That Kind of Day

This has been a crotchety old-man
type of day, foul tempered and
gloomy, threatening rain and
making good on the warning.  The
sky has done its duty to the atmospheric
mood, darkly pouting, shuffling a
battalion of armour-bruised clouds
sending deeply entrenched ill humour
over the innocent landscape. A
bitterly trenchant wind ruffles
tree tops moaning in hapless misery.
No birds sing.  Creatures of the
forest slink about in silent, morose
dudgeon.  The damp and the dark
has exorcised death-blue fungi
to litter the forest floor.  Trees exude
unpleasant succubi.  Truculent blame
squats gnomelike and shadowy
on grizzled old stumps, grimacing,
haunting the embattled woods.

When? All Else Failing

Lesson for the day: logical
assumptions do not necessarily
conclude logically.  Reason would
have it when searching for a
purpose-built item, seek out
purveyors who specialize.

A national franchise heralded
for office supplies, one of many
such to service a large public
clamouring for electronics, they
competitively service a 
distinctive crowd.  Floor displays
whet the consumption appetite
for whatever is desired.

Computer desks, take your pick.
Compressed wood pulp,
particleboard, printed faux
wood-paper surfaces, steel as
fragile as a butterfly wing,
brittle glass - no champions of
quality nor aesthetic value.

Still, the need must be met.
Indecision wracks the process,
comparisons between retailers
prevail.  But a decision reached
and oops, not in stock.  Another
chosen, computer-based inventory
assuring, but oops, sold out.

That Eureka! moment:  in the
basement workshop cluttered with 
tools a solid oak desk of respectable
vintage.  Retrieved, refinished,
endowed anew with a re-purposed
slide-out keyboard tray: in business!

 Total Surrender

He is defenceless against

my intention to bring 

some semblance of order

to his shallow apricot pelt,

too long ungroomed, and

he guised as a neglected 

orphan.  Tiny and defenceless

he has no option but to 

submit after the first few

feeble protests, snarls and

absurdly bared teeth. On my

lap he sprawls, scissors

clicking, light fuzz falling

away, the sun warming us

both, the sound of a cardinal

sweetly distant, and in a

moment he is completely

compliant, held fast in a

slumber of total surrender.

Your Deserving Son

 Those Jewish mothers, so invested

in the welfare of their children,

shuddering with dread should some

untoward event occur to impinge on

the well-being of their own whose

future and contented satisfaction

with life is paramount....  And sometimes

fortune is kind, the son is a scholar of

rare dimensions, his writing superbly 

academic graced with humour, adept

in the arts as well as the humanities

and the physics of heavenly existence, 

an historian, astronomer, artist, musician,

writer; the heart soars with pride.  And

his wife, a paragon of every womanly

and scholarly virtue.  She too, gifted 

in a myriad of ways; best of all, she

who is an ordained Anglican priest

deeply loves your deserving son.

Canadian Rockies

Photographs courtesy J.S. Rosenfeld

Get Over It

While you subscribe to that brilliant 

truism that chance favours the prepared 

mind, clearly you were not adequately

prepared.  No, do not look again.  Yes,

you feel compelled to do just that. Compel

yourself not to.  Do, rather, as you see others

present; studiously looking elsewhere.

Ah, you succumbed to a surreptitious

sidelong glance.  Well, my dear, studied

indifference would have been far more

appropriate. Are you satisfied with

having verified your first fleeting

incredulity?  No, I thought not.  What's

the problem?  Certainly, he is tall, portly,

pallid and elderly and his appearance is,

to put it mildly, a visual challenge.  Get

over it.  You don't think much of that

long, grey-yellow-white hair irregularly

sweeping his shoulders, falling in a

fringe from his very bald crown?  Obviously,

he thinks highly of it as his prerogative.

Kindly, for the sake of polite courtesy,

do not glance again.  My dear, you are

quite plainly incorrigible.  No matter.

Though you're certain you were sufficiently

discreet, a critic's role does not become

you.  What's that yo say?  You think that

man, younger than you but in his mid-sixties

is a flamboyant exhibitionist?  Consider

this: he may merely be expressing an inner

compulsion.  I see - you think his bare,

hairy arms, shoulders, legs are not set

to full aesthetic advantage by the brief

strapless cotton summer frock with its

bright floral print, though the bosom is

amply filled?  My dear, that is your very

own, and one must comment, rigid opinion.

Have We A Bid?

It seemed a brief introduction to
a study of contrasts, as though
some wag had swiftly sketched out
the incongruous juxtaposition of
the two, both attending an auction.
He, tall, slim, distinguished grey,
looked as though he were slumming.
She, tall and corpulent, a colourful,
jaunty straw hat perched on her 
steel-grey head, looked right at home.

