Today no Henry F. Potter will die
Weatherlawyer
On Thursday, 21 January 2016 09:38:23 UTC, Henry F. Potter wrote:
>
> The obsession with trousers continues, as a result of one piece of (superbificule the
> criticism of globalls Isis usually takes) a couple of weeks for him to settle down October
> for revelry, simply posting his (for me) impenetrable high jinks. These August trousers
> (unwarranted and bizarre) references (to me) in totally unrelated posts (of me) show
> that my criticism hit the mark with perfect trousers.
I have just opened my old machine and found the above. While I wait for my router to get all its magic beans in one box I resolve the immutable. I am going to kill Henry F. Potter. Last week I killed Uncle Billy; when I am online again I will find the post and give you its link so you can read the story for yourself. Henry F. Potter is the character I should have gone after in the first place.
While I am waiting for Libre Office to open, two cars go past -disturbing the quiet. When I got up just now, it was cold enough for volcanoes. Last night I had to throw off a duvet as it was warm enough to snow. I should be sleeping but I am an unhappy man, of of those whom the gods touch and marked enough for them to know it. Unlike Odysseus, I can not go chasing after a Penelope to make a name for myself, nor am I an Hercules to fester on earth looking for the ultimate opportunity to strike back at the gods.
There is only the one god and ever since he threw us out of Eden for smelling of the canker we gave ourselves some of us chosen ones have been travelling like heroes, righting wrongs. Only -once you have been touched, you are not longer sane enough to choose to decide about right and wrong, you just do what you are told.
My gift is meteorology I am a Muse of it and the snipper of earth-scientists and today I have been told to cut Henry F. Potter's thread. He has had long enough annoying me and now it is over.
“We were watching It’s A Wonderful Life last night and halfway through I came to the realization that I detest Uncle Billy! By misplacing the $8000 he was supposed to deposit, that absent-minded, booze-soaked b-d was personally responsible for driving George Bailey to contemplating suicide!
George should have beaten him within inches of his life in the Bailey Building & Loan office but instead he goes home and gets verbally abusive with his wife and kids! Maybe Uncle Billy should have stopped playing with crows and squirrels and tying “reminder strings” around his fat fingers and just do his goddamn job!”
Not me. I was up early to see the frost on the cars or to go back to bed if I was wrong. But I was right, Stoke has its own Pembroke Dangler. It is a low cloud layer that reflects the street-lights onto the roofs of the houses and beckons to the touched: “Come out come out and bring your dogs. You can go hunting.”
I live in the city now a twin town combination that is 17th in succession to a very big place and is no place for hunting with dogs. I wrap up warm and go. The traffic lights at the corner call me and I try to guess why they are there disrupting more drivers than the originals. They are only temporary and I do not I think, there for the cure.
All the cars glisten with frost; the market should be good -only people no longer understand the weather, or the gods have grown the divide between them and me so much wider in my old age.
I was young once. Although I remember a winter of deep snow -and once nearly died of exposure on the hill this side of the golf course but just too far away to get home easily. In ignorance, I held my frozen hands under hot water when I did get home, my mother laughed at me and berated me for holding my frozen hands in the hot water until the thawing knuckles grew so painful that I wept. But there was no way to assuage the pain and I felt too foolish to tell her that I had nearly died saving a lad's life, so I continued the way I knew best. Thanks mum!
As George Bailey said:
“Where’s that money, you silly stupid old fool? Where’s that money? Do you realize what this means? It means bankruptcy and scandal and prison! That’s what it means! One of us is going to jail; well, it’s not gonna be me!”
G---- right George!
A car pulled up at the lights, the driver, his arm on the window, was not looking at me. Had he been a peasant and more studious, he would have wondered at me. But he was more interested in the distant road, like a good city-zen; stopped by a light bulb on and empty road. What was he thinking about?
How good it is to live in a city and to know how to mind your own business?
And wait for the traffic light to tell you what, if you were free to think for yourself, you would already know; that it was safe to go and that your obedience goes deep into your soul; to what end?
I move on as indifferent to him as to sheep. He was not touched like me and I round the corner to bird song. Robins singing in the pre-dawn. I see the earliest crescent shining orange and glim, just above the roof in the direction I will go to the market. Already there is a glimpse of light, the sky is almost blue not with snow but the Stoke version of the Pembroke Dangler.
I open Google Groups and while it unwinds, grab my cup and go make a coffee with a bit more sugar than just now. But there is half a cup of cold coffee in it and it gives me just enough time to write this sentence when I drink it. But Now I Must go ...and put the kettle on... I will come back as it heats and find this post:
It's already light but no hurry, if I go now my hands will freeze defrosting the car -I have learned my lesson about cold hands.
> Just thought
I'd mention it.
>
>
Rain/Hail most of the morning in Penzance, with the temperature
around 5C. The coldest it's been >at noon all winter. Blue skies
visible over the Lizard all the time - a classic narrow band.
>
>
Clearing away to the west now, looking like a vast improvement for
this afternoon.
>
>
> Graham
>
Penzance
My reply is facetious and went without a reply. I am facetious and it alienates the sons of men but they can not see as I do, so stuff them.
