His Day Will Come

It was that intense focus of Unquenched Desire, and not the burning of my Soul in the stench of Hell, that the Fire in my remnant being for Just Vindication and a Proof-full Revenge on that “auctioneering agent of Satan,” who now goes by the silly moniker of M. T. Deceased, which burst me through the dam of the bounds of Death and guided my perilous way into this present and disturbing time. To be scorned in Love was no easy matter, but to be scorned as a writer of worth added doubly to my already painful pain. From out of my great suffering emerged a Hate wedded to Will that would not relinquish hold on the sublime ambition of gifting humanity those Unread Treasures laid up in my bosom and that are my True Being.

“And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint,
Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis,
Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint
With the soft burthen of intensest bliss.”

Yes, a bliss not given heed by the profane men who slither forward to guard the higher regions of unleveled True Literature. And so here I am: Annabelle Potts; back.

“Yielding to no man's desire,
Glowing with a saffron fire…”

My introduction done, I turn to that which sparks anew the life found here. Free of the suffocating tortures of my fight with Death (D.G.) and of once worn whale-boned corsets, I now breathe a comfort miraculous beyond my previous imagination. Indeed, a Freshness of Spirit, a Release so grand, I take to heart the poet’s words - “Therefore all seasons shall now be sweet to thee” – and so in this present now I find my rage deeply sublimated, transformed to cheerful wonder in this surprising age.

Think not my goal of conquering the Satan Protectors is now diminished. Nay. I but bide my time as time (D.V.) is now my companion not my enemy. As for M. T. Deceased:

“How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!”

His writings are but a runny nose worthy only of being blown into the snot rag of history. His day will come, Deus Volens.

Annabelle Potts

[Poor Annabelle - yes, we have met again - has no concept of modern technology and as a consequence I have graciously allowed her to publish her literary rants/musings here. She will need to get up to speed, however, as I can take only so much hilarity - M.T. (deceased)]



The Sacred White Tulip: As with the Blessed Lilly a statement of dearest Nature to clear the most tragically clouded and despoiled mind.
"But list! a voice is near
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds
'Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!'"

(I plead, dear reader, for you to ignore the uncivil rantings of M.T. (deceased). May he yet be saved or destroyed.)

A. Potts

The Window – A True History

Not too often, but a time or two, I find myself in a church. The local Episcopal church had a new window that needed some sort of dedicating, and they got themselves a Bishop come all the way from California for the job—a difficult and perilous journey at best. As newly appointed editor of Virginia City’s finest newspaper and foremost conveyor of newsworthy information in the whole Territory of Nevada, it was my duty, among other more personal interests, to attend and gather the facts of this important event dear to both the social and spiritual life of the mostly heathen riffraff that inhabited the place—not the church, the city, of course. Nobody inhabits a church—they aren’t fixed up for 24 hour use with beds scattered among the pews, spittoons alongside the hymnals, or chamber pots in the Narthex. To my way of thinking, a church is but a temporary holding pen. On any given Sunday, folks, I’ve noticed, approach it slowly in all seriousness, a drawn resignation written all over their faces, then somebody shuts the door on them. After a spell, the door opens, and these same folks come pouring out, all smiles, seeming happy to have escaped their captivity and be out again in the sunshine and fresh air. That’s my considered interpretation, and it has given me a number of puzzling pauses in my reflections on humanity.

Now this window of high interest was kept from public view upon its arrival, was installed away from prying eyes, and been fully covered waiting on this grand occasion for its revelation. It had been made by an outfit back in New York City, Tiffany and Sons by name, if my notes are correct. I had earlier been back East for a spell and been invited to a rather ostentatious residence for the occasion of drink and cigars, in a room given over to this civilized activity only. There in the wall of that room was a large, stained glass window from this Tiffany outfit. I remember it well, as it nearly took the breath right out of me, which was not wanted as I was about to light a very good Havana. In full color, amidst vines and suggestive fruits and flowers, was a half-naked woman, one breast aglow with a purity and intensity not found in nature. You can understand my personal curiosity and anticipation concerning this new window in the church and why I had not given this assignment over to a mere reporter.

