Day 234 – The Real Ones are in the Air

The Real Ones are in the Air

Day 234

Small Wire by Anne Sexton

My faith
is a great weight
hung on a small wire,
as doth the spider
hang her baby on a thin web,
as doth the vine,
twiggy and wooden,
hold up grapes
like eyeballs,
as many angels
dance on the head of a pin.God does not need
too much wire to keep Him there,
just a thin vein,
with blood pushing back and forth in it,
and some love.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
So if you have only a thin wire,
God does not mind.
He will enter your hands
as easily as ten cents used to
bring forth a Coke.
We are in the midst of a winter storm and the wind is working its way up to a decent howl while my wind chimes clang like crazy – I probably should have taken them down, huh?  And this puts me in the mood for a bit of bad writing.  I gave my Facebook peeps 10 minutes to give me a list of random words.  This is what they gave me -immobile, flatulent, boobs, platypus, pomme de terre, authoritarianism, pterodactyl, refrigerator, armpit, participate, Harley, Anish na (means how are you today in, I believe, Chippewa) and blizzard.
 So without further ado:
It was a dark, stormy, cold and snowy night, the wind howled with the all of the fury of an angry pterodactyl that had just eaten 12 habaneros and chased them with a 12.5 ounce glass of unsweetened Kool-aid that had just a touch too much flavoring. Eughhhhhhhawwwwwwahhhhhhhh! And this extremely cold and awesomely snowy night, a night on the verge of a vicious, epic, white and blinding blizzard, held a gruesome scene that Harley Pomme de Terre, had seen way too many times. Yes, far TOO many times in his many years as a gum shoe, a private detective, a flatfoot, a shamus, a snoop, a peeper; he was a regular Sherlock Holmes, our Harley Pomme de Terre, and he had seen this one TOO MANY times in the 12 ¾ years that he had consulted with the Chicago PD.
Harley stared, immobile, at the horridness, the repulsiveness, the awfulness that lay in front of him and for the life of him, he could not understand, nor could he fathom, why yet another hairy armpit lay in the middle of the dark truffle display at the See’s Candy store. Why an armpit, why See’s and more importantly, why in the middle of the dark truffles – the ones with the fine drizzle of white chocolate that started in a small loop at the center of the chocolate and swirled out to drip delicately over the side, making him want to take his finger nail and just PICK at that white chocolate to get it without marring the surface of the dark chocolate – that he liked so much.
Harley sighed. Another armpit for the refrigerator, otherwise known as the Pit pit. Who could be behind this dastardly deed? And who were the poor souls missing an armpit and too ashamed to come forward? And from the looks of this particularly pileous pit, the perp had pulled pretty potently, for there was a bit of the OTHER armpit attached. Who? Who? Who???
There was only one person that Harley Pomme de Terre knew who would participate in a heinous crime such as this, someone who suffered from severe hypothermosis, trichopathophobia, bromidrosiphobia and xocolatophobia but who did not suffer from pootophobia as evidenced by the nasty scent left in the wake of this most creepy of scenes. The hellish wind had died down so all Harley needed to do was follow the funky, fetid, foul and flatulent scent trail left wafting in the air.
Harley made it as far as the East Wacker Building when the stench overcame him – he was close to his very nasty quarry…. Very close indeed.
“How you’s doing, big boy?” queried the very voluptuous Polly Platypus in her best 1940’s film noir intonation, and she looked very noir indeed with her sausage curled hair, her pencil skirt, very largish boobs barely restrained by her white cashmere sweater and the black mole that adorned her upper lip right under the wispy mustache she had forgotten to wax that morning.
“Anish na,” Harley replied in his gravelly two pack a day rasp, “I thought I’d find you here, Polly.”
She batted her eyelashes at him coquettishly, “Hey Pomme de Terre, hows about you’s and me go out to Lake Pomme de Terre and eat us a big plate of pommes de terre frites?”
Harley knew that he had to take his chance quickly if he was going to nab this femme fatale, so he did a quick spin to the left, arched around to the right, ducked once or twice then twisted his right foot out just so – Polly leaned ever so slightly to avoid his size fourteen foot encased to perfection in his Tricker’s handmade wingtip derby shoes. And as she leaned, Pomme de Terre clipped a cuff onto her dainty right wrist. She let out a shrill scream as her backside cut loose and they were both engulfed in a green miasma of odor. He remembered the old axiom about what to do in a fire and quickly decided that it would be behoove him to do the same in this stinky situation and stopped, dropped and rolled taking Platypus along with him as he deftly cuffed her other equally dainty wrist.
The roll took them to the curb where they promptly rolled off with a thump right at the door of a waiting cruiser.
“I don’t have to put up with this you sneaky authoritarianism stooges!” Polly cried out. She was quickly quieted as Bubba, the largest officer on the squad took her in a bear hold, her face buried in the wet stain that marred his armpit.
The howling banshee called The Wind, picked up once more, blowing the scent of this crime away as Harley Pomme de Terre lifted the collar of his coat and walked off into the dark, stormy, cold and snowy night, the wind howling with the all of the fury of an angry pterodactyl that had just eaten 12 habaneros and chased them with a 12.5 ounce glass of unsweetened Kool-aid that had just a touch too much flavoring. Eughhhhhhhawwwwwwahhhhhhhh!!!!

Day 218 – A Bit Before the Morn.

A Bit Before the Morn.

Day 218

Music on Christmas Morning by Anne Bronte

Music I love -­ but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine -­
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne.
Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel’s voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them, I celebrate His birth -­
Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
Good-will to men, and peace on Earth,
To us a Saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan’s power is overthrown!

A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed,
And Satan’s self must now confess,
That Christ has earned a Right to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive’s galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave his blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.

Well, it really isn’t a morning photo – but I like Anne Bronte and the poem, so there you go….  Not much else to go with as I have been doing an over-abundance of photo editing tonight between the posts that I do not like to put up all at once.  I am lagging behind one day, today (!), because rebel that I am, I didn’t take one single photo!   Just one more day to roll over to the end of this project…..  My husband will be so pleased.

Day 206 – Now and Hence

Now and Hence

Day 206

The Snowflake Which Is Now And Hence Forever by Archibald MacLeish

Will it last? he says.
Is it a masterpiece?
Will generation after generation
Turn with reverence to the page?

Birdseye scholar of the frozen fish,
What would he make of the sole, clean, clear
Leap of the salmon that has disappeared?

To be, yes!–whether they like it or not!
But not to last when leap and water are forgotten,
A plank of standard pinkness in the dish.

They also live
Who swerve and vanish in the river.

I re-charged the battery and had the camera ready, but after a day of plotting and planning and a night of scribbling out my annual Christmas missive of smuggery and half-lies, I really didn’t have the desire to put together a photo as well.  And so I am posting the snowflake I had originally planned to use this past Saturday.  This rather large and quite sparkly snowflake hangs with about 30 other rather sparkly snowflakes from the high ceiling in the commons of my church.  They catch the soft current of air flowing high above and spin lazily.  I shot this from the upper floor of the church while hanging over the railing.  The dancers far below were looking at me as if I was a bit on the loony side, and perhaps I am.  It is such a large area and takes your breath away when you walk in for the first time – the place is oozing with the Holy Spirit and energy; I receive an abundance of solace when I walk through the doors.