Too much e e cummings last night.

Sans Rime ore Resun

— Hey, get the sun! Your hear?

— Yeah. Had a busy night?

— Just go get the sun!

— Where's 'Cles?

— Set the globe down. Go. I'll get 'im.

— Here, turtle. Be careful or Promo's folks will hurt. One, two, three. Down, down, down. There's the light. Heck, you here?

— At last! Your sun burned off the sourpusses in that corner.

— Well, put up your vacancy sign. Some always looking for room.

— Tzeus got a new girl last night?

— Can tell? Seems it got knocked far this time. See you tomorrow, Heck.

— Tell Tzeus to lay off the Nymphs.

— Sure thing. One potato, two potato, hot potato. Catch Heck.

— Ouch! Take this and get out.

— Three potato, four. Up potato. Bouncy bounce. Back Tz...Zeus. Sun's up. Back on the pillar.  No 'Cles at the globe? You awake? Zeus? Zeus? Oh, well, time to make the coffee.

Hecabano's Moment In Time

At an outdoor cafe on the boulevard, three of the cast from The Wicca Horror Show settled at a table beneath a black locust tree. Being undead, Wicca disdained solid food in favor of booze, on which she was quite the authority. Fellow Outworld alumnus Hecabano had his usual hero sub and super-size limeade. Patsy was visiting from Outworld to do her standup routine on the show. A native of Earth, she was newly blonde from a combat spell gone wrong, and had never looked back. But the blonde jokes had managed to disappear from her arsenal.

Before diving into a deluxe burger, Patsy consulted a notepad, tapping it with a pencil. "Listen up, men. What do you call a girl who has infectious mono?" To their blank looks she supplied, "A lymphomaniac!"

"I don't get it," Wicca said.

Patsy made a sour grin. "You non-lab types. Everybody knows that in infectious mono there's an increase in cells called lymphocytes."

"Ahhh." The dwarf Hecabano wore a knit cap to cover his short satyr horns. "A medical-sexual word play. I fear it's too highbrow for Wicca's audience."

Wicca eyed the dwarf's legal pad. "That's why I'm letting you do your dumb poem, Impo."

"Not a poem, Mistress of Malarkey. I call it a moment in time. This is called 'Summer Squall'."  He began to read.

"A susurrate breeze draws me to the small cement square of the back porch. The coming storm rolls stereo boulders across the sky. Dark trees clash and sway against the coverlet gloom. A corner garage light comes on, thinking it dusk. White sprinkles slash across its glow.

Drops patter on the awning overhead. A needling spray drives me from the edge, where I focus on the downspout, intent on seeing the first gush. Peewee the titmouse flits at a peanut, but a brilliant flash-crack spooks him off the prize.

Rain fries overhead, and sizzles on the brick steps. Drat! I've missed the first torrent out the downspout. The leg drenching drives me to shelter behind the open glass door.

In moments, the squall has moved on, leaving cool rain scent in its wake. A comically soaked Peewee darts in for his sodden treat. Orange clouds luminesce an enchanted scene with glazed light. Faraway thunder trails the departing storm edge, and in the dripping calm, a train whistle echoes a jay's call. Memories of church bells from another time, another town. . . .alas, we can't have it all."

"Brave-o!" Patsy applauded. "I can just smell the rain air."

Wicca remained impassive behind the shades. "You need more sleep."

"Sleep?" the dwarf queried.

"Yes. It's like being awake, only you aren't."

"Never mind her," Patsy said. "You and me will be a smash!"

Wicca would have sighed if she had need of breathing. "Well. . . .it is a horror show."

Dolly

One night on the lab graveyard shift, things were slow, so I started browsing through a novelties catalog--stuff to adorn the house with. Ended up buying about $200 worth of it. One thing that caught  my eye was this elegant porcelain that stands 17 inches. I thought it was turn of the century American, but it turns out to be what English ladies wore to the horse races about 1900.

Given the expense of all that crinoline, she must have a special viewing box where all that train doesn't get dirty. This is a 5x9 color pencil drawing of the patient model. The wrist tag reads 'Eliza', but Dolly seems more apt. Oddly enough, I couldn't find any more in this size range. You'd think a hundred choices would be available, considering fashion through the ages.

The Storm in art and music

In the foreground, a bar of sunlight retreats from the coming storm. A relative of mine said of the man isolated in a pool of light: 'That must be the loneliest man in the world.' Despite being monochromatic, gray skies can be as artistic as the most colorful sunset.

In 'The Storm', Michael Stearns captures the essence of aftermath with fading thunder, and a sound like raindrops falling on the guitar strings. Other mood masters are Steve Roach and Mychael Dana.

