Mid-afternoon. You have completed the ‘final’
draft of Dead Seven and feel unwound and wonder: is what Merlyn says, ‘a
rebellion from within’? Such is your humor. Drop it in for the fun. Then let it
be and go run Carol’s errand. Post. - Amorella
***
The Dead 7 ©2013 rho,
(final) GMG.One
Merlyn stands by the
chair rock in his sanctuary and turning to his west, looks through the heather
and between oak and birch to the cold river water. He conjures lifelong
memories of fishing from such rivers. I see exciting flashes of great catches
of salmon, trout, northern pike and arctic charr. The size, shape and colors of
the many fish quickly slide away. They are but bait for memories grab at those
many daydreams while on those fishing days. Youthfully fantasies stirred my
body's male nature through lonely and sometime surreal surroundings hot kettled
in my budding druidic heartanmind. What be the name that is alphabetized first,
Vivian. We are such human creatures of familiar habits -- toys we are to one
another whether in embrace or no. Such souls as we dance within our
heartsanminds so close we are that might we share sanctuaries unknown to one
another, especially in such a place as this bridge from deadanliving to the
living.
The billiard table rises. Merlyn
stares at the grouped balls near the side rail. The yellow one sets to the left
of the orange striped thirteen and the purple striped twelve ball. To the right
of the striped are three solids, the blue two, green six and maroon seven. What
is the meaning of how these balls lay, he wonders. Am I like the ancient Greek
prognosticator stirring recent entrails of intention within romance or an
astrologer looking at the alignment of billiard balls rather than the cognation
behind this illusionary table. Yet what am I to see would be reflected as a
vision by any other name but my own. I have heard, “No visions here, boy,” more than once.
"You are
captivated by my presence, Merlyn," said Vivian in a modest though clearly
suggestive voice."
She faces me within
this intimate in heart interval. Alone. Yet my tongueless tongue freezes.
"Which of these
vividly hued balls would you have me be, Merlyn, when I am myself the table on
which you dress your endearing and passionate contemplations? No need of cue stick or billiard balls
to roll in me, my dear man," winked the shrewd foxy-tailed apparition,
this Vivien, this Druidess pre-fixed in Druid.
'My dear man,' those
were the last words Vivian said. I had heard those last words with living ears.
Merlyn sensed his ghostly ears grow into more than imaginary substance.
"This is not so, Merlyn," whispered
a voice of consciousness. His ears increased and he felt his facial muscles
seemingly materialize from spirit. Merlyn looked left towards his privacy hut
realizing what he had known since death, there are no mirrors. The Dead reflect
only through the closest of friends. Even among the Living I cannot be seen nor
can I see myself other than by fanciful contemplation. I feel my physical body
grown but I have no proof. I have no witness.
Vivien press her warm
lips lightly against the flesh of his right ear and whispered seductively,
"We are attached souls, married as a blacksmith’s steel blade."
Merlyn carefully turned
his head away from his natural abode and composed his tongue to say, "How
do you mean these words?" The wonder roared through his mind and heart as
his body appeared to ice, 'She has me still in an enchantment.'
"Our souls are
twinned not intertwined. You used to say our love was but a thread entwined
many times over, solidified by experience and memory, but you were wrong though
the word 'entwined' was partially correct." Vivian gave another quick
press of her warm moist lips on his now equally warm ear. "I am but thy
soul's sister in the gift of love's giving.”
I evaporate from ice to
a spiritual air alone, eyed Merlyn. I, the once master, am taught a lesson by
my once student. Vivian exists with-on-me, with-beside-me, but not within the
completed soul. Rings we are in a timeless chain. The spiritual passageways are
macro-webbed tunnels. For what uses was this is in secret told. It would seem
to make no difference among we the Dead, but among the Living such a twinning
of spidery macro-soul grooms tighter, and ever so insect-like around the world.
Such invisible intent cannot be known in physics but among the starlight in souls
it is as far spread and resolute as gravity. The Living have mistook this
structural Apparatus-of-Soul more than once for Meaning, for a Noun Grammatical
rather than a Grammatical Conditional.
I must re-read this later for better comprehension and imaginary intent. (1416)
1546 hours. In here do we have a macro-soul and a micro-soul?
They are one in the same – physics does not
exist. Souls have the same dimension and weight, boy, zero. - Amorella
Doug just sent me Skye Weather
AOL photographs of snowflakes.
Good. Drop them in. – Amorella
** **
You've Never Seen a Snowflake in This Much Detail
Photographer Alexey Kljatov has captured a
breathtaking collection magnified flakes
1.(Alexey Kljatov/AccuWeather)
Monday, Dec. 9, 2013
As the saying goes, no two snowflakes are exactly alike.
Russian photographer Alexey Kljatov's collection of high-resolution magnified
flakes makes this widely-held belief more convincing.
The Moscow-based photographer
captured dozens of structurally diverse snowflakes, showcasing the complexity
of each one against a dull backdrop.
2.(Alexey Kljatov/AccuWeather)
3.(Alexey Kljatov/AccuWeather)
"This year I planned to
save current temperature and relative humidity, taken from weather sites with
all shooting sessions, but previously I [didn't] do that."
Shooting at a variety of
different conditions is critical to Kljatov's work, as snowflakes form into
different shapes depending on temperature and humidity at the time of their formation.
"Snowflakes are merely ice
crystals whose shape are determined by the organization the water molecules are
in when they freeze," according to AccuWeather.com Meteorologist Erik
Pindrock.
4.(Alexey
Kljatov/AccuWeather)
5.(Alexey Kljatov/AccuWeather)
"Temperature can greatly
influence them," Pindrock said.
According to Kenneth G.
