L’idéal, c’est le gout de Dieu – V. Hugo
He who knew the Veritas and Vita
was trampled on a line on Gran Via,
his pocketful of peanuts and currants
scattered like ebony rosary beads
which mingled with his bloodstains on the rails.
Five days on, Catalonia’s homage
was marked in damask and curved black ribbons
by a black hearse drawn by plumed black horses
through the capital to those capitals.
The Cornet had resounded ‘Hosanna’.
The son of a coppersmith exalted
the son of a carpenter, so that stones
cried out His deity and handiwork.
From the serpentines of bright workshop stills
came the spirals of his imagination.
His blue eyes screened the Barcelona sun
while bent in projects or in silent prayer.
Industrialists did not always like his puns.
From the Collserola hills he looked down
at his cypress towers to eternity.
His Rosita drank Aigua del Carme,
toasting the Carmelite nuns who brewed it;
seeking the Mother of God and her own.
Then he removed his faded black felt hat
and hung it up in the now empty hall.
His bed became a mason’s Bauhütte
while he carved the needles of Montserrat
into Sagrada Familia’s spires.
And when they asked when it would all be done,
he said, “My client is in no hurry”.
The Architect of the Universe smiled.
I heard that there were lots of Olympic tickets unsold and there was happy footage of cheerful Romanians practising their sure-fingered prestidigitation on unsuspecting Japanese tourists, right in front of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. They were limbering up for London 2012. I couldn’t understand why I was watching a programme about them, instead of seeing them being arrested. Security was forcing innocent ticket holders to open their packed lunches while the gangs observed the whereabouts of their wallets. Come to think of it, G4S would probably be suspicious of Big Issue sellers if they were Romanian. If there were to be a dearth of security volunteers, I might suggest that our local tramp could get himself a job. After all, he could provide his own mobile phone. Gordon Brown had declined a ticket, apparently. Well, no Scotsman would want to hazard having his pocket picked.
The news excelled itself in the reportage of doom. Seemingly we are all heading for heart attacks because we do not do enough aerobic activity. Fair enough, I thought, but it isn’t exactly inspiring to go out in the driving rain. There had been a momentary diversion of the jet stream and I had hot-footed it to Tesco Express, leaving my coat behind in misguided optimism. Even the Big Issue seller had disappeared: perhaps he had secured a job with Mr Buckle.
I returned and went upstairs to look at my e-mails. There was one in the Inbox which was headed Sad News. I hesitated before opening it, wondering if the woman’s husband or father had died, but it was only her seventeen and three quarters year old cat that had gone to that scratching post in the sky. Maybe the sender would hold a service of celebration for all the joy that she had been brought, along with some offerings of dead mice and the odd baby bird. She could hold a wake and could serve sandwiches- not Whiskas, although I thought that you could probably eat them without doing yourself any damage. I know of several people who feed their cats peeled prawns and their children Turkey Twizzlers.
I was unsure how to respond. Clinton cards were gone, or going, from the High Streets, so where was I to find a suitable missive? I could make one myself and add something appropriate, such as:
Your moggie’s snuffed it.
I’m so sorry
that it was not
A cat has nine lives:
only has one.
Maybe that was a bit cynical. If it had been the husband who had shaken off his mortal coil, I could send:
Your husband’s snuffed it.
But, chillax –
at least it wasn’t
© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012