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spring 2012



featuring the art of Bill Rogers

Jovial selections
spring 2012
At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement:

`Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again.'

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shows to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:

`Yo ho, there. Ebenezer. Dick.'

Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-prentice.

`Dick Wilkins, to be sure.' said Scrooge to the Ghost. `Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. Dear, dear.'

`Yo ho, my boys.' said Fezziwig. `No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's have the shutters up,' cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands,' before a man can say Jack Robinson.'

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it. They charged into the street with the shutters -- one, two, three -- had them up in their places -- four, five, six -- barred them and pinned then -- seven, eight, nine -- and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

`Hilli-ho!' cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. `Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here. Hilli-ho, Dick. Chirrup, Ebenezer.'

Clear away. There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

`Why. Is it not. He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise.'

`It isn't that,' said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. `It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count them up: what then. The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.'

Charles Dickens ~ A Christmas Carol

"Yet Lurga in that room was overmatched. Suddenly a greater spirit came-one whose influence tempered and almost transformed to his own quality the skill of leaping Mercury, the clearness of Mars, the subtler vibration of Venus, and even the numbing weight of Saturn.

"In the kitchen his coming was felt. No one afterwards knew how it happened, but somehow the kettle was put on, the hot toddy was brewed. Arthur-the only musician among them-was bidden to get out his fiddle. The chairs were pushed back, the floor cleared. They danced. What they danced no one could remember. It was some round dance, no modern shuffling: it involved beating the floor, clapping of hands, leaping high. And no one, while it lasted, thought himself or his fellows ridiculous. It may, in fact, have been some village measure, not ill-suited to the tiled kitchen: the spirit in which they danced it was not so. It seemed to each that the room was filled with kings and queens, that the wildness of their dance expressed heroic energy, and its quieter movements had seized the very spirit behind all noble ceremonies.

"Upstairs his mighty beam turned the Blue Room into a blaze of lights. Before the other angels a man might sink; before this he might die, but if he lived at all he would laugh. If you had caught one breath of the air that came from him, you would have felt yourself taller than before. Though you were a cripple, your walk would have become stately: though a beggar, you would have worn your rags magnanimously. Kingship and power and festal pomp and courtesy shot from him as sparks fly from an anvil. The ringing of bells, the blowing of trumpets, the spreading out of banners are means used on earth to make a faint symbol of his quality. It was like a long sunlit wave, creamy-crested and arched with emerald, that comes on nine feet tall, with roaring and with terror and unquenchable laughter. It was like the first beginning of music in the halls of some king so high and at some festival so solemn that a tremor akin to fear runs through young hearts when they hear it. For this was great Glund-Oyarsa, King of Kings, through whom the joy of creation principally blows across these fields of Arbol known to men in old times as Jove and under that name, by fatal but not inexplicable misprision, confused with his Maker-so little did they dream by how many degrees the stair even of created being rises above him."

C.S. Lewis ~ That Hideous Strength

Notre Dame Cathedral is on fire!
spring 2012
Sad day. April 15th, 2019, Monday of Holy Week. Notre Dame Cathedral is on fire! Roof collapsed!

Railway pondering....
spring 2012
You get this strange look into Florida history when you ride a train. You see the names of towns that used to be hub towns that now are almost unknown, aside from the train crowd. You can also get this sense taking older roads which were more dominant before the current interstate pushed them into a kind of forgetful backland. I love seeing these layers, imagining whole lifeways associated with them, remembered by perhaps a few, and now forgotten. There is a sense of sadness mixed with the flash and excitement of the new. You might begin to see the present as a future backland, but in this meditation on brokenness and layers you might also find hidden consistencies, which map onto the places between old roads, old trackways and the current landscape. Taking a train ride is certainly good for the noggin.

Did I just make a rhyme?
spring 2012
Eu gosto das cores daquelas flores.

And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour....
spring 2012
Francis 5

"Praised be You my Lord with all Your creatures,
especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour,
Of You Most High, he bears the likeness."

~Saint Francis

Before It's Too Late
spring 2012
Before It's Too Late

Before It's Too Late
original artwork by: Bill Rogers

Lima Center Road
spring 2012
Lima Center Road

Be aware of your surroundings at all time. You never know who might turn up.

