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Imagination is like the common cold virus: it's always there, lurking, waiting for the chance to nip in and take the wheel. There's no sure cure, though you can treat the symptoms. Medical advice says let it run its course.  Today's fiction prompt: a photo I took on a fishing trip to Wyoming.
Rudolph was no fiberglass elk, bugling soundlessly on the street of Thermopolis. He was neither the victim of a fierce electrical taping nor did he lose an ear during a wrestling match with a drunk guy. He did not lift his rack of fiberglass antlers into the wide Wyoming sky in an effort to voice his pain. He did not wear a saddle-pad of twinkling holiday lights. He did not sport a compact fluorescent bulb painted red at the distal point of his noggin. They might have let Rudolph join in any reindeer games, but little matter. Was he like Bartleby before him, preferring not? Or like Robert Cratchit, beetling away for the chance of a day's liberty? Or Balthazar, with the insight to know what lay ahead? Or maybe, inert as can be, he is like the Yule log, waiting for the dark to yield to light and then celebrate another year beginning. Hope your season is bright.
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 Each year, I try to tamp down my impatience and worry knowing that Two Beers finds the long, fiddly process both mentally and physically engaging.
Life is not the only thing out there imitating art. Evidently Nature's in on it too. According to Edgar Degas, "Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." And for that I might as well go ahead and apologize.
I was thinking about the Alexander Pope quote, which was –– I thought –– Art is but Nature to advantage dressed. Or, in this case, not dressed. I meant to rift extensively on part about being undressed. Low humor, sure, and possibly dragging in the topic of saggy pants.
But when I checked the quotation (From his Essay on Criticism, which is in strictest truth a poem), Pope actually wrote: "True wit is Nature to Advantage drest,/What oft was Thought, but ne'er so well Exprest,/Something, whose Truth convince'd at Sight we find,/That gives us back the Image of our Mind." Oh Alexander Pope, you navel-gazing noodler.
Goblin Valley is full of hoodoos –– those weirdly worn pillars of sandstone that resemble human figures. And I mean the valley is FULL of them. It was first called "Mushroom Valley" when Anglos first found it. Although in full disclosure, even more than goblins, I think one could argue a valley of phallus-like items. Names matter. I get it. Who in the world would agree to chaperone a busload of teenagers to Dingus Valley State Park for an overnight tenting adventure?  But how about Ponker Valley? Pizzle Park? Tallywacker Trail? I can restrain myself only by strong effort. Goblins! Goblins!  In any case, the valley opened as a state park in the 1964. It's one of the few parks where electric scooters are not prohibited on the roads, and where a visitor can meander at will up and over the sandstone structures.  We put in our miles while visiting.  We set off at dawn and returned to the Winnie reminded of how very dry and how very empty Utah can be.  |
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