Botticelli's La Primavera

 

Botticelli's La Primavera (Spring) is read from right to left. Zephyr, the blue figure, god of the west wind and of spring, catches the Greek nymph Chloris, and impregnates her, and she becomes her equivalent, the Roman Flora. At the center is Venus, with Cupid, above. Following this are the three Graces and Mercury standing alone and holding a caduceus with which he seems to ward off clouds. 

The artwork was commissioned by a member of the Medici family. The painting has been analyzed textually—the literary sources of the composition studied, including Ovid and Lucretius. Critics have studied the grouping of figures. They have studied the colors. the figures' posture and action, the background; but there is no accepted interpretation. My reading of the work follows: 

In Primavera, Botticelli employed Ovid, in part, to create a tableau of charming symmetry. Chloris, the Greek goddess of spring and flowers, is seized by Zepherus; and she turns into her Roman counterpart, Flora, who scatters flowers. In the center of the painting is the pregnant Venus, symbolizing regeneration. On the opposite side of the tableau, Mercury appears to protect the peaceful environment of Primavera. He is armed against intrusion and dispels the clouds, not turning his eyes to gaze at the idyllic scene; but one of the Graces catches sight of him just as Cupid lets fly his arrow at her. The aftermath is played out in the viewer's mind. In love, the Grace approaches Mercury; and he, too, falling in love, abandons his labor. The clouds roll in, the season advances, and Primavera, which cannot last forever anyway, is lost. 

Briley

Tonight's tale of unexpected charity proves that old maxim: a little kindness goes a long way. A waitress named Cheryl is about to face that truism by going to bat for a troublesome customer. Mr Briley seems intent on getting in the way, and he's leading a number of folks on a brief tour. . . . of The Twilight Zone.













Another morning dawned at the Sunrise Diner. Cheryl, its only waitress, cleaned the six center tables in preparation for the breakfast crowd, such that it was. The place was a converted two-story Victorian off the main drag, bordered by other old houses, treed gullies, and a railroad crossing. Its clients tended toward old timers who went out of their way for the slower pace and retro charm of this suburban oasis.

One of these was Briley, whose old van was a fixture in the gravel parking lot. His big frame sauntered in, sporting glasses and a hunting cap. With laser focus he aimed for the coffee station and outrageously chatted up a construction type, who didn't seem to mind.

At the deli counter, C M Funk served up a double cheeseburger for one of the stool sitters. He wore limp blond hair and a wispy goatee as a badge of generation Y cool. As such, people like Briley struck him as fossils. He said as much to Cheryl when things slowed down. She was after all a fellow gen Y-er with red pony tail, and crazy zebra glasses with red lens frames.

"Mr Wonderful," C M quipped, "like clockwork. He makes a production out of it: a little sugar, then stir and taste; a little cream, then stir and taste. He oughta have it down to a science by now."

Cheryl made a half grin. "Give the poor guy a break. This is the high point of his day, and he isn't going to rush it."

Briley usually waited until the sunny corner booth became available.

"There he goes," C M said. "Don't tell me you're gonna spend your break with him again."

Cheryl waved that off. "He's a funny man to talk with. I can play with my ipad anytime. Maybe I won't tell him C M stands for Caroll Milton." That drew a sour face from C M.

As usual, Briley played down his own story in favor of Cheryl's. She didn't mind admitting to seeing less of her man than she'd like; he was gong to night school, trying for safer work that eliminated heights and fumes. No, they hadn't started a family yet, though Cheryl wanted to. Briley got a kick out of her theory as to why the owner had built here: when cars got blocked by the train, many would pull into the diner to wait it out. A captive--and paying--audience.

After Cheryl went back to work, Briley made a call to his lawyer."Bret? I done made up my mind. Let's make sure it's air tight."

"Okay, Mr Briley, if you're sure. One and a half million is quite a life savings, and your kin are not going to be happy."

"The hell with 'em. They knowed for a whole year I'm runnin' outta time. The doctor ain't even givin' me two months. Has the first one of  'em even called me? Hell naw. I'd rather for this girl to have it than them vultures."

With that taken care of, Briley headed out, turning to wave to Cheryl.

She returned the gesture. "See you tomorrow, Mr Briley!"

He grinned. "Hope so, dahlin', hope so."

Carolina Shed

There's an amusing story behind this 10x14 acrylic. When I put it on the old Art Show on Disqus, it was titled Tractor Shed. A savvy user commented that, due to its isolation, it was more likely a fertilizer shed, as these had a propensity to explode. She then included a photo of an exploded shed. I commented 'My poor shed. . .'

The sky was completely dropped; scanner must be getting old, because it doesn't handle pink well.