NASA Image of the Day

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Freezing Spray and Lemon Torte

The whoosh of wind had whipped the waves into neat froths, like a meringue torte amidst an ice of freezing gelati. She turned her collar up, shrugging her shoulders against the buffeting, as the spray and freezing mist bit into her face, and stung her ears.

She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.

She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.

He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped decorum, failed.

"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.

"I can't possibly be late; we haven't met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look.

"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there.

"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting.

"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh.

"Come here,' he said, quietly.

"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man".

He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly. "Especially since I made a point of shocking you back to yourself."

She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."

He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.

"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."

He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket.

"Also" she continued, "then you called me like a dog. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" She still had a straight face. He was quite perplexed as to what to say next.

"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply.

"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."

"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.

"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, like a cartoonist, reading his mind.

"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly.

She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.

"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets.

"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch.

"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.

"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, staring into his face.

He kissed her then, for what seemed a very long time....yet....not long enough, somehow.

Spring Save

The sunshine splash of sleeping bloom that is daft, and dill sill,
Waves, and the late spring frost is but a twinkle of surprised season, stalled
Yet awhile, in the twixt and tween of morning, and bloom.

Ah! It droops with sleep, but creeping lighted tendrils, coaxing
All the while, and...
Heads up!

Petals throw back their leaves, shaking encased cocoon away,
Light and Thee
Into the frond fond, and embrace, of

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Watching the Clock for St. Patrick

"Hi there, beautiful." He sidled up to her. The band was playing the nearing end of night songs, and the music had slowed down some.

There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.

There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.

"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.

"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.

She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.

"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.

"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.

As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.

He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.

"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.

"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.

He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.

She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.

He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.

She smiled at him.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."

"And what was that?" he said, gently.

"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....

and walked briskly from the room.

There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Zorb and Onk on St. Patrick's Day

An observatory conversation between Zorb and Onk, from the planet Abconchcall, on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, they have focused their observations on a bar.


Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.

Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.

Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?

Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?

Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.

Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.

Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.

Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.

It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.

Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.

Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.


St. Patrick's Day

In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I have prepared the following pieces, for my own sanity (since I need a break from considering the project in which I am currently embroiled), and also because I think it's necessary. Each will be prefaced by a creative explanation.

Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.

(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)


Letter 1

Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.

Love, your Rolfie.


Letter 2

Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.

That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.

If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.

They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.

This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.

I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.

Forgive me.

The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.


Thursday, March 15, 2012

Friday, March 9, 2012

Max was the only one who never judged Madame. It was unspoken. Despite the fact that she was, as a woman, completely alien - almost freakish - to his understanding of her traditional role as a woman - even beyond the understanding or capacity of her own family, removed as she often was from them, in various ways - he adored her, understood her within the confines of professionalism, and, in a world which did not either respect or give recognition to, her efforts, brave as they were, he knew, offered her the unquestionable loyalty which her sacrifices, deep as they had been, demanded, and deserved.

There was no else he trusted more than her, and the man who questioned her, he did not trust. It was a fierce love, born of life and death, trial and tremble, ache and agony, and in it he placed all of his ardency. Her expectation was nothing but implicit trust, without question - and, he knew, she got it, for reasons he could never explain. He thought of his beautiful daughter, destroyed by a bomb, who, Madame had said, she "just could not get to in time, dammit", and smiled, softly, to himself. That it was a sacred, fiercely protective, no gossip, fierce-to-death circle of knowingness, he also knew well. He could never explain why. Some things were beyond the simple fact that they were what they were....and that was all.

That this was beyond money, or self, some people would never understand. But there were a very gentle, very quiet, very loved few, who still would, forever. And those, she loved beyond compare.....

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Part 26:Relay Racial Facial

At the desk, the still-composed woman continued to watch the screen with dismay, grabbing a file and flipping it open to reveal several glossies. She did not trust any image to a screen. Each photo was a precious moment; a scarcity of combination; a blending of influences. She clicked and printed - and only saved on the camera. It drove everyone nuts.

It also made her faster, and freer, and more protected than anyone else had managed, considering the number of times her work had been ruined by various eyes.It was an eye world to her, and she had ardent approaches to her many concerns.

She brushed a hand over her forehead, distractedly, held the file in her left hand, and grabbed for a cellphone in the buttersoft handbag resting on top of the ornately carved desk: a gift from a client, who tried for dinner, too - unsuccessfully:the last, a rueful "too busy, mon cher", on her part, clicking her tongue with regret. The client forgave her instantly, as usual.

She hit a button on the desk, and several more: the screen split into four, all blaring with a stockmarket byline blurbing at the bottom of each screen, in a different language.

