Thursday! The E-Zine for March 20, 2024
V4, I7
This week’s newsletter is a little short, because my brain is, too. It’s been a week of many demands on my energy and not a lot of chances to claw some of that expenditure back. This is, of course, a flimsy excuse, isn’t it? We’re all busy people, with many demands on our time and attention. Thursday! itself is one of those demands, though I hope it rewards you more than it taxes you.
Still, the week has been especially demanding, for reasons too mundane to foist upon you. I am well, and writing, and teaching, and being the best friend, husband, and son I know how to be1. I very much hope that each of you are faring well. Spring is already upon us and in many places, more fair weather has made small, shy appearances. We will see more sun and less dreariness. Schedules will sort themselves out. We’ll figure how to get the important things done and the unimportant things, we’ll set aside with a firm but polite, “No, thank you. This is not for me.”
Until then, though, how about some small delights? I do like delights. They delight me!
Cool? Cool!
Poem
Stories
A Fly-ting Moment
A fly that buzzes round my moosh Doesn’t think of mortality. Although it might, before the squoosh Regret its lack of cordiality.
The Call Did Not Come from Inside the Dimension
If it hadn't been for the clang of the empty tin can hitting his kitchen floor, Mark would have tripped over the interdimensional portal. At least that's what he thought it was. He would not have sworn to it, not at 6:30 on a Tuesday morning after a restless night of tossing and turning on a too-hot bed in a too-hot apartment with a too-hot cat intent on cuddling close to him. He was tired and wanted a tall glass of iced tea. But there it was, hovering an inch off the floor.. And the can. And the string that attached the can to its flat, pearlescent grey surface. Mark's cat, a brown mackerel Tabby he called Kittyface, glided into the kitchen, wove through his legs in an easy and graceful pair of figure-eights, and nosed the can curiously. She looked up at him as if to say, "Well, dude, that certainly doesn't smell like breakfast." He bent over, nudged her gently aside, and picked up the can, expecting it to tug hard and stop as the string drew taut. It didn't. The more he pulled, the more string came from the portal. Odd. On a whim, he raised it to his mouth. "Hello?" he said, then held it to his ear. After a moment, he heard a series of soft clicks, then a halting but cheerful mechanical voice filled the can. "Hello," it said. "We are attempting to reach you regarding the expiration of your dimension's manufacturer's warranty..."
(Photo Credit: RyanMcGuire on Pixabay)
This is The Carnival
This is The Carnival. It is not so much a place or a thing, but an entity. A being. The Carnival is alive. What you say to the man who cheerfully takes your dollar bill at the entrance and stamps the back of your hand is known by the roustabout patching the awnings above the midway sideshow and the quiet mustachioed man who runs the Whirl-O-Thrill ride. We like it that way. We tend the dirt road that leads to the wide clearing atop Old Cob's Hill, making sure it's not too muddy and never overgrown, because The Carnival will come there soon. And come it does, whole and bright, its cheerfully inviting music wafting town-ward on the last Friday of May. It's a holiday for us. Carnival Weekend. Of course we bring money to spend on rides and games and delicious treats nd fancies we see in no other place like Purple Bug Bites and the Dimburger. But we also bring our cares. We bring to The Carnival our heavy winter sorrows and the cares of the coming summer. We bring worry and regret and lament. The Carnival takes it all, soaks it up in every ring toss game, every flex of Ginormo's mighty biceps, every heady roar of Dangerous Mike's Motorbike, and returns to us lightness and ease. None of us know why it needs our worst and gives us back its best. Maybe it's a filter, sent by a benevolent Someone who lives somewhere behind our kenning. Maybe it is that being. Who knows? All I can tell you is, when The Carnival disappears between the tick and the tock of Sunday midnight, we wish it love and eagerly mark our calendars for next year.
I’m also preparing a sermon, because my Pastor asked me to preach our Good Friday service. I’ve never done one of these before. We shall see how it goes!
This week's newsletter feels especially well written. I especially like fair weather making "small, shy appearances."