coming Monday.

Until!

Sandstorm

I am at least provisionally in the path of the East Coast hurricane, and have just gotten the hatches reasonably battened. I will be working on Botaram tonight and tomorrow as power and laptop battery permit. Provided that cell coverage remains, I should have the next entry up by tomorrow evening. Until!

What’s going on…

Still not dead, but now having some health concerns in addition to other worries. This isn’t shaping up to be a good year…

Nevertheless, I am assigning a firm date for Botaram’s return; I expect to be back in the saddle on Monday, September the third. I trust that I will not be proven wrong.

To those who are still checking in, I thank you for bearing with me.


More Tomfoolery

More limericks, for the nonce:

A Strasmin who sought Botaram
Said “I fear that my plan is a sham.
When I stammer, or yammer,
It hammers my grammar—
A glamour flim-flammer I am.”


An Oistrem was heard to complain
That her brain was too plain to contain
The pain and the strain
Of her deigning to feign
An arcane campaign of disdain.

“I’d abstain from all ledgerdemain,
For I’m fain this domain to explain.
But again, it pertains
To disdainful refrains
Which remain too insane to restrain.

“I’ll explain ere I get a migrane,
For this chain or chicane is my bane.
And my gain, in the main,
Lies in what I maintain:
That my brain, split in twain, is insane.”


…inuviabentidguvor-
jiokundialunedikor-
pevasoziurandi-
asmalidrukanti-
bisgarwisalalunizor…




Still Alive…

Dealing with personal issues, some of which are good. My brain keeps finding ways to work on things that are not Botaram, so perhaps I needed another break.

This is no excuse for shirking my duties, so here are some Botaram limericks while I work this out:


A Strasmin once said, “My intent
Is at odds with what I think you meant.
What you do with
your rod
Makes you smile and nod,
But the bent of my rod is to frent.”


There once was an Oistrem named Guaz-
marenchubiavhufarataz-
hulemdiorivu-
stamcapuhitiwu-
suntalahinumashabaz…


(second draft)

There once was an Oistrem tagged “Guit,”
Who said “Now that I’ve gotten to it,
I strongly intuit
This gooey conduit
Will not suffer me to pass through it.

“It was simple from far off to view it,
But if I press on, I shall rue it,
Though I hew it, the goo, it
Renews just as true. It
Is prudent, I think, to say
‘This path brings me no closer to my objective and I shall reconnoiter to find one that might bear better fruit.'”



Until!

Progress and Sonnet

This block is taking longer to resolve than I hoped. Here’s a sonnet in the meantime:

In soaring through the world, from rest to rest,
Emergent to recumbent, dust would claim
The briefest spark, the right to take a name
And drink of life while life shall lend a breast—
But when what we imbibe does not digest,
And turns not into pleasure, nor to fame,
But curdles, lying heavy, who would claim
There’s aught to favor in that draught distressed?

Now from the cream let’s separate the jest,
Dyspeptic humor none should stomach, lest
We take it to the heart and cast our blame,
Unheeded, on the teat. Were time repressed,
We’d still endure this sharpest sort of test,
To either lose our ground, or find the flame.


Botaram vita est.