Spoor

Just walking in the rain, across a sodden park, near my home, in the early hours today, and I look behind me.  Spoor

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Published in: on December 30, 2012 at 4:34 am  Leave a Comment  
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Just another early morning

So, sitting over coffee, unable to decide which of the two books I brought to dip into, deciding, for the moment, neither.  Just sit, try not to scald the lip on the coffee, and write what comes to mind.Recycle Day is next Thursday.  I will try to remember.  Thursday Morning 9

Published in: on December 27, 2012 at 7:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Yuletide

Okay, so christmas, proper, is over.  I , in my curmudeonly guise, scribed this lyric (?) in two parts, today, sitting at mcd’s, after too much chocolate.  Yuletide

Published in: on December 27, 2012 at 12:54 am  Leave a Comment  
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Mt. Tolmie: the Rut

Been looking again at flash fiction.   I am particularly interested in postcard stories.  I like the challenge of getting a story/vision/dream/whatever down in about 250 words, about what would fit on a postcard.  I will file a few in posts to come.  I am setting myself a challenge of  100 days of postcards.  Nothing like aiming high!

Anyway.  I wrote a postcard story earlier today, but, this afternoon penned the following, largely while sitting in Starbucks.  Mt. Tolmie Park is only a few minutes from where I live, and I did, indeed, see a fine buck this morning, while walking the family beagle.

Mt tolmie

Jolly Roger

The pirate flag.  Usually a skull and crossbones on a black background.  I read a lot of stuff about pirates, and there has been a lot of speculation about the origin of the nickname for the pirate flag.  One of the most ridiculous is that it is a corruption of the french jolie rouge, since red flags were sometimes used by pirates, as well.

 

Needless to say, I have my own idea.  Which is, of course, the genuine, totally believeable, brilliantly conceived truth.  Your awe at my perceptions is accepted, gratefully.

Here goes.

 

The idea of English pirates poncing about, or misspronouncing the phrase jolie rouge, is ludicrous.  The only thing the English learned from the French is how to kiss.  They are still practicing.  They tried to teach the French caning, the English contribution to erotic playtime, but that didn’t take.

 

There is, in fact, a perfectly obvious homegrown origin of Jolly Roger.

 

Consider, the grinning skull.  Happy little bugger, isn’t he?   So much for the Jolly part.

 

I read a “Dictionary of the Common Tongue”, published in the early 18th century, in which the word roger has a certain prominence.

 

In England, roger is a verb, as well as a personal noun.   To roger means to fuck.  I am not making this up.  In that dictionary, it noted that Roger was a common name for a breed bull, from that came the slang use of roger as a synonym for fucking.

 

So.   Jolly Roger.   Roughly translated from English english to english for the rest of us……..jolly roger  means……..happy fucker.

 

Harrrrrrrrrrrrr, mateys!   Run up the happy fucker and givem a broadside!”

Published in: on December 2, 2012 at 5:55 pm  Leave a Comment  
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April’s Bottom…Das Lied von der Po

Back in May, 2012 I posted an early version of my celebration:  April’s Bottom.  I thought it time to revisit, so, here is the updated edition.

April’s bottom was first noticed when she was but four years of age.  People said…my, what a sweet bottom!  Her parents became quite disturbed.  She was, after all, forever running around naked in the back yard, and sometimes in the front, as well.  It was very hot that year, but that wasn’t the real reason she was naked.  At that age, and most regrettably not later, she just loved to doff textiles at the first opportunity.  Her parents had to admit, reluctantly, that she did have a wonderful bottom.  You could hear them muttering:  what are we going to do about April’s bottom?

By the time she was eight, she was affecting traffic flow, wherever she went.  Her parents were urged, for the sake of the safety of others, to dress her in loose, baggy clothing.  Her posterior was simply too compelling.  They did try, they truly did, but every time the wind blew from behind, the cars would begin to swerve.

Coffee shops and April!  When she turned twelve, old men were seen to mop their brows in Starbucks.  Relationships foundered as all parties were otherwise smitten.  University divinity students found a new faith in the Creator.  At this time, the problem, if one sees it as such, was much aggravated by fashion, particularly the fashion of jeans.  They were low slung, and every time April crouched down, or sat, the back of the jeans would slide down.  Coffee cups all around froze on their way to mouths.