Yet he is a trained one and catches the occasional glimpse of the heaven he aspires to. He can not see it for what it is of course. For that, he must await the restoration. Mine is the morning mine is the first light Eden saw play, for now.
But I am going to kill Henry F. Potter, It will be easier to refer to him as Henry F. Potter, aptly suitable for a Flowerpotman rather than his real name for he has so many. The flowerpot men were an ancillary engine installed in Reading by Margaret Thatcher in her civil war with Arthur Scargill. She died without dismembering them after her victory; giddy with the blood of miners, no doubt. She it was who gave away the crown jewels -not realising the wealth of the City was based on Socialism.
Now all that is left of the Tory triumph is her inane grin. And a hand bag!
Henry F. Potter a creature of the Internet, made of cut and paste. There are paper trolls in these days still, whose fight is not against men or a religion but against a fertiliser called carbon dioxide and it is this fertiliser that will choke him at the last, for I am a killer of men. And I say he must go.
If he just cut and pasted his way through the boring evening darkelling on some highlight that we mortals must be made aware of, I should ignore him. Arpanet was built to allow that imbicility. But this troll is focussed and he has found a target that holds him chained right in front of me. My hounds are gone from me now but he will meet with the remonstrations of Artermis for am I not the son of Poseidon?
This calls for Acaeton this day.
“Warm enough to snow.” There is nothing more tidal in the whole of English Folklore that that proverb. When the Celts came here they found that proverb true. But it was a snow that did not stick like it did at home in Galacia, nor did the sons of Gomer realise it was not the maritime climate's own sweet salt doing it. It is in fact caused by the same root cause of the Pembroke Dangler, The Helm Wind and even (in the cycle) Freezing Rain. Am I not the son of Poseidon to know these things and Demeter enough to kill Stoooopid as I will.
I have already cut his threads, he is already dead but too stoooopid to realise it. There is time yet to save him and fools will rush in to defend him. What do I care for their support?
It is my time for second thoughts but you can not push a boat out with second thoughts. And anyway I don't have mercy. Me and Theseus both. Let him be my Plague if that is the case. I don't believe in Theban mythology anyway. What is to be, is to be and I have an oath to kill all who worship Glowballs.
But now it is the time for me to go to the market. If I go now, I shall still be early, if I delay I can correct the spelling but not finish the story. But later if I stay, it will turn into just another Sunday morning among earthlings. Today I must go out and do magic in my last days; in my decline. It is the way for me.
Besides I can write the ending in my head and change it to suit in the retelling.
But I need to brush my teeth and to do the other things we humans do. Why is it always so difficult for me to remember that?
Ah yes. I am a thaumaturge; I forgot!
Damn.
I also have to remember to drive carefully these days, sometimes it misses all the fun... to be human. Carpe diem without the seizureity.
Later:
Driving to the motorway I took a wrong turn. It was only a bow-shot out but it was the wrong junction. It brought me to the earth again. I realise what my trouble is now. I have been thinking like an earthling again. Men are of the earth, gods are insubstantial. Men need gods to give them that extra something you can not draw from the clay in the sand. And the gods of course, need that touch of substance-i-ence that living essence, not quite worship so much as respect.
My trouble is that my head may be in heaven but my feet are unassailably below ground. Hell of a position to be in on a snowy day. Like a wave on the beach. You know what surf looks like. (If you don't, just take a look at this afternoon's weather forecast on the Met office's North Atlantic chart.)
This morning the fronts were close together like a pair of parallel lines. This afternoon they split apart an image of the Greek letter delta or the English letter n.
Not the capitals, the everyday ones. If this was the same spell as
those LineStorms we had last time they would hold their position as
they cross the ocean but they only make it to Tuesday just Like I
said. So that shows us what a line-storm differs from a volcanic
eruption's spell as late on Tuesday the two legs close up again. They
are a little warmer this time and thunderstruck.
A little earlier:
I wonder around the market looking at the mud. People gather here on a cold Sunday morning for this?
And me with them?
Am I truly a god?
If was a god I wouldn't really be here would I?
Yet, here I am.
I am looking for a gas fire a gas bottle or a computer with Windows 7 on it. Someone is selling bona-fide Windows XP licenses and some Windows 7 disks that look not so honest to be honest. I don't want to buy any Windows stuff. I just loaded Mint yesterday it cost me the electricity used to download it. But I am doing a Windows course as there is nowhere I can learn "shell scripts” so I have to learn to be as stooopid as stoooopid does.
I hate myself sometimes. One tutor takes it so seriously it is like a church in his class-room where we crawl for education. The other guy has more sense but it is still not real. God I hate Windows. I really do. I opened a few tabs on one course, the tutor shut em all down because I only need the one open. This is 2016 and even educational computers have enough ram to cope with browser having more than one tab open.
Christ, if my machine was struggling with 50 or so tabs open I would suspect it of having a virus or a javascript website. Selah!
2343 words and turned to fat. I am left with data to interpret and no way to do it. All I know is the ending: “Today no Henry F. Potter will die.”