Ahh, it was Halloween, with neither particular tricks or treats from me, but perhaps, as I said to the postal clerk, "I thought I would dress as a passionovante today, but I failed again."
Erin and Katie, dressed respectively as a princess and ballerina, went from house to house with big toothy grins, holding-out their bags, "trick or treat, smell my feet!".
The others hunted candy, far from the obsolescence of the spirit, somewhere around Happy Mountain, or the gambling strip mall to the Southwest.
I want candy
bubble gum and taffy
skip to the sweet choc'let
my sweetheart Sandy.
-MC Chris
As it were, in the interim, was a peculiar dismal little transition from end of harvest and the coming of autumn in earnest, towards the feast of All Saint's Day on November 1st, 2023.
Of course, I did some reading in the afternoon cool, an incidental piece of Classic American Literature, something about the novelty of a youngish foreign girl in the eyes of a quintessential American lad, without the guiles and good humor of people of Mark Twain's stripe.
There was a passage about killing a fat five foot rattle snake, swiping at its upraised head with the edge of a garden spade, and the snake himself, realized later, despite the girl's sweet surprise, was a bit fat and lethargic in contrast to his peers: he lived in a mound around a bunch of prairie dog holes, and had gotten somewhat lazy on such an easy food supply.
A Crassus of the snake lineage, perhaps, taken as it were, to bed down at night near the buffet line in hopes of future feedings.
And some 20 or 30 wolves pegging-off members of a wedding party, until at last, even the bride and groom were tossed to the wolves to lighten the load on a sledge, so that two men could men their egress and exodus.
Lest I lapse into a spiritual frost....
No comments:
Post a Comment