The church filled to overflowing and the service was long. The imported Bishop gave a fine dedication sermon, about how this window had been called into the Lord’s service just as he had been called. I don’t think this true, but I had to give the poor wearied traveler the benefit of the doubt; he had, after all, been called to our fair city. He did a bit of Bible reading, from prepared notes, about how when one is called he must forsake all others; he even mentioned letting the dead bury the dead—that being a real conundrum to me and made me almost miss the rest of his sermon as it put my imagination to work in a terrifying way.

We all waited expectantly for the great unveiling, and mercifully it did come. As the cloth coverings came off, inside and out, there was a collective gasp from the attendees, myself included. It was not a brilliantly lighted, fig-leafed Eve that appeared before me, rather a larger-than-life, blonde blue-eyed Jesus facsimile, fully clothed, with a lamb tucked under one arm and the other wrapped around a long stick, the purpose of which escaped me. There were cheers and thunderous hand-clapping all around. I thought the window had missed the mark. Eve would have put more people in the pews and greatly increased the Sunday offering. I immediately found other business pressing and left. I could finish my column factually just as easily in my office along with a spot of overdue refreshment.

The window became The Window and was the pride of the city and a good chunk of the Territory—much admired, it was. There’s something comforting about windows. You’d of thought that all the other windows in that consecrated edifice would have developed some poor feelings, given the competition they were up against—that in the deliberate snubs of their decent, ordinary duty they might have gone mad with jealousy and refused to let the light through. But these windows held fast to their intended purpose and never caused nobody any trouble whatsoever, other than the need of a good washing now and then. Even so, they never asked for it. Steady as a rock, they were, always letting light look in and eyes look out, the latter commonplace among the children during services. Good windows they were.

I say ‘they were’ as it was not long after that this temple to the Lord caught fire. When the alarm went up, a multitude rushed to the site, some to help, more to watch. Pyrotechnics were much appreciated entertainments in the Territory. I had my reporter’s notebook at the ready and scribbled furiously. Above the crowd, the Vicar was shouting “Save The Window! Save The Window!” I approached His Sacredness for his thoughts on what was transpiring, but he took no proper notice of my query. He simply said, “You idiot!” struck my notebook from my hand and thrust a crowbar into it. With a forceful, two-armed shove, full body weight behind it, he propelled me to The Window. There I joined in with others similarly outfitted; in no time we had The Window out, fully intact, unharmed, and with much applause and deafening hurrahs moved it to a temporary position of safety.

I then went looking for my notebook and found it right where the Vicar parted it from me. I again approached His Grace and asked if I could have a few of his reflections on the conflagration before him. I don’t think he heard me properly, as only indistinguishable sputterings came out of his strangely contorted lips. Satisfied, I scribbled his response in my notebook, left out the useless sputterings and replaced them with words suitable to the occasion. I then asked of His Holiness should we not try to save the other windows, too, and all the Bibles still inside? Seemed a pity to leave all those other faithful windows out of the rescue, and Holy Writ seemed equally deserving, if not more, given the moral slippage so obviously manifest in the general population. He responded rather forcefully, “You fool! Other windows can be replaced, and Bibles, too! The Window cannot!” He then knocked my notebook from my hand and thrust into it a handle attached to a bucket.

Given the heat of the present environment, I could, and did (though quite some time later) excuse the Vicar’s un-Christian behavior and overall uncharacteristic use of the English language. I passed the bucket on to another (poor fellow) and escaped back to my editor’s office to collect myself from all the excitement and overpowering emotional distress I was feeling, and for some needed refreshment. To this day, I take pride in having saved The Window, and my column of that day prominently reflected my heroic actions.

I understood the Vicar when he said that the other windows could be replaced, but I did not understand him when he added this also held true for the Bibles. Replaced by what? I have made an ongoing, now extensive, list of possible spiritual substitutions, but have yet to settle on one—there are so many contenders. I think I am getting close, but time will tell.

The Window is still in Virginia City, now prominently enshrined in a new, dressed stone structure of quality, and has affixed near it a shiny brass plaque relating the harrowing history of its rescue. My complaint is that I, so important to this artifact’s preservation, who risked life, hand, and eyebrows for it, have been left out of the account. I have not yet heard back from my letter requesting that this oversight be amended. Perhaps my request would have been better received had I offered to pay for the correction and enclosed one of those replaceable Bibles.