This was no prestigious auction house,
but the once-monthly auction of high
value donations at the Salvation Army
thrift shop.  The auctioneer clearly
enjoyed her amateur role, urging
those present to fully appreciate the
outstanding value of a clock, a 
sculpture, framed prints, a hat stand,
an old typewriter, a set of brass scales,
a bookcase, and ... a music stand.

She turned to a stranger seated beside
her to whisper just how much she
craved that music stand.  The pre-bid
price of twenty-five rose steadily in
increments of two and ten.  Hers the
hesitant twos, and his the confident
tens.  At one hundred, twenty seven
dollars suspense reigned supreme.

One could imagine the elegant man
standing before that music stand holding
sheet music, playing a flute.  And she?
The imagination struggled.  In any
event, her agony seemed to be excessively
prolonged,  He looked complacently
entitled and she in contrast looked
bemused, confused.  In any event, it
was not she who finally triumphed.

 The Blooming Hydrangea

The sweet, syrupy fragrance

of the French-lace hydrangea

blooms, ripely white shading 

to pink, send their perfume 

across the garden to draw 

to those blowsy, compound 

blossoms of sheer perfection 

the frenzied bliss of butterflies, 

wasps and bees drunk on the 

nectared pleasure of sumptuously 

copious offerings of pollen, 

sending the attentive wing-whirring

suitors into deeply delerious

ecstasies of pure rapture.

Cycling

Oh dear, it is so easy to pick

up bad habits, even the measure

of our days do that; like the moon,

they wax and they wane, like us,

they are given to procrastination.

Dawn, as example, has been

unbecomingly tardy of late.  No

longer the delight of early birds

inspiring them to glorious song,

dawn is late now, and later still

will she be, succumbing to bad

habit.  What's more, dusk too has

fallen prey to slovenliness, confused

its timing, intruding far too early

on the day, each confusing the

other's seasonal instructions for

their own and working in tandem -

no malice, we are assured - bestowing

upon us a gift we would far prefer

not to accept - graciously, of course -

in the normal course of seasonal

unreasonableness of purpose.

Eid al-Fitr

A month of holy deprivation, from

crescent moon, the symbol of Islam,

to crescent moon, when neither

food nor drink may pass the lips of

the faithful, to desecrate the holy month,

till sundown, sharpening the mind,

urging the soul to search its depths to

a finer faith through exemplary worship

and daily comportment hailed as a credit

to the glory of Islam's commands, in

perfect submission.  Ramadan, a time for 

pious introspection, time to re-dedicate 

to a lifetime-worth of obeying the dicta 

of Islam.  Finally, time to remember the 

dead, recite prayers in their memory at 

their gravesides. Alas, increasingly, 

believers leave the land of the living, in

blessed martyrdom as brothers elevate pious

zeal to fulfill The Prophet's abjurations

of an enlightened pacific embrace of

otherness, shouting 'There is no God but Allah'

while increasing the numbers of graves

to be visited and prayed over in duty

to Islam's urging to love one's brother.

Shelter In A Storm

Just like the echo of the human
psyche, nature takes puckish pleasure
in manipulating light moods to dark
for the atmosphere above us,
sweetly encouraging a wide blue
morning sky with that beaming
sundisk warming dawn's cool
introduction, then prodding sullenly
grim clouds to shove the timid
pacific blue aside, the sky to reduce
to dark gloom.  We, making our
feckless way in the closeness of the
afternoon forest, note the wind
scudding clouds bruised with the
conflict of nature's impish intent.  In
the dimmed light jewelweed, newly
blooming, gleams defiant, miniatures
of the hidden sun.  The morosely
bellowing cracks of thunder give ample
notice and we pick up pace from a
crawl to a stroll.  Timing and luck
truly are the determinants; the pounding
daggers of rain slathering the area
just as we enter our sheltering hearth.

The Antagonist

He is an Apricot Toy poodle and

as such, delicately put together,

proportionally minuscule but we

do not inform him that he is small

and vulnerable, for he would scorn

such a conclusion.  In his youth,

after all, he climbed mountains at

our side, and nothing intimidated him.

He conceives of himself as

courageously stalwart, the equal

in valour to any large breed dog.

He has, we know, a typical

Napoleon complex; strange dogs

are given the short shrift of warning

snarls.  Then came the time when a

miniature version of himself, an

Apricot Teacup poodle, was

encountered, being closely and

lovingly held.  No self-respecting

dog allows itself to be carried rather

than trotting about on its own, so

the Toy did not deign to grace the

presence of the Teacup with so much

as a glance, much less a growl.

