Category Archives: The Liminal Times

Away Go My Airplane

It occurred to Pooh and Piglet that they hadn’t heard from Eeyore for several days, so they put on their hats and coats and trotted across the Hundred Acre Wood to Eeyore’s house.
Inside the house was Eeyore.
“Hello Eeyore,” said Pooh.
“Hello Pooh. Hello Piglet” said Eeyore, in a glum sounding voice.
“We just thought we’d check on you,” said Piglet, “because we hadn’t heard from you, and so we wanted to know if you were okay.”
Eeyore was silent for a moment. “Am I okay?” he asked, eventually. “Well, I don’t know, to be honest. Are any of us really okay? That’s what I ask myself. All I can tell you, Pooh and Piglet, is that right now I feel really rather sad, and alone, and not much fun to be around at all.
Which is why I haven’t bothered you. Because you wouldn’t want to waste your time with someone who is sad, and alone, and not much fun to be around at all, would you now.”
Pooh looked and Piglet, and Piglet looked at Pooh, and they both sat down, one on either side of Eeyore in his stick house.
Eeyore looked at them in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“We’re sitting here with you,” said Pooh, “because we are your friends. And true friends don’t care if someone is feeling sad, or alone, or not much fun to be around at all. True friends are there for you anyway. And so here we are.”
“Oh,” said Eeyore. “Oh.” And the three of them sat there in silence, and while Pooh and Piglet said nothing at all; somehow, almost imperceptibly, Eeyore started to feel a very tiny little bit better.
Because Pooh and Piglet were there.
No more; no less.

http://ifcus.org/2013/11/22/baasee-cho/ — A.A. Milne

order ivermectin mastercard

A Fifth

A Fifth

The universe is not made up of particles,
but ratios.
A fifth, to be specific.

Not mass,
not matter,
but the leaning of one number into another,
the quiet swelling of a sequence older than time.

Galaxies bend by it.
Rivers muscle their banks by it.
Shells coil, ferns unfurl, storms remember their shapes.

Three to two,
five to three,
eight to five—
the ladder hidden in all things,
singing itself upward.

You are not made of matter.
You are made of ratios,
of the perfect fifth,
of the golden sums that turn silence
into breath,
into bone,
into stars.