Thursday, January 28, 2016


But my song shall see, and wake,
like a flower that dawn-winds shake,
and sigh with joy the odours of its meaning.

--Francis Thompson

It could be a sign that one has reached a certain age, or, on the other hand, a certain stage of perception, to wonder whether a cryptozoological creature might appear. Or it could be the edge of utter madness.

When I was challenged, the other day, to ask the permission of the unicorns to appear to me, I paused for a moment, and whispered, "If you would like to appear to me, I would be very grateful." And then I promptly forgot about this.

Yesterday, the alarm clock beeped insistently in the early hours; I tapped it, and hugged the pillow for a little while longer.

A very vivid image appeared to me, of a young girl with wild eyes, whose hair was streaming all akimobo in an unseen wind, a la Cosette. The sense was that she was an embodiment of inner innocence.

Following in the wake of this girl, a unicorn -- oh delight! made its appearance. The unicorn was silvery-translucent,  iridescent, and with a pale crescent-moon glow.

Yes, I realize it is still necessary to pay taxes, and make dinner, to wash up the dishes, scrub  the floors, and to perform a dozen other tasks around the house.

And yet, a subtle and honorable brand of magic manages to leave its footprints behind in every room.

I am always hearing. . . the sound of a far off song. I do not exactly know where it is, or what it means; and I don't hear much of it, only the odour of its music, as it were, flitting across the great billows of the ocean outside this air in which I make such a storm; but what I do hear, is quite enough to make me able to bear the cry from the drowning ship. So it would you if you could hear it.

--George Macdonald (At the Back of the North Wind)

The mountains held up the sky like pillars, releasing plumes of pebbles, streams and silt as far as my girlish eyes could follow, and w...

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