Random Order

To the privileged teen age girl

conscious of her self-image

and how she relates to her place

in a world comprised of her

generation, the much-admired

one preceding hers and all the

rest comprised of varying degrees

of "old"; those younger than she

barely rating notice, very little

she desires lies beyond her ability

to simply pluck those treasures

that will ensure her life is made

worthwhile, complementing her

pleasant dreams.  With the possible

exceptions, perhaps of perfect grades,

a coterie of sympathetically reliable 

best friends (every one of them), a

stunningly gorgeous, affable

boyfriend for whom her care is

his command, a palatial bedroom,

a private pool and no end of money

to spend on the necessities of life:

clothing, jewellery, cosmetics.  All

desired and fervently wished for.

Not necessarily in that particular

and obviously random order.

Fragile Vessel

We had no reason to withhold from

opening our hearts to that little creature

that entered our lives.  How were we

to know the emotional toll it would

demand of us when we showered her

with attention, took such delight in her

actions and reactions, shared our life

and our experiences with that resolute,

curious, loyal and loving sprite, that

after twenty years of her presence we

would be left so desolate without her.

We would have delayed her departure

if we possibly could, but the nature of 

all living things is the journey and hers

approached cessation.  We do what we can

now to staunch her absence, recalling her

presence over the years that so enriched

our own.  Were we of sterner stuff we

could wax philosophical but we cannot.

Time, we are soothingly informed, will

relieve the anguish as we berate ourselves

for the selfishness of wishing her return.

Halley's Comet   Photograph by James Balog Of the thousands of known comets in the solar system, Halley's comet is one of some 200 that are periodic. Halley's comet orbits Earth every 76 years; the next flyby will occur in 2061.

Who Hath Known 

The Mind Of Nature?

When the divine Julius Caesar chose not

to heed the warning, his dying influence as

DIVVS IVLIVS moved the very cosmos

to deliver a message of grief as a comet

streaked along the prostrated universe 

in honour of the dead.  From Tycho Brae to

Carl Sagan, comets have been heavenly

messengers whose presentation we have

yet to fully decipher.  Logic and astrophysics

tell us minerals, dust particles and frozen gases

illuminated through atmospheric abrasion.

Those more finely acquainted with the arcana

of outer space know of "the star of offended

divinity", evidence of an intelligence aghast

at the forbidden actions of those given breath

and the whisper of greatness brought low

by the misery of human treachery in brutal

haste, then rearing back in horror of what

they have achieved, although in antique

verity, "not all that terrifies, harms"

Love Is

Love, in particular, values

contrition when it is due, and is

swift to forgive.  As intimately

and caringly as we know one

another, it can be illusory, for

often enough do we really 

know ourselves?  If we feel

touched by unease, do we always

know its source?  Do we ever

wish to be a source of pain to

those we love?  And if, on occasion

we leave our love puzzled and hurt,

do we not feel compelled to 

retract a statement, excuse an action,

ask for forgiveness for a casual

slight?  Love, in fact, very much

requires a heartfelt expression

of regret, pleading I'm sorry.

 Master-And-Slave

Truly, is it remotely possible that

an electronic device can develop

emotions, such as empathy, loyalty,

compassion, for example?  Childishly

absurd to entertain such a thought,

admittedly.  And yet.  It seems to be

my experience that my computer is

capable of anticipating my needs

born perhaps of our long and enriching

relationship.  In fulfilling my needs,

can the computer feel the acute

satisfaction of an altruistic act?  I

struggle to define our relationship.

Clearly, I make demands, but yet am

a supplicant in the fervent hope to be

accommodated.  Clearly, our unequal

relationship is one of master-and-slave.

I muster the commands and the

computer deigns to respond.  It is

the master of suspense and I

the acknowledged slave of needs.

How Strange It Is

How incredibly strange it is,

for a name, a face and a memory

to suddenly appear to mind,

surfacing eerily from the innocent

subconscious, long submerged

under fifty years' succeeding

experience, acquaintances and 

encounters to a surprise presentation 

as though proclaiming: "remember me"!"

And it with a feeling of deep regret

that he is recalled.  As one to whom,

in youth you were unkind. And

then an inexplicable manifestation

leaving remorse in its wake.  The

following day there it is, an

obituary and it is his.  Belatedly,

you hope he enjoyed a good life.

Disaster

Entropy, the natural opponent of

Forever.  It is silent, inexorable,

inevitable.  Like the spectre of bleak,

black Death, hanging over all, as we

all desperately hang in there.  There

comes a time, as it must, that creeps

upon and astounds us.  Sounds, 

difficult to identify, unfamiliar to

our ears, then suddenly nothing

occurs as it should, the normal become

abnormal.  Disbelieving, we trust this

to be a nasty illusion, soon to pass,

everything returning passively,

placidly, pleasingly, positively as per

expectations to a place we can

recognize and feel comfort within.

