Handkerchief prophesy.

Davis Dreckle met his fellow
doomsday prophet at a fence in the park–
It was dark–the sun yet an hour away.
“My brother,” Dreckle began to say,
“I see the world will end tomorrow;
might I today your handkerchief borrow?”
“Oh my,” his shadowy counterpart sighed,
“My friend, the world it will not end
Until every last tear has been theretofore shed.
And what do you think this handkerchief’s for?
To catch every tear before it hits floor.”
“No more! No more!” Dreckle said with a roar,
“There have been enough tears, there have been enough wars!
It’s time now for the closing score.
Tomorrow it ends so I’ll ask you again:
Will you to me your handkerchief lend?”

To which the reply came: “No.”

Darling Dreckle with his Neck all veiny from his anger thence
Grabbed his friend and shook him, pushed him backward off the fence.
“Tomorrow the world ends, but for you, today,”
a by passer heard dear Dreckle say
to his brother and friend where he now did lay.
And Dreckle departed feeling quite certain
that after tonight drawn would be the curtain.
“But will it end?” asked softly his friend
who as chance would have it, did not die.
“For there are still more tears to cry.”
And he himself shed only two
Which mingled with the morning dew,

For his handkerchief had missed them.

Jenny Lewis and the Spring Fever

I think I should like to start a band called Jenny Lewis and the Spring Fever. It would be ideal if Jenny Lewis would agree to be the lead singer of this band, but I think we could make it work in a lesser way without her. When I was living out in California last year I actually forgot what spring fever felt like. Today it all came back to me. Oh my.

Happiness will only….

happen when it can.


Fee Fi Fo Fum.

We are all quick to share our dreams because there is an understanding that we have no real control over our subconscious, so who can really blame us for the twisted stories we conjure up? Daydreams are another matter. Those are entirely willful, and more often than not they are also embarassing. But I think there is a ten year clause in which you can freely confess daydreams from one decade prior without any risk of scorn. After all, who wasn’t silly ten years ago? So now I will tell you about a strange series of daydreams I would invent when I was in middle school. Of course there were the typical daydreams involving the cute boy in class (whoever that was at the time) but I also favored another brand of daydream. These were strange. I remember daydreaming that I would wake up one morning and be a giant. Not some mythical jolly green type giant, but a normal pre-teen girl who had gone to bed measuring 5’3″ and awoken to find herself 7’3″ or thereabouts. This sounds like the premise to some campy Rick Moranis movie, but in my darling little middle school imagination it was far from it. It was a serious matter. In my daydreams the giant-me would find that, despite her unnatural growth spurt she was still required to go to school and attempt to conduct a normal social life. In my daydreams most of my friends were not disgusted by my freakishly increased stature, they were fascinated by it. It catapulted my popularity. But it was not all a glorious ascent to celebrity. Suddenly I was moved into the center position on the basketball team. The pressure on me to perform athletic heroism was very intense. Of course, why wouldn’t they expect great things of this newly mountainous girl-star? But the pressure was too much. I never asked to be this tall! I want my normal life back! Such were the angsty comments my daydream giant self would spout forth at the climax of the daydream. No one understands!

And I had complete control of my brain the entire time, as daydreamers do. I don’t understand my pre-teen self.

If your last name is Wilder does that compensate for your dull subject matter?

On my lunch breaks I’ve been reading Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. I’m not quite sure why it’s a classic, except that it is classically boring. This is really supposed to be the definitive American play? Really? People live and marry and die? Really? It’s a bit too sugary for my taste. If I have to read about the Stage Manager smiling warmly at the audience one more time, I think I might toss my invisible cookies (all stage props are imagined, remember. How novel!) I wonder if it really is in a time capsule somewhere as Wilder intended. I pity the souls of the future who dig this one up.

I guess to save face I should mention that I haven’t finished reading the third act yet. Maybe something incredible happens (besides more life, marriage and death, that is.) If so, consider this my advance withdrawal of above statement. Here here.

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    Breena Wiederhoeft
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