In 2006 when she started this blog, Walhydra wrote about the deaths of dear friends and the practice of doing a dumb supper for them.
This morning, she and her buddy Stacey were talking about this, and Stacey mentioned the calaveras, the decorated skulls and skeletons used for the Mexican celebration of Dia De Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.
That in turn reminded Walhydra of the work of one of her online acquiantances, jadahari (aka Elizabeth e Mitchell). Take a look at her blog, and you will find many pictures of mimi CaLockalaca.
Beautiful!
Blessèd Be.
Swiped from Igraine.
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now (even if we don't speak often or have never met), please post a comment with a completely made up, fictional memory of you and me.
It can be anything you want - good or bad - but it has to be fake.
When you're finished, post this little paragraph in your blog and see what your friends come up with...
:-)
Randall Munroe has come through again with a sequel to the xkcd comic Walhydra linked to a few days ago:
Note: Again it's too big for Blogger to digest, so click on the image to see the whole thing.
BTW, here's a neat Wikipedia article about Munroe and xkcd.
Giggles.
Walhydra's dear friend Wendiferous has shared a poem which needs to be passed on.
The Creation of the Inaudible
by Pattiann Rogers
Maybe no one can distinguish which voice
Is god’s voice sounding in a summer dusk
Because he calls with the same rising frequency,
The same rasp and rattling rustle the cicadas use
As they cling to the high leaves in the glowing
Dust of the oaks.
His exclamations might blend so precisely with the final
Crises of the swallows settling before dark
That no one will ever be able to say with certainty,
”That last long cry winging over the rooftop
Came from god.“
Breathy and low, the vibrations of his nightly
Incantations could easily be masked by the scarcely
Audible hush of the lakeline dealing with the rocky shore,
And when a thousand dry sheaths of rushes and thistles
Stiffen and shiver in an autumn wind, anyone can imagine
How quickly and irretrievably his whisper might be lost.
Someone faraway must be saying right now:
The only unique sound of his being
Is the spoken postulation of his unheard presence.
For even if he found the perfect chant this morning
And even if he played the perfect strings to accompany it,
Still, no one could be expected to know,
Because the blind click beetle flipping in midair,
And the slider turtle easing through the black iris bog,
And two savannah pines shedding dawn in staccato pieces
Of falling sun are already engaged in performing
The very same arrangement themselves.
Pattiann Rogers, “The Creation of the Inaudible” from Firekeeper: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by Pattiann Rogers.
Find this poem and more about Pattiann Rogers here.
And so it is.
Blessèd Be.
