Yellow squash, red peppers, eggplant, green beans, blue potatoes. These are what some rainbows become after they ease their arcs, depart from mist and light, and return to ground. It is an unassuming, necessary pot of gold into which they transform.
Red: A Book of Crimson Tales, Sanguine Meditations, Rose Riffs, and Scarlet Exasperations by Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Monday, October 10, 2016
257. How I Like My Blue
I prefer blue to be chilled. When blue gets too warm, it tends to turn purple, which is less appealing than blue, as you know.
Room-temperature blue? Tepid blue? Please. That kind of thing can make you want to run to red or green.
"What kind of blue"? You'd think that would be the more difficult question, perhaps. But it isn't. (Cerulean.)
hans ostrom 2016
Room-temperature blue? Tepid blue? Please. That kind of thing can make you want to run to red or green.
"What kind of blue"? You'd think that would be the more difficult question, perhaps. But it isn't. (Cerulean.)
hans ostrom 2016
Friday, October 7, 2016
256. Of Veldon Windright; or, Not
No one else seemed to perceive the intersection where I stood in the city. I saw it, and I stood there, waiting for a bus because I saw a bus sign there.
No bus came, at least while I waited. I walked home.
Weary, I climbed musty stairs toward my scuffed apartment. Mrs. Bile came out of her apartment, saw me, and cried, "Veldon Windright, you're a scoundrel!" In response, I merely told her the truth: that I wasn't Veldon Windright. She used to know that. At least she used to know I wasn't he. I don't know who he is.
A corner of a red envelope slid under my door protruded. Perceived as V. Windright, I uncoupled myself from the conversation with Mrs. Bile, and I went inside my place, where I picked up the red envelope.
Inside was a note on gray paper. It read, "Sir: We have good and bad news. First, we agree that there is an intersection and a bus stop where you waited recently. We commend your powers of perception and your independence of mind. That said, and second, a bus will never pick you up there even though it's true you saw a bus sign there. It's all too complicated to explain, so just accept the fact. In fact, accept all facts! Good luck. Sincerely, Your Friends at the Veldon Windright Foundation."
hans ostrom 2016
No bus came, at least while I waited. I walked home.
Weary, I climbed musty stairs toward my scuffed apartment. Mrs. Bile came out of her apartment, saw me, and cried, "Veldon Windright, you're a scoundrel!" In response, I merely told her the truth: that I wasn't Veldon Windright. She used to know that. At least she used to know I wasn't he. I don't know who he is.
A corner of a red envelope slid under my door protruded. Perceived as V. Windright, I uncoupled myself from the conversation with Mrs. Bile, and I went inside my place, where I picked up the red envelope.
Inside was a note on gray paper. It read, "Sir: We have good and bad news. First, we agree that there is an intersection and a bus stop where you waited recently. We commend your powers of perception and your independence of mind. That said, and second, a bus will never pick you up there even though it's true you saw a bus sign there. It's all too complicated to explain, so just accept the fact. In fact, accept all facts! Good luck. Sincerely, Your Friends at the Veldon Windright Foundation."
hans ostrom 2016