[I am pleased to bring the true history of this significant Territorial event to your attention]
M.T. (deceased)

Political Economy – An Interruption

Determined to make something of myself in life, I turned to the subject of political economy, that most important of all sciences and the basis of all good government. Driven to rescue the humanity around me, awaken it to government’s fiduciary responsibilities, its stewardship of the public chest—to being ever vigilant for waste and over-spending—to awaken its woeful political leaders, those so unnecessarily unenlightened, those yearning to be recipients of my collected wisdom—I began to compose with a furious energy, with pen and paper, upstairs in my study, when the front doorbell rang.

Irritated at the disruption, I went downstairs and answered the ring. A lightning rod man confronted me with disturbing news. He asked me what I knew about home protection from electrical storms. Not wanting to show my ignorance, for I knew nothing about lightning other than what I heard directly from Ben Franklin and his Sabbath breaking kite flying—which was not much—I answered the gentleman that I knew a great deal about electrics and whatnot. Then why, he accused, had I not protected myself and my dear ones inhabiting this finest of domiciles from the capricious violence of storms and the surety that with one lightning blast, and the smallest going at that, it would turn my manse to cinders—and all inhabitants within? I told him I was preoccupied with other matters of the gravest importance but had just about got around to doing it, and that as Providence had sent him to me, he was at liberty to correct my oversight with the very top-of-the-line installation he could provide. I went back upstairs to re-gather my important political economy thoughts.

I had reached the point in my dissertation about Smith’s abominable “invisible hand,” a mistake he related to me upon my letter of query about this nonsense. His return letter was filled with effusive apologies, said he had been “whiskified”, single malt, when writing that section and he meant to say “iron fist.” With great satisfaction in being able to clear up this unfortunate error, and pen on paper, I was once again interrupted by my doorbell.

It was that man again, back for his money I thought. No, not my money, yet. He pointed out to me that he had installed 12 first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods with the very highest grade, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire to be found in all of America. He added that he had expended his efforts on the one chimney and that while it provided great protection to one portion of my house, there was a lack of symmetry, a safety and aesthetic imbalance remained. I thanked him for bringing this to my attention and requested that, whatever the expense, my family’s safety came first; and, if he could immediately resolve this unfortunate perilous situation, I would be most grateful. He said he would, on the instance.

I went back upstairs with my thoughts all in a swirl and grabbed my pen. I had just finished the section of Lord Byron’s last words, using the certified statement of a chambermaid who, lurking about at his death, remembered clearly that the dear bard had renounced the frivolity of poetry. He whispered, she declared, that if he only had his life to live over again he would have applied himself to the study and writing of political economy—this said before he nobly expired.

I cannot remember exactly how many times my doorbell rang, but by day’s end the rod man’s work was finished; with edifying thoughts still flying from my pen came that final annoying ring. Asked to come outside to admire the work that had been done to my roof, I did so. I looked up. I shut my eyes, reopened them. I shook my head. There was no mistaking. What I beheld appeared to me to be every wrought iron fence for blocks around, standing as close packed as cattle in a pen, there, up on my roof. Only these were not fences, but first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods attached to a virtual spider web of the very highest grade, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire snaking down to the ground. I thought my roof was in instant danger of collapse.

I was presented my bill. It was somewhat more than I expected, but the assured safety of my loved ones was foremost in my mind as I wrote out the check. I returned to my work, but my thoughts would not coalesce into that fervent stream of wisdom so typical of my work It could have been the slightly higher than anticipated cost for the rods, or perhaps it was the added weight over my head, but I suffered severely until I looked out my window. Below in the street a large crowd had gathered; they were clearly interested in my roof, and I could detect by their actions they were in great admiration of the degree of attention I had placed on the safety of my dear ones, and the prudent use of my checkbook to do so. I went down the stairs and out onto my front porch. I found it necessary to take a little bow.

For three days I remained distracted from my critical work as the street continued to fill with people; some came from miles out; local establishments of entertainment closed for lack of custom. I was the wonder and talk of the town. It was, however, with blessed relief, on the third day, when a thunderstorm came up and the lightning began to “go for” my house, as the historian Josephus quaintly phrases it. It cleared the galleries, so to speak.

