That Kind of Day II

Dobbie and me.jpg

Me and my friend Dobbie

“Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.” ~ Markus Zusak

“He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life’s journey they seemed weary already.” ~ James Joyce

“As I thought of these things, I drew aside the curtains and looked out into the darkness, and it seemed to my troubled fancy that all those little points of light filling the sky were the furnaces of innumerable divine alchemists, who labour continually, turning lead into gold, weariness into ecstasy, bodies into souls, the darkness into God; and at their perfect labour my mortality grew heavy, and I cried out, as so many dreamers and men of letters in our age have cried, for the birth of that elaborate spiritual beauty which could alone uplift souls weighted with so many dreams.” ~ W. B. Yeats

It’s not just the change of season, it is more the energetic shift that moves along deep, eventually evidenced by the rather startling change in the quality of the Sun’s light, as it is forged through Brighid’s fire, and through refraction, to give us the power to see what is going on around us. Refraction gifts us with colors, and Brighid’s fire infuses us with Spirit. You can accomplish a lot with just those two things. But yesterday I added a couple of episodes of Star Trek Next Gen, season six. As you may imagine, it all went quite well for me. I have been longing for the arrival of Autumn; only two days away and I am breathing a little easier. No, I am in no mood to try and go all Walter Mitty these days. My fantasies are scarce compared to my dreams. And Don Quixote tilting at windmills while sitting on his ass. I know, I know, there’s a bit of snark in my attitude this morning. It actually feels good, kinda like an old friend. I’m like more into Icarus right now. I recently heard a new perspective on that old myth. The upshot of the story has always been that Icarus flew too close to the Sun, melted his wings, casting feather asunder, and friggin died as he plunged into the waiting sea. Dude had class, no doubt. But this new perspective is that daddy Daedalus not only advised the boy to not get, go, whatever, too high, he also cautioned him to not fly too low, lest the misty moisty seafoam and ocean-spray embrace his feathers with too much weight and pull him down into his death by drowning. And I seriously doubt that daddy told sonny boy to straighten up and fly right. This myth plays a crucial foundational role in the novel I am working on, so my coming across this new perspective is a profound thing, indeed. Just in time for Autumn. Fancy that, dude. Gnarly, right?

The sky is hanging low at sunrise. Countless shades of gray. It rained overnight. And there are things that must be done today, mostly consisting of the laundry. Dag nab it, I blew it off on Sunday, though I knew the day would come. Today’s the day. Que sera sera. Then therapy at noon. The Icarus myth oughtta play well there. My therapist is into Jungian depth analysis. No worries. Then likely a pint and a little more Star Trek Next Generation. I’ll be haunted all day by the look on Rosie the cat’s face as she pleaded to me upon waking me at precisely 3 AM. We were like Timmy and Lassie there for a minute. “What is it, girl? What is it?”. The feeling I got from it was that someone had been witchin’ on me and Rosie put the kibosh on it. Good kitty, nice kitty. I wonder who it was. Are there any clues? Yeh, there are. The matter will be addressed accordingly. It’s that kind of day.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



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