All were discussing various matters specific to something important:politico, famine, crises of enough magnitude to merit time. The game never changed, she thought, sadly - always, spectacle. She sighed.

She turned away from the large screen blanked from a painting image, now flashing foursquare electronics - a neat trick, and the pride of her office staff - and simply looked out of the window, waiting for an answer to her insistent ring.

"Madame?" Max's voice sounded quiet, but calm, as usual. She breathed in, instantly at ease.

"Oh, Max; have you seen the television?" She swiveled back to the screen, frowning.

"No, Madame. We have had a guest. I have been quite challenged, and very busy. Did you call earlier?" He sounded annoyed that he might have missed the call.

"No, no; no worries, Max. There has been another explosion. I received a call - Albert brought the note through to me at the gallery, via Albert in Paris, regarding the Haiti billboard. Someone has set fire to it...he was worried that someone might be wishing to hurt me." An angry cough sounded on the other end of the line, and she held the phone out from her ear.

"Apologies, Madame. I am not there. I am sorry." He sounded solemn. "You are safe?" There was a deeply pained note in his voice. He was furious that he was not there.

"Of course, Max. " Her voice was soft. "Please; I know this sounds odd, but does your guest seem legit? I can't be certain we are not being harassed, again." Her voice trembled, slightly. "I have no idea if this is because of Haiti, because of my efforts, or because of the model. never knows...."

"Madame! No worries!" Max sounded as if he wanted to climb through the phone. "The gentleman is perfectly welcome, and although somewhat disshevelled, otherwise most welcome, and quite appreciative of sanity amidst the weariness of travel." He paused. "I trust you are well?" His formality was a familiar affection, and she relaxed, smiling.

"Other than being on the immediate alert, again, Max...thankfully, I am fine. Thank you." She breathed out, aggravatedly. "Max, I am so sick of this maniac. I should be back tomorrow, once I liaise with authorities regarding the particulars. If anyone calls, you can give them my cell....but use your best judgement about who gets the number, okay?"

"Of course", said Max, smoothly. "Madame?"

"Just are you feeling?" Her tone was, again, normally concerned, and the now-firm cadenced response, eyeing the photo again, was simaltaneously visually and auditorially critical.

"I am well", said Max, quietly. "Peaceful sleeping, Madame." The line clicked. She breathed, one concern erased.

Part 25: Ebony Eyes

"I told you", Grant screamed into the cellphone,

"Check the garbage can, or dumpster, closest to that billboard. In it - once you get past the smoke, so cover your bloody face - you will find a dead animal; most probably a cat, or part of it!"

Each syllable was enunciated with such clarity that the consonants scraped along the phone, tragically, as if he was explaining directions to get to the school bus to a mentally challenged child - for the fortieth time.

He slammed the cellphone against the chest of the blankfaced uniform staring up at the sign, until his hand snaked up and closed over it, jaw dropping.

As his hand closed over the set, and Grant strode away, the remaining light bulbs around the sad blackened eyes in the billboard face exploded with a whiz, a moaning whistle/crack/pop sounding into the blueblack night sky.

"Goddammit, I'll do it myself", muttered Grant, grimly.

The words sounded flatly - strangely sombrely - into the impossible stillness, upsetting, at last, the total silence and quiet which followed the exploding bulbs.

Defeated, again, the uniform hung his head, lowering his arm, and turned towards the patrol car. Various voices blared out.

A crowd of onlookers needed no "move on" reminder.....they were rooted and staring, both startled and disturbed.

The uniform slipped quietly into the driver's seat, backed up the car, and tried to follow the disappearing figure of the large, angry, loping man moving towards any possible dumpster, smoking can, or hissing, personless box, still smoking within the small block radius he had just described, with such accurate acid.

"Fuck me Freddy" said the uniform, throwing the car into gear, and squinting to see where Grant had moved, machine-like, into the evening gloom.

He could never keep up to the fucking guy.

Part 24: A model model

"Oh, my God, D'arcy....look at the add!" The beautiful mirror of the huge sign, a miniature in his newly-engaged arms - almost - shook with fear. D'Arcy looked up, still smelling the
acrid explosion in his nostrils.

His beauty....marred impossibly by fire. The sign was ablaze, her face one huge sheet of flame, the last blink of the lights, like gentle, painted tattoo white lights around her eyes - an exceptional "traditional tribal" paint touch which Madame George had added at the last minute - were now the last electric firewall for the only unburning thing, and they stared blackly out at everyone, in an obscene visual scream.

She only sobbed once, staring up at herself, held tight in his arms, but burned now, beyond recognition, on the huge billboard scant blocks away from them. It didn't matter what colour her hair had been......

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing. He turned her face into his neck, stroking her hair, and murmuring to her gently.