In five minutes there was not a spectator within half a mile of my place; but all the high houses about that distance away were full, windows, roof and all—taking in the show. And well they might be, for all the falling stars and Fourth of July fireworks of a generation put together rained down simultaneously out of heaven in one brilliant shower upon my helpless roof. My house was a magnificent object of illumination in the general gloom of the storm.

The continuous concussions blew out all my window panes—picked knick-knacks off my mantels, pictures off my walls, tossed them into the air, the results devastating to my plans for their cherished posterity—even blew open the cupboard doors sending the best Sunday chinaware flying with the same posterity results. Nearly caused me permanent deafness.

By actual count the lightning struck at my establishment seven hundred and sixty-four times in forty minutes, but each strike tripped on one of those faithful, first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods, every time, and slid down that highest quality, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire and shot into the earth before it probably had time to be surprised at the way the thing was done. Nothing was ever seen like it since the world began.

At last the awful siege came to an end—because there was no more electricity left in the clouds above us within grappling distance of my insatiable rods. Then I sallied forth, and with as many able-bodied men as I could find worked them without break until my roof was stripped of all its terrific armament. It was not until I had taken and completed this swift action that my neighbors dared appear once again out of their houses. (I left one rod on my chimney, as prudence demands, and which remains there, admired, to this day.)

I did not continue my work upon political economy. To this day, I am not yet settled enough in nerve and brain to resume it. I placed an advertisement in the local paper requesting that parties having need of three thousand two hundred and eleven feet of highest quality, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire lightning rod stuff and sixteen hundred and thirty-one first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods, slightly used but all in tolerable repair, can negotiate a bargain by direct contact.

Refreshed, not revised; use as seen fit, M.T. (deceased)

Some Local Arizona Observations and this Christmas past, too

I like a little chicory in my coffee, but found none locally. A person of poor hearing advised me to go to Phoenix, he said they have it there. I was warned that in my quest I should keep my wallet in my pocket, attached to my hand. Others echoed this cautionary sentiment. It seems there is a certain wariness Arizonans have about the lofty estate of Phoenicians. I did find there a great many people ready to take my money; I also found an unusually large collection of politicians, like locusts, in Biblical proportions. True to their nature and through unwanted conversations — they were everywhere and could not be avoided — they reaffirmed my opinion of most politicians that low on their list of civic priorities were widows, orphans, and children, and just about everybody else. I rarely give advice, as I am known for my humility and moderate speech, but there are times when our elected officials need reminding that they are the tail and the voters the rest of the dog. It ill behooves a tail to wag without instruction from that to which it is attached.

As I said, I went to Phoenix for chicory on advice of a deaf man, and found my request misunderstood, for I found instead chicanery — this is not an additive I would ever put in my coffee. However, in one respect of the many warnings given me, it is the shiftiness of Phoenicians to which I must speak. In this they have been maligned. It is their yards — front and back — and side yards, too, sometimes — which cannot be trusted. Phoenicians have built themselves harmonious, solid domiciles, but on shifty property. In a good wind, vast acreages of prime real estate rise up, and with nary a look down whoosh their way to Florence. I understand the new State Penitentiary there has had to add another story as the ground floor has become a basement. I have also heard it reported, but do not believe it to be true, that in Florence funerals are cheaper than elsewhere; they dig no holes in their cemeteries — the deceased are simply laid out on the ground in an appropriate funereal state, while the bereaved have but a little wait before Phoenix buries them.

You are probably asking yourselves when will I get around to saying more about Christmas? I had a nephew, long beyond the age of a child, who thought of me as a surrogate Santa Claus. In an unlearned hand (he was from that side of the family), he wrote me a Christmas request. It was an unusual request, but with some effort I managed to meet it. When we met sometime later, he approached me angrily and demanded how I could use him and the United States Post Office in such a repulsive, unforgivable manner. I told him calmly that I had generously acceded to his request and did not understand his unkindly attitude. Was the quantity wrong? It turns out I misread his irregular hand; he had written me for a red hat, not a dead cat. I no longer take written requests.

M.T. (deceased)