What pho?
When I opened up the patio doors the blast of air froze me there. The only cure for bad days is to do something. But the party tonight is cancelled. There’s so much I have to do.
I turned on the TV and heard a common twisted pronunciation.
“My dad was a fer-tog-rapher”
I was one of those once. Every time I raised the camera to my eye in anyone’s presence, they’d say:
“What are you taking a picture of that fer?”This is not to be confused with a fur-tog-rapher. I knew a lot of those. If it didn’t have fur or feathers, they weren’t interested.
I suppose that my writing is no different. I tend to shun the warm and fuzzies, and aim straight into the what pho. There’s got to be some light behind that cloud somewhere.
But at least, even when it’s dark, things can be beautiful. There’s just something about looking into the darkness, trying to make it visible, trying to feel something. It may be a crude substitute for light, but at least it’s visible. It’s not fuzzy. It’s hard, cold, and distinct.
Shattered bits of a mirror, I suppose. The edges are sharp and cutting. There are just so many fragments laying about, wrapped in a curse of bad luck.