Libbrecht, professor of physics at the California Institute of Technology,
"snow crystals tend to form simpler shapes when the humidity
(supersaturation) is low, while more complex shapes at higher humidities."
Dendrites, the common six-armed
shape, form at temperatures between 3 and 10 degrees Fahrenheit.
Hollow columns form at 14 to 21
F and needles form at 21 to 25 F.
6.(Alexey Kljatov/AccuWeather)
"It is even possible for a
single snowflakes to be a combination of shapes as it moves into different
temperatures within a cloud," Pindrock said. "But with so many
variables to influence a single snowflake's design and shape, it is highly
unlikely that two large snowflakes would turn out exactly the same."
Slightly modified with numbers added;
From – Skye Weather AOL dot com
** **
For the sake of discussion, let’s say any
one of the above six snowflake shapes may be a Soul’s shape. – Amorella
Okay.
Have it spin. – Amorella
Where does it get its energy to spin?
Where does it get its energy to exist? –
Amorella
In here, why does metaphysics exist?
It exists only because physics exists. –
Amorella
Which came first?
Both exist relative to each other at once,
boy. That’s the way it reads in these fictions. – Amorella
Okay, back to the ‘representative for discussion’
photographs – can a spinning soul tangle with another spinning soul?
That’s what the six points are for.
Possible/plausible entanglement. – Amorella
1637 hours. I’ll have to think on this.
Please do. Post. – Amorella
1652 hours. This has taken much more time than it looks.
What are you talking about? The time it has
taken for a person to exist and live to be able to take such a photograph? – Amorella
I wasn’t, but I see your point. Good one, Amorella.
Later, dude. - Amorella
2158 hours. After Papa John's pizza for supper and a couple TV shows I completed Brothers 7.
Add and post. - Amorella
***
The Brothers 7 ©2013,rho,GMG.One
The
next day while at Robert and Connie's dining room, the brothers sauntered out
of the kitchen into the dining room to rid themselves from their wives chatter
on the seemingly consistent recipes for roast beef and gravy as well as graham
cracker pie, essentially the same recipes from their grandparents' time. Each
recipe began: "This is a family recipe. Do Not Share. "
“Good brownies,” stated Robert as the stood by the
dining room table nibbling the freshly baked goodies on the plate.
“Yeah,
this is my third one.”
“I
agree. Connie makes the best brownies.”
“No
question on that, but Cyndi Bleacher makes the best chocolate chip cookies,”
smiled Richard.
“Your
wife makes one hell of a cookie. I agree,” replied Robert who continued sipping
his half a glass of skim milk while noticing Richard had finished. "I'm
working a new poem," he paused, "on blacksmithing – welding really."
"You
haven't used that as a subject before."
"You're
right."
"So,
why now?"
"I
was thinking about how it was on Uncle Doc and Auntie's farm when we were kids.
Their neighbor was a smithy when he needed to be. I remember he came over and
welded the plow more than once. The arc, the welding light, was the brightest
thing I had ever seen.
"We
were told to never look directly at it."
"I
only did once. Never forgotten." Robert paused, "so I need to shade
the flash memory in ink."
“You've
got the welding imagery, said Richard, “I've been thinking about the mausoleum
as a poetic theme."
"I
go for the bright light and you for stained glass," laughed Robert.
Richard
queried, “What about the stained glass?”
“What
about it?”
“I
like the symbolism.”
“I
do too, my interest peaked with the three women and subsided with the angels
having green wings.”
Richard
laughed, “The artist’s ladies were waiting for the resurrection and it already had taken place.”
“You
know,” said Robert. “I never got that. Why were they going to the tomb if they
had any sense that he wasn’t going to be there?”
“I
suppose they were checking just like we did at the mausoleum.
“True
enough,” laughed Richard. “True enough.”
Cyndi
walked in from the kitchen first, "What you are boys talking about?"
"The
stained glass in the mausoleum," said Robert, "the angels with green
wings."
Richard
quickly followed, "I like the symbolism of a resurrection that had already
happened."
"Why
are you two dyed-in-the-wool agnostics talking about angels?" responded
Cyndi, "especially you Richard?"
"Yah,
Dickie?" drawled Robert.
Connie’s
voice came from the kitchen, "What are you two arguing about?" Walking
in, Connie gave Robert an annoying look for the mock impoliteness, directed at
his brother. She quickly smiled and gave Richard a peck on the cheek, "I
think 'Dickie' is endearing. Your grandmother enunciated it with great
affection."
"Grandma
shouted ‘Dick-kee’ like she was calling the hogs. 'Dick-kie, where are you
Dick-kie?" mimicked Richard. They all laughed as Robert ended shaking his
head in mock embarrassment.
"Grandma
was a farm girl, no question about it," said Richard clearly and with a
large grin. "I loved my grandparents."
"Our grandparents," added Robert.
"We thought of them as our grandparents
too," commented Connie and Cyndi in a common voice.
Connie continued, "You know all of our
grandparents played bridge together long before we were ever thought about."
"True," added Richard, "during the
depression they made up their own entertainment."
"The four grandmothers shared family recipes
only written for family . . ." noted Cyndi.
"Like they were already family," added
Connie.
Robert raised his right eyebrow, "That sounds a
little, uh, sexual."
Richard laughed, "Maybe they had secret love
fests." Both brothers laughed as Connie and Cyndi left the room in a huff
of disgust. "What did we do, open up a can of worms?" said Richard
with a shrug.
Robert started laughing, Richard followed. One
murmured, "We are two sick humored souls," and returned focus on the
taste and texture of those made from scratch caramel and dark chocolate
brownies.
Back in the kitchen Connie looked at Cyndi, “Surely
there wouldn’t have been any fooling around back in those days. Riverton was a
quiet little village back then, a quiet peaceful village.
**
