Frêsh Fish

Friday, September 28, 2007

Non Linear

I was getting a bit concerned but I finally had a few old friends drop in last month and now everyday they can be spotted flitting and flittering about. Although we have a white and a purple, they are especially fond of our purple butterfly plant.

If you look real hard at this snap you can see yellow pollen against the black of this swallowtail

Pollen Plunder

These guys are both called swallowtail butterflies, the one being the black swallowtail and the other, can you guess, the yellow swallowtail. It seems that the yellow swallowtail butterfly is also called the tigertail butterfly.

The state butterfly of Georgia.

Also Called Tigertail

The swallowtail butterflies are very hard workers. They show up in mid morning and work from morning to dusk on the cornucopia of little flowers offered by the butterfly plant. With precision and efficiency they visit each and every flower looking for the good stuff.

Sometimes there are just blacks visiting and sometimes there are just yellows visiting. Although I have also seen both at the same time.

One of the things that gets me about these guys is their flight patterns. They never go in a straight line from one flower to the next. With all the claims of science about its ability to predict this and that, even with a bevy of Cray computers working around the clock, I bet there is no way anyone could come close to predicting which flower a butterfly will land on next and especially the path it would take to get there.

And as twilight approaches these jewels of summer scamper off to places I have yet to find. Just were do these guys sleep at night?

© 2007 big box industries

Saturday, September 08, 2007

Winning the Lottery

For anyone under the age of 50, and actually it is probably more like 60, you are oblivious to Life’s exit requirements. In truth I have never seen an actually birthing except on TV but from what I have seen it is a very messy Ordeal and leaving or Death is no different. Death is very messy.

“Before I slip into…” for most the slipping is excruciatingly slow and excessively demeaning. Before you leave many strangers will be poking and prodding you in the most personal of places. All before they go are prostrated before the specter of Death. This feckless endeavor, The Ordeal of Dying, is proof positive that there is no benevolent God.

How much better to know in some strange way that your time has come? Perhaps we would be given a week or so to get our affairs in order. And then a resting, with the morning jubilant with the passing. Maybe even balloons and sweet smells and songs to stir the heart.

But nay! It is to a pit that we all go with darkness and shrieking and the most unimaginable horrors.

I was talking to my Mother on the phone awhile ago. She has always been angelic and beautiful. She is 78 years old and the horrors have begun.

I try to cheer her up whenever I can by downplaying the Ordeals that this gentle spirit is having to endure. And her comment to me was, “Just wait until it is your time.”

My reply was that I knew that if I clung to hard my passing would be very messy. Me without the salvation of even knowing that I have been Good. Me with the worst of Sins, knowing and still being Bad. I knew it would be full of poking and cutting and pain. And thus my strategy of going quickly when the time came.

Her reply. “Yes, but that is like winning The Lottery.”

© 2007 big box industries

Thursday, September 06, 2007

The Bracelet

It was a journal of sorts. The last entry was about 10 pages into a Mead Composition, 100 sheet, 200 page, 9 ¾ x 7 ½, wide ruled notebook. The Bracelet was not dated nor did it have a time stamp, but I suspect because of the subject matter that it was written very recently and the swagger of the pen was indicative of a late night/early morning offering.

I have always thought that it is of some interest to be able to see how the original was first received.

And He With Pen to Paper Put

The Bracelet

He found it at the pool. It had been made by a young girl. When we say young we mean about 8-10 years old. It had many blues and some pink.

If only there was something to suggest the truth, the veracity, the magic. If only there was a picture.

Much magic for a little fish.

With Wisdom & Akimbo

It was a simple device but perfect nonetheless, and when he wore it there was a change, a meta, a metamorphosis, and when he wore it as if by magic, he became something, something else. There was a dance and a song and a strut. His spirit was awakened and again he was proud. An old man with a young girl’s bracelet.

© 2007 big box industries