When Spring made tardy apologies this year, Norma contrived an installation in reply. Old cones and leaves are good gilded ahead of Spring and emphasize her point by including my Grampa's cobbler's last in the scene. It's a vexed caution that seasons should keep apace with solar orbit or get their shoes fixed.Grampa, who used the last last, is pictured here with me:
Wednesday, April 14, 2021
Friday, March 26, 2021
This is back by where it began. I'm about 5, riding a little train pulled by puffer-engine through Golden Gate Park. I am sitting behind sisters, between big brother and our father .
It is about to choo-choo us through the woods to Fleishhacker Zoo, where I intended to apply for residence in the Gorilla Preserve. I admired their agility and wanted to learn.
Admittedly, I have gleaned some athletic competence despite my failure to qualify. Last month I fell backwards off the pumphouse roof and rolled a couple times in search of my feet, found them and stood on them. Quite relieved until the bruised muscle pain kicked in. Then, last week, our slippery shower sent me on a leap across the bathroom, included a flying tackle of the toilet, which I brought down, and spent several days bringing back up. I blame that on highschool football, not gorillas.
I can only fault our Universe's entropic confluence with temporal and gravitational continua, not the personal miscalculation and indignity of age. Just remember, there's no protective net around roofs and no teamwork in the bathroom.
Tuesday, March 9, 2021
On March one, I posted a poem on "Invalid's Workshop" that had some import to me. I repeat it here: https://atrialinvader.blogspot.com/2021/03/rain-on-summer-snowflake.html
It's the 10th now and I finally figured out the new and "improved" way to turn the damned address BLUE! --see 1st paragraph.
Saturday, February 20, 2021
I cry out from quarantine: Oh Lordy, are we all Bubble Boys Now? I consult the past, when God and I were closer in age and referred to each other in the moment --Lordy, what God was called when He was a kid and I, Geo**ie. We observe the history of the future is not always influenced by visionaries, but by those who make best of the present. I guess this post is about us. Oh Lordy! See photo:
Mainly, we were all in love with a new world that showed promise. We were all headed way the heck into the future. We're here now, and we're ok. Hope you are too.
Sunday, February 14, 2021
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Lesser-Known Christmas Tales, Part Two
Marlowe's Emporium! He hopped up on Satan's knee and told him what he wanted for Christmas.
"I want 'us' off my name. Faustus Faustus --the other doctors tease me-- 'Faustus with the leastest', big laughs, big stupid laughs! It makes me tired."
"Ok," said jolly Satan. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, I don't wanna be no old doctor no more. Just Faust. No stinkin' responsibilities. No stinkin' old. Just Faust, young Faust!"
"Would you mind being a tenor?"
"No, fine with me!"
"Ah, then let's skip up 200 years. You want Gounod."
"Yeah, yeah, lots of gonads!"
"Sort of, it's an opera. Behold: the lovely Marguerite; Siebel who wins all hearts with his 'Flower Song' and whose life you make intolerable; Valentine, who outsings you to the bitter end; the family you hector into desolation!"
"Sounds great to me!"
"Only if they don't do the ballet in act 4. That's where you and I get disgraced."
"What else you got?"
"Well, we could skip sideways and try Goethe."
"How d'you spell that?"
"That's 'ghost' while holding your tongue-tip out. Other doctors tricked me into saying 'my father works in a shipyard' doing that (try it: Mah faddah wucks inna shityard). No goeth for me!"
"That's Goethe, pronounced 'Gay-tee'. You get to hook up with Helen Of Troy --a great beauty of the Mycenaean Age."
"When was that?"
"Oh, four or five thousand years ago."
"Mommy! Mommy!" Cried Doctor Faustus. "Santa wants to give me to some really old lady!" He leaped up and ran off in search of his mother. Satan picked up the intercom handset.
"Hello Santa? Satan. I think you got a problem-kid on the way. I'll have my helpers lend your helpers some pitchforks and, if that doesn't work, just mention Helen Of Troy.
Wednesday, January 27, 2021
There may not be a picture over this post, but I'll try. It's getting on midnight here in Vineyard, 10 miles southeast of the State Capitol and folks of all stripes, state leaders and citizenry alike are battening hatches against a storm no one would wish upon their enemies or, even worse, themselves.
Excuse me, the lights are flickering in here and this post might exceed its predecessors' disjointivity. Went out to Pumphouse for nicotinic meditation an hour ago and was interrupted by felting racketing down from the roof hatch. Went out and noticed wind had rolled the tar-paper halfway up a hatch I nailed shut 40 years ago.
Oh no, the lights are flickering again and pooter's telling me "update failed". Is anybody working on this? I'll see what I can do...ah, --5 minutes-- success. But the little gray pop-up persists. I proceed, despite the funnel cloud reported spinning over North Sacramento, and select a
"a", that seems to be where blogger and weather cut me off here. Storm has abated somewhat and I took a flashlight out to the barn. 7 cats have made a purring pile of themselves and seem to weather this storm in contentment. I shall go to bed now and try to do likewise.