The video looks old and grainy, but the voice reaches out: Well, there were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.
The triangle is one of the basic shapes of the universe, noted for its strength, its unbreakable nature. Buckminster Fuller built a dome from them for the ’67 Expo, but it burned in ’76. The outer skin is gone now. Sunshine, rain and pigeons travel through its bones.
Triangles are also dangerous. If you carve one of flint, it becomes an arrowhead, an instrument of injury or death, Cupid’s weapon of choice.
If you shape one from wood and leave one end open, it becomes a boomerang.
In a bright new video, a young man stands on an old stone balcony with his beautiful bride. Every day he looks more like his father, who stood there with his beautiful bride thirty years before. He kisses his new wife once once. The crowd cheers.
He kisses her again. Perhaps remembering his parents, he signals no more.
Two is enough. He knows from experience that three is not a lucky number in love.
Category Archives: Kim Hutchinson
Welcome back. You still awake after that last tune? Well, then, you must have a lot on your mind.
There’s a saying around here: If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. It will change. Let’s hope so. This is the coldest spring in years. By now, people are usually basking themselves and playing on the beach, and as far as the eye can reach, it’s boobs, balls and babies.
But today it was grey and gas and food prices are skyrocketing and nobody was outside except a couple of dead-eyed street kids and their Rottweiler. Everyone’s hiding, waiting for the next cold front to come in across the water, a wall of angry weather advancing like a runaway freight train, kicking up waves and kicking over trees and anything that isn’t bolted down, waiting for the future, hoping that when it’s over they can climb out of the wreckage one more time.
Legends say that this place is where God put her hand down when she was making the world. It could be paradise, but nobody’s gonna let that happen.
So many places could be paradise. It doesn’t take much.
But for now, let’s take a little vacation. Just close your eyes and put yourself on a warm beach. Feel the sun on your face? There, that’s better. And here’s a classic feel-good tune from the sunny 60s to keep you there for a while, The Girl from Ipanema.
Sleep tight, my worried lovelies. Try to stay warm.
A young contessa stumbled across a bridge to a land of wonder, where the colors of the land and sky were deeper, the water sparkled brighter, and the horizon went on forever.
It was a land of all sky.
A troll lived beneath the bridge. He saw she was pretty and clever, if not always contessa-like, but she would make a fine trophy. And, she could spin clouds into gold.
For a troll, cloud spinning is a dealmaker.
The troll threw a sparkle of sunlight in her eyes so she thought she saw a duke or a prince. In truth, what she saw was a reflection of her.
She was lost.
The troll put her to work spinning while he collected more trophies. Soon her shoulders hurt and she was lonely in the dark shack, but there was never enough gold for the troll.
When she tried to leave, he chained her about her waist.
The troll hated all things, but for a motivated troll a victim can be too compliant, so he hated her, his own creation, especially.
After awhile, she was still beautiful, but when she looked in the mirror she didn’t recognize herself. She was haggard and sad and angry.
Now, she was reflecting him.
Moon after moon, she tried to look at the troll with love. He stared back in hate. Finally, the poison in the air grew so thick that it blew up the little troll house by the bridge.
Spot the Chihuahua was born blind. The kids called him Spot because they thought it was funny and, well, he wouldn’t know any better, would he?
You would think that a tiny blind dog would be on the timid side, but not Spot. He confronted Dobermans and Great Danes without hesitation, just a little confusion as to why their prime sniffing area was so high off the ground. He chased squirrels halfway up trees, following their scent and footfalls, and he wouldn’t let Mr. Kane, the cranky old neighbor, anywhere near the yard, even to return a lost ball or Frisbee.
When it came to catching flying discs, he was the block champ. Nobody could figure out how he did it, but he would leap four feet in the air to catch one and never missed. He was never happier than when he was trotting up with a teeth-marked neon-colored circle of plastic in his mouth. Blue ones were his favorite. We could never figure out why.
Maybe that’s why he developed a fondness for chasing cars, something to do with the Frisbees. It was always the left rear wheel he was after. A couple of times, we found him blocks away, shaking and barking in rage and frustration at the left rear wheel of a parked car.
Spot weighed less than ten pounds, but he just couldn’t see the point of being afraid of anything. I’m glad he never saw it coming, the second car.
“Boy, run home.” A child looks up to see a majestic warrior, a Shawnee chief with hazel eyes. “The soldiers are coming. There is war and you might get hurt.”
Weary of weariness, devoid of dreams, the buckskinned hope of many nations stands near a millstream with his hand on the head a white pony.
A stamp of his foot had shaken the earth and united scores of thousands. The power of his voice had moved men who did not understand his tongue.
His cause was finished. The tides of war and time had turned. His alliance was splintering. His one great love, a woman who had taught him of Shakespeare, the Bible, and Alexander the Great, had married, refusing him because he would not adopt the manners of her people, the conquerors, because he would not—could not—deny his own people or himself.
He could see the future. His ancient way of life would soon be gone. “My body will remain on the field,” he has told his warriors.
He is the first to see the enemy approach, the first to leap on his horse to meet them.
As he gallops to his death, he stops to toss a sack of flour at the door of a farmhouse, saving a family of homesteaders from starvation.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a fault.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘safe,’ ” Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’ ”
“But ‘safe’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument’!”
“When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
“The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master that’s all. Words have a temper, some of them—particularly verbs—adjectives you can do anything with—however, I can manage the whole lot! Impenetrability!”
“Would you tell me, please, what that means?
“Now you talk like a reasonable child. I meant by ‘impenetrability’ that we’ve had enough of that subject.”
“But does ‘safe’ mean free from harm?”
“It means that it’s generally regarded as meeting the legal standard of safety by the current panel of experts upon evidence published and compiled by the industry in question, but the standard changes depending on conditions and the ability of said industry to meet it.”
“That’s an awful lot for one word to mean,” Alice began, but she didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence, for a heavy crash shook the forest from end to end.
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