11,041 vagabonds plus:
the after hours
You were right to come to me. Somehow you've opened a deep dark portal like a Ouija Board is wont to do and there's no turning back. One minute morsel of misguided judgment burdens you with the weight of a ten ton cold anvil. Don't turn, here, now now, a handkerchief.
Ok, let me think, wait. Yes, I have a crowbar, it'll be the only passkey we'll need. A flashlight, yes. The morgue is no place for a girl. No more crying until we finish this. He will not visit you again if my idea pans out. It's just the wind outside, there's no one else here, the dog jumped because of a nightmare, she has them all the time. And she only barks when I play my scratchy old Oscar Peterson album. What a smile you have.
Take this lamp, yes, there's a small mirror in my room, next to the stuffed magpie, it's warped and scratched, so don't be frightened if Bela Lugosi is staring back at you, and if you care to you can wash your face at the old white basin. You'll find a flannel in the closet, over-sized yes, but good and warm, and a olive knit cap. We'll be wallowing in thawed mud, it'll be the least of our nightmare. Yes, it has to happen tonight so we can bury the ghost, no more nudging you awake in the night. Perhaps I should take a chainsaw. You look ridiculously cute in that cap, Miriam.
Yes, you can be my Watson, but this is dark business now. Sometimes the dead just need to be killed more than once I guess. Keep your chin up and do not blink, when we go in you can not exhibit fear. If we get separated, meet me under the covered willow stone bridge. What are you, seven stone? Ghosts don't even weigh one kilo, Love.
another magpie tale
magpie matchbox murder
Yeah, just follow me on this. You could not have possibly shown up at a better time. Sit down, shut up, I'll pour you one. Ok, go ahead and warm your hands by the fire, but you have to hear me out. Just this - while I'm down on one knee searching, I swear, this magpie comes walking up to me from beyond this lone willow tree on the western hills carrying this odd box of fire sticks. I seen it I thought it was a small block of wood, ok? Must've got confused and thought it was an acorn. Yes yes, they'll eat anything. Stop rolling your eyes and drink up. Here's my theory: The guy started the fire ablaze with a match from that box you see on the table. He runs from the crime scene, he's not going to hang around and turn over the corpse for some Julia Child even baking crimmy, footprints show he ran towards the field, dammit, it was night, he trips, loses the matches. Look: the fine print here on back - they come 40 to a box, there are 37 left. It all fits, like Jimmy Durante and inka dinka doo. Shut up. No, if the dog really dislikes you she'd put her teeth all the way into your shoe. How the hell do I know where effing Bratislava is it don't matter. I'll bet you we're talking a foreign jobby though. The tv said the victim was European and so did the Times. Give me your glass. No! Don't light your cigar with that match from the evidence! I'm sorry, come back, I have another theory if you'd like.
A webfind, EH to Gertrude Stein.
There's a question mark by the date, but I think there's no doubt about it because I'm currently reading dispatches reporter Hemingway sent to his paper, The Toronto Star Weekly, in late October of 1923, of his experiences in Pamplona, Spain, of bolting out of bed at five in the morning and running to follow a mass of humanity experiencing the running of the bulls.
Notice he writes how boxing now pales in comparison to the art of bullfighting. Fascinating.
And speaking of boxing, I bet Gertrude had a mean left jab.
For a more peaceful setting where canarys dwell, check out PFF.
Safely and securely collected by professionals, your Valentine's Day cards should arrive on time. On foot or by motor car, the dedicated post office will deliver those heart-filled postcards, perfumed love letters, and boxes of heart-shaped chocolate samplers. The undeliverable will be thrown into the the dusty dead letter office, the heavy iron door slammed shut, locked and forsaken like a lost love, the key thrown away by a little hunched over curmudgeon.
For a curmudgeon-free experience, be sure to check out this weeks PFF, which I believe is some place overseas where a very kind lady will never ever ever send you a bag with a cat inside.
a cup of coffee, black
Forced off the snow-packed road to avoid being sideswiped by a crazed speeding all-wheel driver, the speeder's blurred taillights dissolved into the night like synchronized red fireflies. It was so quiet in the darkest hour as I stood shivering in the road looking skyward at the tightening belt of Orion. It calmed my pounding heart imagining The Hunter was watching my backside.
Breaking the silence, a dog barked somewhere as though it had cornered an injured green Martian intruder, who only came in peace afterall, inside a dilapidated silo. I thought, for some strange reason, if I die here, now, what will happen to my tattered books? I hoped the pages would be turned in fond, gentle hands. And I hoped the dog's owner, staring down the sights of a double barrel, would try to communicate with the little green fella before he perished.
I'm safe now inside, the powdery swirling wind meticulously rolling and tossing snow chunks off the roof, protecting the fort, guarding me, holding a steaming cup in one hand, finger punching letters like Ben Franklin's unqualified apprentice with the other, and dreaming of warmer days.
movie star Monday: Ingrid!
Oh, Ingrid. Ingrid Ingrid Ingrid.
How I wish I could've taught you the proper way to kiss instead of Coop. Yep.
What a beauty. What an actress! Winner of three Academy Awards.
There's an episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Andy teaches his young son about winning and losing. He tells him that in all aspects of Life it doesn't take courage to win, but it certainly does require courage when staring into the dreaded face of defeat. Pulling yourself up and congratulating the Victor.
Well, after yesterdays Super Bowl, I think the Colt's showed a lot of courage. But it still smarts.
Back in 2007, when the Colts did win, I guess we waved our banners and wore blue, but I envy Saint's fans, for there must be that added pleasure of weeping with joy. That's a joy rarely experienced.
Close-up murmurs offered are like morsels leading up to the slowly opened door of a cabin nestled in a deep dark forest. One moment when her eyes opened she saw her father floating about the room crying in hopeless grief. Unspoken fits and wild punches before one last heaving sigh.
we're not going anywhere
Seven years to the day of the Columbia tragedy and loss of seven heroes comes the announcement the Return To The Moon Program is scraped.
This vagabond space cadet still get chills reading and listening to Apollo 15 astronaut David Scott, as he stood in the narrow valley canyon named Hadley Rille, in July, 1971. He said:
"As I stand out here in the wonders of the unknown at Hadley, I sort of realize there's a fundamental truth to our nature, Man must explore . . . and this is exploration at its greatest."
"For when I look at the Moon I do not see a hostile, empty world. I see the radiant body where man has taken his first steps into a frontier that will never end."
"This budget is just simply not friendly to exploration," said White House Panel member Sally Ride. "It's very difficult to find an exploration scenario that actually fits within this very restrictive budget guidance that we've been given."
As Jay Barbree, space correspondent, points out, any money spent would stay here on earth. The billions spent for the first moon program "employed 400,000 directly, and another 1.6 million indirectly. Two million Americans oiled Apollo’s gears and rewrote the books on medicine, communications, engineering, astronomy and hundreds of other sciences and disciplines."
movie star Monday: Nicholson!
Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces.
A scene I've been recently reminded of, although for no direct reason.
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