Exc. Story: Shall we meet?; House/Disco Mix - ragu a la paradisio autumnal kitchen...; Poem - Shrunk; It's All Art; Create Immortality: Tales From The UniversE 69 - newsletter from post- Glasto24
An arcadia of imagination
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1. Kid Paradise’s Summer Beach Bar is here and is Zany and Zany. And Zany. And, VAIT a minute: Zany-IER than 30 seconds ago!!! And is hitting ingenue July like The Paradise Kid is born a trillion times each decade while exulting in a perma-mid-life non-and actual crisis
VUNDERBAR early-JULY is here and
what else
to do
than listen
LOUD
to Kid P’s tuuuuunnnnnnnneS???
‘ragu a la paradisio autumnal kitchen cooking when briars frost/windows take you many days ago’
Kid Paradise In The Mix Is Handing It Out!!!
2. It is all art, baby
Forget Glasto, The Paradise Kid has the best fields
3. Poem: shrunk
she was shrunk into herself
as if she might never escape
4. Story - Shall We Meet?
He saw her out most days when running during the pandemic. An older reaching toward old woman. Holding a thermos, wearing a knitted hat reminiscent of a tea cosy, a smile that showed him how when she attended school many summers before she was meek and the smile showed him something else which after a few times passing her and considering the matter he understood was that she had come to a point of life which cast the world as hers and this finally her time.
They smiled at each other. There may have been exchanges of formal hellos during the months of lockdown. As the leaves of autumn twirled. Spring days budded. Hot hours of sun lit the hamlet as if the hamlet existed as an own shangri-la. Winter cold and frost and snow studding the village and the pool frozen and the ducks witnessing him running the trees and her sat on a bench by the water gone to glass and she sensing him passing by behind and she turning and the same wave and the same close to almost glee in her smile.
One day it happened. He stopped to tie a lace and she walked up through the warm July air, a breeze creasing the pool where the ducks on the far side sat in conference in a sun that emanated in jags through the branches of the sycamore trees that lined the water and she stopped and she wore the tea cosy hat in the heat and she held the thermos and she wore the smile and he wondered what she would say and she said the following.
‘Good morning.’
He said, ‘Good morning.’
From the east a soft rain misting out of the skies.
‘I’m Meredith. How are you today?’
She offered a hand and he took and shook this.
‘I’m Elmore. I’m good, thank you. How you going?’
Meredith shrugged. She looked away and across the water as if the answer to this and any question might be there. As if he might too look to the water for any wisdom he might need. Now and in the future and of events already gone.
‘It is nice to say hello.’
‘You go out walking every day?’
‘You go running the same?’
He nodded. He gazed at the water.
‘I retire and we get a pandemic. Nice timing.’
Like she was being wry. Or was at peace with this. Or both. None.
‘What did you retire from?’
She nodded at the water. As if she expected the question. As if she engineered the conversation for the question. As if she conducted all conversations this way.
‘Obituaries.’
‘Obituaries?’
‘For national press. For people who wanted a testament. Mostly locals. A way to mark the passing of a loved one.’
He took this in. Considered how this might be.
'Was asked to write about a white horse once.’
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