These are faerie lights
Above all others:
Droplets in the trees.
Lights
These are faerie lights
Tag: Yip
A Visitor
Thump: the window behind me said softly. I swivelled in my chair to find a bemused pigeon on the sill. It was unharmed as it had not flown directly into the window so much as it had stumbled against the pane when landing. It was not alarmed by my movements but was instead strangely curious about this unnatural transparent barrier.
More of this human magic, it grumbled as it peered into the room, first with the left eye then with the right. There’s no way of telling; there needs be some warning, it pondered as it continued to stare: left-right, left-right as if it were B.F. Skinner’s wind-up automaton.
When I reached for my camera, it had enough. You’ll not steal my soul with that contraption, it said as it flew into the maya. The less of a trace that I leave, the sooner I’ll be free. I think I know you and perhaps we’ll meet again, outside of time, if you know what I mean.
I did not, but we left it at that.
— Yip
Imaginary People
It’s a mystery to me
That every window be
Alight each night.
Who lives like that?
— Yip
Her Mistress’ Foot 2
again
Tell me now…
Tell me now…
Am I out of my mind?
Tell me now,
Tell me now:
What does that even mean?
Where is my mind
That I should ever be out of it?
A garden yard delimited
By posts or lamps or walls or trees?
Reason for humans, boxes for cats but boundaries for dogs?
Like the spirit dog (the one above)
(Who remains Anonymous)
Began its visit
By marking a liminal post
Like signing a guest book…
It sniffed around then said
The title seemed a tad hierarchical.
I allowed that it could indeed be so read
Yet it was tagged with “love” and “dogs”
But maybe taste and smell and je ne sais quoi
Would have done as well?
That too, agreed the spirit
As it faded from sight.
Only a slight wisp of drool
Remained for the moment
longer.
–Yip
The Wind and the Rain
The trees are in motion, tossing in their autumnal drowse. Sunburnt leaves are shed like flakes of skin, a sort of botanic dandruff, the ash of combusted photosynthesis. The leaves do not fall far in the rain but collect nearby like mud or slippery banana peals bell-like ringing slapstick laughter because it could happen to you: how absurd the flailing fall toward at least embarrassment if not a life-altering slap on the head. We laugh to disarm the universe, to ease our fears, to comfort our discomfort, to express the joy of surprise, to proclaim our communion with fellow humans as we have this in common.
The wind and the rain?
Exit
… to the Nines
and autograph
the Night.
…that’s all…
Militant Robin
Robins tend to be chary of humans. Better safe than sorry seems to be the majority opinion. If nothing else, an oncoming human is just another drain on a finite supply of attention and who needs that extra work? There’s always another worm.
Or is there? One robin on Glenwood Avenue may have doubted this. Instead of hunting worms, it was excavating leaf litter along the Goldberg Park fence line. The bird was really shovelling shit, now and again using its entire body to fling old leaves and wood chips to the middle of the sidewalk. Every other time it paused to consume… something…. Fling, examine, eat if desired, repeat but add a pause to assess an oncoming human. This was not typical robin behavior, at least in my experience.
The human would pass within a few feet of the bird, a horribly intimate encounter for a robin, but the bird grimly continued with its search through the litter, maybe with added vehemence as if to say: Just try to mess with me, human. The litter spread more widely on the walk.
The bird and I met and passed. We each spared a moment for a glance. We were both hungry; we had that much in common. The robin continued to ransack the litter. I continued home.
Adventures of a Cubicle Rat
Photographer unknown.
Leaving Through the Gate to Abstraction
Numbers have rhythms but do they have rhymes?
Could this be the gate? It could be the gate, the gate to log rhythms and rhymes. Pay no attention to that creature behind the curtains; it’s just me at the levers, playing with filters and color. Is it Art? No, it’s Yip, but it was fun getting wherever it is we is.
Numbers have rhythms but do they have rhymes?
Photo / Graphic by Roman.
Carnival of Aliens
a mongrel of fleas or invader from mars
Photo / Graphic by Roman.
3/30 — Where does a story begin? That depends on what story you intend to tell.
4/22 — I’ve been singing my death song all the live-long day.
(This is not what I meant to write when I sat down, pencil in hand, only to be confronted by a cannabis-induced* blank spot that removed the slightest trace of the original…
(Instead, I am beset by questions asking half empty / half full or questions for which “Yes” is truthful, correct yet contradictory or those where “No” does the same.
(What we learn from philosophy is that we learn nothing from philosophy.
(Oh, we are a voluble lot, those that gather here. The thoughts tumble one or another then sometimes one and another but sometimes call and response. It is sometimes dissonant but sometimes harmonic…
(Harmony? Yes, when sometimes we agree.)
It is, in sum, a carnival of aliens.
Yip
* Or maybe just a senior moment. After all, where does the story begin?
Yip Abides 