Monday, 28 January 2013

Fish tale

Ana closed her eyes and fell down, down, down into the belly of the deep blue sea. Jonah would have cried like a baby, but not she.

Dreamweaver. (Stewart Carrington) 
Swarms of silver fish snaked by, inches from her nose. Bright pink and blue jellies flitted around like glitter. Prankster fish nibbled her toes and made her giggle.

Beyond the little creatures loomed a giant fish, jaws yawning wide.

Jonah would've run away like a little girl, but Ana gave a great forward thrust of her arms and swam straight into the belly of the mighty fish.

Inside were treasures beyond imagination: chambers of gold, and roomfuls of jewels bright as the sun. Ana carried armful upon armful to the surface, where her mama was conveniently waiting with a wheelbarrow to take the loot away.

This is always how morning breaks in my house: she crawls under my covers in the still-darkness with cold toes and a tale to share. Her dream stories almost make up for the fact that I may never sleep in again.

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

Jacinto Frost

Cold came to windmill country in the night. It crept over the llano on a silent army of snowflakes, followed by a wind-born icicle plague.

Non-booger stalactites. 
There was nowhere to run. Cows grew booger stalactites from their frigid noses. Cacti developed gooseflesh. Coyotes wept in falsetto, and La Llorona moaned, for once with reasonable grounds for complaint.

While the great world outside churned in sub-zero turmoil under an ice cube moon, the sugar plum children slept snug in their beds.

It sure is nice to live indoors. Mostly because it's the only proven way to avoid booger stalactites.

But the cold stuck around after dawn, and for days. Even the indoor-dwellers started to complain, and La Lorona became insufferable.

This is all to say that I've had enough winter now. You?

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Pretty good year

Into the shining sun. 
White Sands is a good place to spend the twilight hours of a dying year.

Above, there is pure blue sky and blinding white sun, punctuated by the odd missile. The dunes melt the structure and the mess of the world, stretching forever away in windswept symmetry. Missiles aside, I suspect this is what heaven looks like.

In this moonscape, grown-ups play like little children and children are in their element. Both are at peace - in such a world there is only the present.

I like White Sands. I like remembering that almost everything that seems to matter actually doesn't.

May the force be with you in this newborn year. Thank you for all years past.