Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Valentine detective

Valentine Detective retake
a First take: Revised
Traveling down an old road, you see old houses, one with a crescent on its green shutters, are you lost, again? Which way to turn, is it right, or wrong? Perhaps, is it correct to take the left turn? Ah, Yes, was this the way last time? Does it really matter at all any more?

This pathway seems to beckon again. The only problem is that some of these houses are familiar, some are still strange. But, I just like to feel that this is my only option, for now. Perhaps that old glove box has a map concealed inside its dark contents. The little silver button is just within reach, and presto, the glove box releases the catch that hold it closed, and the contents are now visible to my wretched eyes. Search my little eyes search and find.
My greedy hands trespass into the little alcove that the auto manufacturer praises as a convenience to the weary traveler. My hands search until they close about a soft velvet object, and a feather tickles my palm. With drawing my new found treasure, my eyes devour this ludicrous item, and my eyes reveal to me that this item is none other than, an old black velvet mans hat. A soft brown pheasant feather is stuck in the crown.
Hesitantly, I place the hat upon my head and the thing fits as though fashioned for my head alone.
Rummaging still farther into the small cavernous cardboard makeshift car closet, my hand closes around a cold steel object, startled I withdraw this other item, and find it is none other than a rusty lock with a rusty key stuck into the lock.
A very small wooden box lies askew, just inside the lip of the glove box. Reposing on the tiny lid of the box, a small silver anchor is fashioned
Still curious about the undiscovered map, I pursue my findings again, this time my hand rustles something old crumpled and dry. Closing my greedy hands upon the last item in the glove box, I pull out a small very dusty bundle of ten dollar bills, wrapped in an old valentine. The rubber band holding the bundle intact crumbles in my hands.
Stop Action; Pause , Change scenery

Filtering down through the pale blue feather dream catcher the gossamer wings of dreams sail on butterfly wings until they reach the conscious of the medium or seeker, the circlet of the catcher is made from a sprightly willow sprig. The items placed upon the dream catcher's web signify the dreamer's life experiences.
I dreamed of a peaceful forest. My restless spirit I dreamed I was a rabbit soft brown furry. Wind gently rippled through my fur. I traveled elusively through beautiful moonlit forest it was fall leaves were falling all around an I felt a presence evident A troubled spirit sang out to me, and I tried to look for a way through the forest urgent there was a pathway needed. I wanted to guide him he was looking for a pathway back to a big area.
His heart was urgent something about a message yet unspoken

Something else or just rave and rant here.., elipsis
Bedrooms about the size of some rich folks closets
Where would everything go? Just looking about brought or calls to mind these familiar sayings; a place for everything, neat as a pin.
The color wheel of the art notations became a tell tale wheel from some bizarre carnival ride in my mind's eyes. Where would the blue tweed covered ottoman go? What nook or cranny would it adorn? A calico kitty comfortably groomed her multicolored fur. She paid no heed to arrangement she merely looked for comfort a place to stretch in her catlike gracefulness stretch out and enjoy the warmth of a stray sunbeam upon her feline back calico kitty orbs were shining open bright light reflecting a montage of scenes and predicaments how beautiful were those orbs wondrous..,
Science Fiction words or a beginning, to a passage


Memoirs of a mad scientist

Ah yes, you see the frustration and drudgery of these mundane duties has gotten to me, weep bitter tears from hazel hued eyes. The winds of change breeze through my mind, tugging at the velvet cords that bind those books of memories stored in the attic of my mind.
Aye yes, young reader, shall all this beckon to thee? Stray forth upon the weathered deck, Aye, stand patient for my mere testimonies await they patient ear.
You shall hear Alvarez, sweet Spanish singer. I drew the steel stringed wooden instrument from the velvet-lined vessel. Then I held the cherished blond wood closer to my heart.
Alvarez, the name was now whispered in sonnets, fables and lore. Mighty timbers once swayed in forests breezes. Alvarez you were born from these same forests monarchs’ limbs.
Alas my pilgrim tip the tin cup forward, dip the small shiny cup into the pools of my mind’s stored transgressions, a paupers treasure. Free my soul’s secrets if you will see the mirrored reflection in cool clear blue sapphire waters, the rhapsody of a singing brook. Hasten to see a fleeing glimpse, can this be true, the semblance of a black cats visage where once a human form returned your questing gaze?
Oh ponder such mysteries. Hasten to the pathway, small one. Step on the little stones pathways into the past. Draw back the curtains of mist from the misty waterfalls wake.
Rest awhile. Chapel bells ring, their peals heady laughter to the saints above. White doves fly from the Spanish mission in a dream. Winter winds speed the peace birds on their winter wings. Fly from the casements and sing. Sing sweet Alvarez. Lull the cat child to sleep, rest in pondering dreams. Dream of a silver clad prince in foreign pagodas.