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Word of the Every So Often

prevenient: (adj.) (pronounced: pre-veen-ee-ent) going before; preceding; anticipating; antecedent; expectant. The prevenient arrival of Carl meant that Larry lost the race.

The Daily Lesson

Happy Birthday Ray Bradbury, who was born on August 22, 1920. Bradbury is one of the most recognized writers of the 20th century, and one of my favourites. He published 11 novels, all of them great. They include such classics as Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, The Martian Chronicles, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and The Illustrated Man. Remember, they are not tattoos. They are skin illustrations. Bradbury also wrote over 600 short stories contained in nearly 30 collections. As well, there are dozens of movies based on Bradbury’s work. My favourite is Fahrenheit 451, which was directed by François Truffaut. Remember the French guy in the movie Close Encounters? Yeah. That’s François Truffaut. And if that’s not enough, Bradbury hosted The Ray Bradbury Theater, which ran from 1985 to 1992. You can still stream it. And it’s still good.

And here’s the good part: By all accounts, Ray Bradbury was a great guy. He was kind, generous, accepting. People loved him. He could be strongly opinionated, though, but it was usually about stuff that it’s OK to have a strong opinion about. For instance, being strongly opposed about censorship is not a bad thing. So, yeah. If you’ve never read any Bradbury, it probably means you never attended public school. Even so, it’s not too late to begin. And today’s a great day to do it on.

Ray went on to better things on June 5, 2012.

Cartoon of the Week

Bear With Me

Stuff

Dog Days

The screen door slams

and bounces and bounces and bounces,

the loose mesh flapping flies,

suspended in the mirage vapours

of awningless sunshine

rising off the cement slab excuse

for a back porch,

flapping them in to dreamily weave the room,

filling shadowed corners with the rise and fall

of meaningless flight.

Eventually to land,

just out of reach of thee swatter.

It is not guessing.

They know.

And there they wait,

rubbing their hands,

waxing their wings,

screwing and unscrewing their heads,

but never quite taking them all the way off.

Until you lunge,

with a magazine

or a newspaper

or even your hand.

And then they’re gone,

to circle once

or twice

and then return,

passing just close enough

to your head

so you’ll hear

the soft snicker of wings.

And all the while,

the never ceasing insult

of the window unit drone

carries beyond the lawnmower line.

It carries from where that damned dog –

our damned dog –

lies beneath the air conditioner

that sticks from the neighbor’s window

like the chubby tongue of some obnoxious child

that you aren’t allowed to swat.

And there, folded into the two feet of shade,

is that damned dog,

lying there like he has nothing else better to do

than just to watch those tiny drops of frustration

let go one at a time,

and drop and drop and drop,

falling into a small puddle of nothing

just beyond his nose.

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