Speaking as a person whose sense of direction can barely get me from my own front door to the kitchen and back without assistance, I have a certain empathy for even the fictional characters who lose their ways in the world. Not so much so that I don’t laugh up my sleeves just a little at their plight all the same, since they are, after all, make-believe…
My sister’s cat Mercer has been sick and suffering for a while lately with some mystery malady, and his symptoms have thus far refused to explain themselves to his faithful veterinarian, so we’re in a watching, waiting and hoping phase. It’s sad and frustrating, and poor Mercer needs some serious respite from his ailments. I’m afraid I haven’t the skill to give him anything more palliative than the occasional pettings he allowed me to give him while we shared living quarters this summer. So I send out this little ditty to bring him good vibes of well-wishing long distance, as it stars the two most faithful fellow fur-babies who live or visit in his home, Ruffian the cat and Basil bunny.
Mycological Mysteries & Mishaps
A mushroom-hunter in the woods
has grasped the essence of the goods:
Ingesting whilst she picks and roams,
she damages her chromosomes;
Yet, happy, hopping, fails to know
she killed those brain cells long ago,
And thus can skip through vale and copse
quite blithely, nibbling mushroom-tops—
For nothing is so esoteric
as munching on a Fly Agaric,
But she knows not she shouldn’t eat a
bit of tasty Amanita—
Thus goes the world, and with it, sense,
when fungus fans face recompense.
I hope, at the least, that the ibex lives in Washington state or somewhere it’s been legalized, for it’s rotten enough that Irv’s being such a nuisance makes anyone prone to overindulge in anything at all, let alone that they should get locked up for it. Lousy lizard.
I do realize that it’s a long time yet until St. Patrick’s Day returns, and no, I am not Irish. But sometimes one just needs to emit a silly Limerick or two, and who can stand the suspense of holding off until mid-March? So I’ll just go with the urge—the itch, if you will—and let my Limericks out to play a little early. Or very late, as the case may be.
PS—Foie gras is one of those foods I never had an urge to try, if you happened by here during my Tuesday recitation this week. But it sounded funnier in the Limerick than pâté, even though the latter *looks* cooler with its accents sprinkled on top.
And let this be a reminder to all of us to avoid being pests and nuisances to others. As my young nephew once shouted at the screen during an epic animated film in which a number of insects were being exceedingly awful to a number of other insects, “Be NICE, Bugs!” Or you could get in big trouble. Nicer is definitely safer.
From Darkness to Stars
Those distant notes of smoky, sighing dusk
That underlay and raise the early moon
Draw mystery from earth, as if its musk
Were growing far too fecund, far too soon,
To lie a moment longer there in wait
And hide the heart of what was made for strength,
The time when reinvention is so great
It imitates Creation, and at length,
Renews its potent primacy and grows,
Becomes, designs, accelerates, empow’rs
All who would build, each being here that knows,
The inspiration of the nighttime hours—
So break the stars of newness in the night
To bring from utter darkness brilliant light!
What attracts us to certain artworks? Whether book or stage production, painting or photograph, dancing or theatre, singing or instrumental music, there has to be something with which we can connect for the work to have any meaning for us as individuals.
Some of those connections are obvious: an author with whose philosophy or politics I tend to agree is more likely to produce a book or script I enjoy than one whose beliefs are wildly different from mine; if I favor a specific style or period or medium, I’ll probably always find the works within them resonating in my heart more often than those from unfamiliar or less loved types.
Other attractions might be more tenuous or less overt. I read a whole lot online nowadays, both factual and fictional, but I still enjoy reading magazines and books, and there is no digital substitute quite yet for the fine roughness of antique paper pages in my hands and the musty scent of old books.
Art-Colored Glasses 