angelenroute

The twenty-seventh day of the twelfth month is by itself nothing all that special. Like any day of any month, it sometimes falls on a Sunday, or Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, and just as occasionally on Friday or Saturday. Of all the days in all the months, the day after Christmas is known most often as 'the day after', more than any other 'day after' all year long. So there really is only one day after the day after, and that day is the day two days after Christmas (the 25th day of the 12th month, one day before the day after, and two days before the day after the day after). If any of this sounds confusing, it is far less so than the day before, which though it always falls one day before Christmas, on the 24th day of the 12th month, it also has the unique distinction of being precisely three days before the day after the day after. All of this is simply by way of saying the day after the day after is one day after the day after and three days after the day before the

I have no time for issues, no interest in your woes. Don't sway me with your tears or sniffles from your nose. Your burdens are not mine. Your troubles I won't bear. The time I have is precious. For you, I just don't care. Tis Christmas, yet you say? A time to help the poor? To give to all who need me, who knock upon my door? Be gone, I say again. Be on your merry way, for this is my time now, and I will have my say. I do not care for beggars, I do not care for song. I do not care for those in need who pester all day long. Just leave to my pudding and leave me to my feast. Let me have my silence and leave me to my peace. Bah humbug I will groan to all who badger me, so leave me to myself and leave me to my tea. Keep Christmas to yourself and all you call your own, but leave me be this evening, be off now from my home!

The whole of summer saunters along an endless road of carelessness, no want or worry, mess or stress, or any sort of angsty apprehension of the new season silently stalking the senses up ahead. But then! Always by some cosmic shock! The first day of August leaps into the quiet scene, and the senses are quickly jerked awake, startled alive as wandering eyes wonder what will surely soon transpire. A long list of ninth and tenth month standard fare appointments buzz in, unwelcome insects on a summer stroll, interrupting the lazy, solemn slumber with 'back-to-' banalities of a busy mind. Squeezed out along with the last few drops of summer's simmering bliss is an annual feast of frenzy: a plan-making, pool-dipping, grill smoking celebration of the sun that still shines hot, a final drink of timelessness before its timely expiration. But with each new day, new meal, new adventure into the swiftly setting sun of summer, September smiles with a happy shrug and a steaming hot cup

Ko tugged down hard on the black umbrella for as long as possible, but it finally broke free, shooting way up high into the air above. Everyone nearby stopped and watched, first in horror and then in awe. As the showers around them ceased all at once, one by one they lowered their own umbrellas to their sides. Where moments earlier there were hundreds of open umbrellas this way and that up and down the sidewalk, now there were only open mouths instead. No one could believe what they were witnessing. Exactly two hundred and twelve feet high above Fifth Avenue, the umbrella had grown as large and wide as it could, while still fitting neatly between the tall buildings on either side. No one was getting wet anymore, and it was all due to Ko's magical umbrella. Once their gaze returned to sweet little Ko, however, they were met with something even more amazing, a truth astonishing to behold. The child had transformed into liquid, as if all the water that rained down on Ko's umbrella had

As winter fin'lly slumps away into its hibernation, spring chases up through open soil with joy and celebration. Daffies, tulips, hyacinth, and crocuses in bloom. Forsythia, my wish for ya is open fields to swoon. Green grass, you're growing oh so fast, finches chirp upon the sill, a squirrel scurries back and forth, hoping soon his mouth to fill. The squawking hawk, the lonesome dove, the endlessness of new, and as the day bursts forth with life, a yearly dream comes true. All around, the world wakes up, remembers what it is: a place that's made for living in, a haven, sweet abyss. Sean Patrick Brennan April 9, 2021

As my eyes began their journey from shut to open wide, I scanned the world for clues to help me by and by. I found an acorn, crisp and clean, beside a fallen leaf, all within a sunbeam, fresh soil underneath. And there a bench behind a tree, whose shade felt calm and cool, in a park so far away: a truly hidden jewel. I found a place inside of me while sitting in my dream, space I came to often where nothing was unseen. A sacred well of fluid trust, a vestige of what's true, where what I know is all, where who I am is you.