Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Young Harlots Curse

The Rockrose Moon (A Serial Fiction) Part 43

My aunt used to tell a story about the time when my mother and her were visiting relatives in Los Angles. They were 12 and 14 and practicing their English so there was a radio in the room they shared.

They discovered on Sunday nights there was this goofy show on way past their bedtime. They would look forward to going to sleep so much the adults were slightly suspicious but never enough to look past the pile of blankets they would hide under, or to check the pillows stuffed in faces too muffle the laughs. The show was Firesign Theater .

They didn’t understand half of it but they didn’t care. They knew it was funny and silly and totally in line with the times they were so excited to feel a part of.

I think my mother inherited a few wonderful things from that show, an appreciation of radio, the spoken word and a high tolerance for ambiguity in that spoken word and a wild love of laugher that one can barely contain.

She would have loved living now with On Demand radio. The best part of my day is curled up under my pile of blankets listening to Performance Today. I so enjoy drifting off to some whacko combo of Vivaldi played with bagpipes in Italy as well as looking at all the pictures of the gorgeous young crop of pianists.

And now Flagman has sent me a link to the BBC show Poetry Please to remind me of the anniversary William Blake’s 250th birthday tomorrow. Thank you Julian.

I can lie on the floor with my pillows and blankets and listen to the rain and all the peoples reading bits of Blake.

I like the idea being a Bozo on the same bus as Mr. William Blake. Just us and the young harlots cursing out on the street.


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