Hello July

The wet, rainy season is a lie layered with truth. 

Rain is a wild and crazy lost midnight rambler. Looking for love. Chasing illusions is aggravation in the whirlpool.

Rain returns to a room under night cover. Mystery is out. 

A sprite of 25 wore the silver flower ring with 7 petals. Consternation in Rain's heart felt the sense of loss forever. Petals transformed tears into hope.

Under a weak light money mama smiled through crooked teeth.

Flower was beautiful in an immature petulant passive way. Her lack of confidence met betrayal.

Rain blossomed her fragrance with instinctual objectivity.

Thanks Ray

Ray Bradbury has passed at 91.

Venus transits the sun. Ray headed North.

“It was one frenzy after one elation after one enthusiasm after one hysteria after another,” he wrote, noting, “You rarely have such fevers later in life that fill your entire day with emotion.”

Fahrenheit 451, Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, The Illustrated Man, among others.

He never went to college. His university was the library.

A very great and unusual talent.

"Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

"It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime."

Thanks Ray.