Hurdy Gurdy

(with appologies to Donovan and George Harrison)

I am the Hurdy Gurdy Man, singing songs of love.

I know man, I’m your biggest fan.


Yeah, ever since that day when I was down by the sea, gazing with tranquility, and your music came washing over me. I’ll never forget it.

Ah. Perhaps you were just one small voice in the crying of humanity.

Hey, I don’t cry man! Come on. I was just sitting there in the unenlightened shadows, and then you came along and blew them clear out of the water.

Yes. I suppose I did. Histories of ages past, down through all eternity – colossal bore, all that. Could do with some serious blowing away.

Yep. The truth was buried deep, beneath a thousand years of sleep. Your songs are gonna save us all.

A turn around is certainly overdue. Would you like to join me, singing songs of love? At least until the truth is found?

Oh man! I would follow you anywhere! I’ll even learn how to sing! This is the best day of my life!

I like you. I think I’ll call you Roly Poly Man. You can be my songs of love and transcendental consciousness awakening side kick.

Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, gurdy…..

Hmmm. Roly poly, roly poly, roly poly, poly… I think we’re on to something.

Hurdy Gurdy man, you are THE MAN!

And together we are ON A MISSION! Rock on Roly. Let’s get down.

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Being Birdie Bijou

On a blizzardy night in December, as she tossed and turned in her big feather bed, Birdie Bijou Berengaria had a rather unsettling dream. She was walking across a beautiful ballroom filled with laughing, chattering, fashionable people when she looked down at herself in alarm. She was loosing her color, slowly blending in with the woodwork; fading, dissolving, disappearing. She called out to the people milling around her, but her voice was muted and soft and could not be heard. She reached out to touch a shoulder but her hand passed through the material and the bone as if they were mist, leaving no impression whatsoever.

This is totally unacceptable, she thought to herself, as she attempted to stamp her foot in dismay, but that appendage had mysteriously turned to soft rubber and made no sound at all on the ballroom floor. She began to back away from the horror of this moment, glancing furtively around for some way to escape when she caught sight of her now nearly transparent reflection in the gilt mirror over the fireplace. She was a little grey mouse. No shine, no sparkle, no flare. Nothing. I am nobody, she moaned in despair. I am vanishing. I will be gone and never missed, and no one will remember me.

Birdie Bijou Berengaria suddenly sat up in bed with a start. What do I have to do to get noticed around here? she wailed. And suddenly she knew the answer.

From that day on, Birdie was bold. She wore shimmering sapphire and blinding scarlet, ruffles and lace and jewels. She threw away all her sensible shoes and replaced them with glossy black buckled mary janes that clicked and clacked and stomped with a lovely great racket. She held her head high and adorned it with lustrously flamboyant bows. She felt radiant and glorious. And because she positively glowed, she attracted attention as never before. She smiled and laughed and basked in the sunshine of her new reinvented self and her wonderful, interesting, and now thankfully very physically solid, friends.

She was so delighted to no longer be overlooked and ignored that she never once stopped to ponder what actually brought about this gratifying change. Let her go on believing it was the giant winged hair bow that suddenly turned her life around. We know what really happened.

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