My stars.

Unfortunately, doused this evening.

Something safe for the picture frame.

I determined I'd stop with the obscurites, until I got swept up in The Courtship of Regina. There's a dapper housespider in the crook of our bathroom. I named him Charlie and then promptly went about the business of matchmaker. It was a fine romance (minus the problems that a few extra limbs are bound to cause) with dizzying highs and lows--a few speckled dramas, an entanglement or two. Stuff for the ages.

Of course, as they didn't sit well on the page, I had to substitute the ever-willing Beauty and the Beast.

All that is seen and unseen.

I miss the village. At my sentimental weakest, I allowed myself to be coaxed to a sermon at the Unitarian on Ferry where I could at least hear the bustle of Elmwood, smell the rotting dog shit on the sidewalks outside. It was strange and unfinished. We kicked nonexistent kneelers, looked for invisible icons on empty podiums, stumbled over every secular verse. It was Mass without amazement, a gathering for an irreligious elite that could never shake the feeling that they needed to be somewhere on a Sunday morning. But we got a good turkey sandwich from Globe out of it.

And, in homage to our missing Madonna, I give you Regina. Queen of the Ladybugs.

N-n-n-n-nobody's fault but mine.

And a half dozen faithless sheep.