But - no, this is it, the real thing,

total collapse.  We sit, stricken and

fearful, transfixed by a dark screen,

that mysterious hard disk that has

encapsulated our world, collapsed.

Deepest Visible-Light Photo of Cosmos Photograph courtesy NASA, ESA, S. Beckwith (STScI) and the HUDF Team

 The Cosmos: Don't Even Ask

The long view, which is to specify the 

stratospherically long view, appears in the

literature as describing that ephemeral, 

distant object as a filament.  A strand of 

a spider's web is a filament.  This describes 

our micro world, our microscopically

approachable view of what we take to be 

our world.  Perhaps the eager and excited 

astrophysicists meant to describe

the indescribably faint and distant

whatever they espied a figment, as of a

feverish imagination - but no, it is/was,

they knowingly insist, "...a filament

connecting two clusters of galaxies

that, along with a third cluster, will

someday smash together and give rise to

one of the largest galaxy superclusters

in the Universe".  Do not question: they

know this based on theory, speculation,

observation and intuitive brilliance

matching the eye-blinding brightness of 

that dangling orb about which we revolve.

 The Market

Regardless of where they exist

there is a timelessness in the

presence of traditional informal

bazaars and markets where vendors

anxiously scan passing faces

for that silent eye-lock that

might lead to a purchase of wares.

Consumer goods of the most

elemental needs to place on the

evening table's repast, floral

offerings to adorn that table,

hand-sewn garments or 

hand-crafted jewellery to

bargain and claim on whim.

In these markets, East meets West, 

the South bisects the North, the

buzz of commerce prevails as

goods are hawked and banter

erupts in conventional currency

exchange or traditional barter.

The Wisdom of a Child

Is there any wit and wisdom
flowing from the mouth of a
four-year-old child that can
possibly be trumped by that 
of an elderly sage?  Not too likely, 
for the impetuosity of a child's 
unique discoveries and the 
sagacious interpretation of a 
precocious sprite exudes a
freshness of perspective and
realization lost on the gnarled
and wearied experience of the old.  
There is not an iota of contest 
between the tabula rasa rapidly 
gorging itself with impressions and 
rare discoveries and the wired map 
of the continental brain of the
ennui-burdened of mature sobriety.

Twilight of a Storm

An strangely eerie twilight

suffuses the afternoon woods

and despite the hot wind bruising

the atmosphere, a stillness prevails.

sunrays still provoke leaves to

glow, the contrast of colour

brightened by sunlight reluctant

to depart, against the gathering

tempest of heated gusts still

raging from the sun's blast furnace

belligerently moving lighter-than

cloud-wisps unceremoniously

replaced with looming, dark and

business-like thunderheads, their

booming voices faintly heard,

gathering to convene a raucous

parliament of the assembling

entitled powers of raw nature.

The Timeless Spirit of Adventure

 

Photographs courtesy of J.S. Rosenfeld

Present, Accounted For

My Dear:  surely it is now over a

week, I fear, since last I mentioned

how pleasant it is to dine with you?

Pardon my lapse, permit me now

to congratulate once again, your

fine culinary skills, charming company

and brilliant conversational observations.

You do, very much so indeed, yet

resemble the young woman, fair of

countenance and ready smile, I met

a lifetime ago.  And it has been a

lifetime, one of tenderness and joy

that we have shared.  Full in years

and young in memory, we entwined

our destinies and extend that lifetime

into a future we have yet to share.

Improvidential Hazards

With all the regalia and pomp of
a royal event, an immense audience
awaits each day's procession of proud
human prowess, physical endurance
and determined athletic excellence,
as the most marketed and prestigious
world-class sport competition sets
one nation's pride of achievement
against another's, all vying for the
titles of consummate talent and
human perseverance in metallic hues
of bronze, silver and gold; to witness
their nation's flag hoisted high, their
national anthem resounding as their
athletic stars mount the podium for
presentation and inclusion into the
Olympian world of rare devotion.  The
world's media faithfully report back
the excited glories achieved, recognition
won, as they are ferried from site to
competition site.  Among the blazing
self-applauding preening, one unnoticed
and very brief news report of a
media-stacked bus colliding with a
cyclist.  That news of great grief is
of moment to a very limited audience,
the young man's mourning family.

Bleak Vision

Somewhere deep within her

genetic code a vast and abiding

antipathy to life itself

and its elusive fortunes

settled itself into her remote

subconscious, guiding her

remorselessly through a

lifetime of scornful rejection

of others around her, a

contempt toward those

closest to her, embittering

her ever further from her

connection to place and time,

the society she rejects, those

values and needs, responses

and accommodations to eke

out a place for themselves as

best they can.  Their moral

failings loom large in her

misanthropic view of a

miserable world, become

exacerbated by her relentlessly

morose and overtly truculent

presence within that sadly

inadequate world she inhabits.