Annunciation & Pronunciation

The purpose of announcements (or annunciations) is to provide information for the edification of all, in tones that command attention, with unambiguous pronunciation; and with audibility, clarity and steadiness of voice. This purpose is subverted by people who lack any of these capabilities. This purpose is enhanced by people who are mighty in these areas.

As far as this is concerned, I remember with particular fondness my former principal, my former English and Literature teacher, and one or two others mighty in word and deed. Their announcements were pure, commanding, unsullied by ambiguity and inaccuracy. I have tried to imitate this. It is not easy at all. In particularly depressing moments, I try to imagine what Gabriel must have sounded like when pronouncing the Ave Maria. Sigh.

Azrael Passing

I fell asleep at my desk, tired by what has seemed to be weeks of brain-strain. I dreamt that I woke, and a little figure about 10 cm tall stood next to the air-conditioner remote. It had the wings of a bird of prey, with a wingspan of about 20 cm. It also looked vaguely masculine, in the cold way that some guns have. It had too many limbs though, and I had the fleeting impression that it had too many eyes, although in fact it had none.

The little figure seemed to be forcing me to remember words from this poem. And it said, You have always wanted this power, and you have not known it. Now know. And the field that is ripe for harvest shall be aflame. This seemed, inexplicably and counter-intuitively, to chill me to the bone. I started, and awoke.

The frightening thing is that I am not entirely sure it was a dream.

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Edit: ah, this was only my 300th post here... tempus fugit.

Grey Areas

There is a world where no more angels go
Where armoured hearts beat out the passing years
Confident in nothing, bold in dismay;
Here are the ashes of our yesterday,
Here are the echos of our fallen tears,
Here is the valley of eternal snow.

And yet one scents the iron in the frost,
One hears the distant horn of Roland lost;
And though the sun has swept its circle out
These many ages clouded here in doubt

There are still kings beneath the silted dross.
A tarnished helm, a chapel in the moss -
Now here and there, the light of dawn returns;
And in the ashen hearth, a fire burns.