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Hoses of the Holy in the Parallel Universe

April 06, 2005

April Gale

A very strange thing happened this morning. I was still in bed. It was dark. Fiona had already left for work. Oliver had crawled into my bed and dozed off again. I was putting off the inevitable of having to get up.

And then the light in the en-suite came on all by itself.

Very very odd. I didn't freak because nothing else happened. No noises, no scraping chains, no haunting moans. Nothing.

I can only imagine that Fiona had been in there earlier and not switched the light off properly, so the switch was hovering half way and eventually slipped back to "on".

Anyway, it was fucking windy this morning. Several wheely-bins on the street blew over. Bloody gorgeous. Makes me remember that that only real way to feel alive is through the physical: action, exercise, doing, feeling. I love it when the wind blasts me.

And here's one of my all time favourite poems that seems apt. April Gale by Ivor Gurney. I don't care if it does make a few cheap shots: it tells the story perfectly. And criticism, like ethics, is descriptive really, rather than prescriptive.

The wind frightens my dog, but I bathe in it,
Sound, rush, scent of the spring fields.

My dog's hairs are blown like feathers askew,
My coat's a demon, torturing like life.


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