Baba Yaga

Last night's holiday transpired without event here in our new, domesticated, reality. I passed out candy and read more Julian Barnes and retired after being disappointed by the latest George Romero. My walk today on this unusually balmy November first unholstered significant symbolism in my predisposed imagination as I walked for an hour. The echoes of history, biology and tradition lap upon our jaded selves and we look at the Rapture or Obama 44 with equal trepidation.

I don't harbor affiliation with either religious belief or GOP agendas though I do consider myself somewhat conservative towards the arts, though I will welcome Kathy Acker and John Cassavetes to shit in the Louvre.

I looked up at the skies last night, attempting to reconcile such with memories I have looking up at the age of nine on Halloween night. I think I was more disposed towards an implied menace at that time, rather than an Evil incarnate, though I did accept the devil as real as a child. Hell, how do you explain The Omen? I normally disagree with folksy literary reviews of Garrison Keilor, but I do agree, this time, with his characterization of the Barnes as being dense, not inaccessible but layered, especially now, especially this week with the Zeitgeist being rotated and the heavens about to crash upon our muffled cries.