Henry's Dream: taken from R.A. Lafferty's Archipelago
spring 2012
Henry dreamed that night, as he knew he would, and of a boat. The name of the boat was the Navicula Petri. It looked like a Galleon, and yet it was quite other. There were many pennants and flags flying from it.
In hoc signo vinces, said one of them. And there was another in the looping handwriting of Finnegan, the left hand of Finnegan for he wrote left-handed half the time: Nisi esses sollicitus--, and then the Latin was scratched out and it was Englished boldy: If you can't be careful, be good.
Ubicumque fuerit corpus illic congregabuntur et aquilas, said another, and it was an echo of the high motto of The Dirty Five. And then there were three banners in a series that read: Tu es Petrus, and Portae inferi non prevalebunt, and tibi dabo claves regni.
There were various devices. There was a Lamb, and a Greek Cross. There was a Fish, and a Six-Pointed Star. "I always assumed it would be five-pointed," said Henry, "but I don't know why I thought so."
There was a woman , and a Serpent, and a Crescent Moon. "If I were making the little boat," said Henry,"I would consolidate the symbols for neatness."
It was hard to discern whether this was a toy boat, or a real boat afar off. Part of it was plainly more real even than the prosaic world, and part of it was drawn in with child's crayola. The seamen may have been dolls, or they may have been alive. There were the Apostles; and Stephen and Paul and the Baptist; Linus and Clement and Cletus. There were Barbara and Catherine, looking like sea-urchins, there were Gregory and Constantine. Jerome and Augustine glared at each other over a davit. Francis and Anthony were there, Thomas and Patrick, Hildebrand and Adrian the Dutchman. The Theresas, French and Spanish; and Joan and Xavier.
"It is odd that I know them," said Henry, "for I never saw them before. But that is who they are."
The boat was in trouble, and it gained in verisimilitude as the waves rose and the wind blew. It was a real ship and it was badly tossed, et descendit procella venti in stagnum, et complebantur et periclitabantur, and the account seemed to be translated for Henry into his own tongue like the sub-script of a foreign language movie, un tourbillon fondit sur le lac La Barque se replissait d'eau--
"Never mind," Henry told the dream. "I recognized the passage. I always preferred the Vulgate to the French."
There was salt in the spray. Was the Sea of Genesarat salty? Or was this bigger boat on a larger sea?
And now Henry first noticed the shattered and broken masts. There were many masts once, and the boat must have flown like a great white castle; but now they were splintered and down. There was Albion of the White Cliffs where Apostasy is foretold in the Apocalypse. There was Moscovy which was Third Rome. There was Gaul itself. And others were betopped and tottering.
A multitude was watching the boat, and almost any one of it could have reached out a hand and helped. But the people believed it was only a toy boat, as Henry at first had believed. They did not know that it was real and was about to go down: and that if it went down, the whole world would go down with it.
But Henry the Frenchman from the swamps knew that it was real and that he was involved with it. He also knew that it was the same ship as the Argo on which he already sailed, but that the quest had been sanctified during these last short millennia.
And he realized, before he awoke, that this was his Vocation; and that, whether he accepted it or not, it had come down to him.

~from Archipelago by R.A. Lafferty, Chapter 2 Part 4

Swamp Thoughts
spring 2012

If I had to create a soundtrack for Boomer Flats, this would be a good first pick.

Blue Scarf Girl
spring 2012
Dumb smile hoodie
Sits on her cheap wooden coffin
A goddess on the back of a tiger
Made of bent hangers and old magazines?
Two pairs of pants
Two shirts and two jackets
Hers is the July of winks and old coffee
Silently she breaks all the spines
Like de-veining shrimp
She curls up Exodus
Like a sea of reeds
And cuts down hairy and clawed old kings
With her grimy fingertips and bit nails
She bends back poor Saint Jude
Jesus' poor, mostly unknown cousin
Always stripped of his green kirtle and happy little picture
She promptly transfigures herself
Into her rap star avatar
With her right cheek twisted up just so
And her garland of lipstick stained hotlids
A blue bandana rhyming dictionary
One-woman variety show
Camped out forever
At big breakfast bus stops
Biting off the heads of sweaty apostles
Spitting them under the highchairs
And planting them in the Linux section
Mumbling on about influential Austrian families
She has never met and never will meet
And like many local gods these days
Summoning herself in a mirror forever