Seeing this, her proud though despairing parents were heard to tell her to pay attention ‘or else…’  And with that ‘or else’, heads turned, as the nearby patrons were galvanized by deep feelings of profound ambiguity, as they, on the one hand found their self-righteousness aroused, and on the other hand, blushed with guilt in their secret delight in the vision of a however brief return to less enlightened times, and more manual ways of posterior persuasion.

Of such ways, I am both pleased, and curiously reluctant to say, April remains innocent.

But, all that was nothing compared to when she was in her teens.  By this time, creation had already completed what many considered to be its masterwork.  One glimpse was enough to put paid to anyone’s sense of equilibrium, peace, order, even good government.  April’s bottom was now a force of nature, a source of disarray and delighted confusion, a divine agency of chaos.

As for April, she was used by this time, to people staring at her behind.  She would walk down the street and surreptitiously look at reflections in windows, and she would see people looking, and smile, gently.  It is a tribute to her generosity of personality that she became neither arrogant, nor overly shy, but recognized that the sight of her bottom was to many a truly blessed assurance that the universe was, indeed, a place of grace and hope.

She therefore always dressed so that her gluteal loveliness was clearly available, but not thrust callowly into one’s face (although, in this case, few would have objected to that!).  For ever and ever, she would hear the whispers she first heard in playschool:  my, what a sweet bottom!

“Little”, by the way, would not be an accurate adjective, however suggestive of that aforementioned sweetness.    “Little” would suggest that it is smaller than expected.  It is not, nor is it larger.  April’s bottom is her crowning glory.  It swells from the tops of her legs (themselves an achievement in beauty), like a crescendo in a Bach toccata, or the final fugue in Die Kunst der Fuge.  No words are necessary, only awe, and a reverent silence.

(Gustav Mahler, on seeing this wonder, would no doubt have been inspired to write a new masterpiece:  Das Lied von der Po.)

But, make no mistake, there have been negative elements as well.  Her friends would employ April’s bottom as a weapon against male teachers, and some female.  Seeing such a victim approaching, her friends would move sideways, to give the teacher an unobstructed view of perhaps that one glorious phenomenon that made the experience of teaching the unwilling adolescent worthwhile.

The torments revealed by the teacher as he strove against the temptation to turn and watch April’s progress down the halls…they were wondrous to behold.  Such a man would then be child’s play, easy of manipulation, his awareness lost to that soul-elevating vision.

Which does bring us to now.

April’s bottom is celebration incarnate.  She knows that once seen, it cannot be denied.  She knows that men are nearly paralyzed, made helpless at a glimpse of that dream that makes the heart flutter, the knees weak, and renders all other aspirations futile.

She is always aware that she can escape unwanted attention by casually turning her back, if only for a moment.  The bothersome suitor would be stunned to motionlessness, he would simply stare, and whisper, even the most loutish of them, something romantic, something poetical, something lyrical like “oh…my…gawd!”

Alas, poor April has as yet met no man who can retain his self-control, indeed, his dignity in the face of this vision.  It demands an inner strength and nobility of soul so rare in today’s troubled times.

I must add that even winter, with the sad necessity of long coats, cannot be denied its own magic ceremonies centred upon April’s bottom.  When April enters the coffee shop, there is a momentary intake of breath, as patrons of both genders sneak glances as she approaches her seat.  April stands, pauses, and doffs her coat, and throughout the cafe there are sighs of gratification, changing to quiet chuckles of delight as she stands in line before the counter.

To encounter April’s bottom is to attain to levels of pleasure one formerly only dreamed oneself capable of achieving.  Somehow goodness and mercy become once again realized in this oft-times shadowy world.  April’s bottom is a blessing to all who contemplate it, a clear statement that there is a beneficent guiding force in our universe.  It is miracle, and if it cannot cure ills, it certainly makes them more bearable.  It is one of those magical things that does not compel possession, but simple admiration, almost worship.

Hymns could be written to April’s bottom.  They would seem lame, inadequate.  And words, too, spoken and written, they too fall so, so far short in expression, in explanation, and in celebration.  Even these words.  Yet one feels compelled to try.

And try again.