November 12, 2017

THERE’S  ALWAYS  GLUE 

When things break,

there’s always glue.

When bones break,

there’s always doctors.

When words break,

there’s always forgiveness.

When relationships break,

there’s always the hope of talking together.

When deaths break,

there’s always Easter mornings.

When I’m broken,

there’s always the sitting under a yellow cross.

© Andy Costello, Reflections  2017
The Yellow Christ by Paul Gauguin, 1889
Albright-Knox art Gallery, Buffalo, NY

The Yellow Christ is a painting executed 
by Paul Gauguin in 1889 in Pont-Aven. 
Together with The Green Christ,
 it is considered 
to be one of the key works 
of Symbolism in painting. 
Gauguin first visited
 Pont-Aven in 1886.

November 11, 2017

THE  GREEN  CHRIST

Green, red, blue, yellow,
black, brown, grey, rust,
rainbow colored Christ,
I shift and hide and sort
myself out at your side - 
as I hide myself under
your cross - as I suffer
the sufferings of life -
these horrible unexpected,
unexplained,  moments  
when all goes wrong - 
a wrong day, a wrong word, 
a wrong turn.  I'm still green
with all this. Forgive me for
I don't know what I'm doing.
I want to hide from others
and let green tears flow from 
my eyes as your red blood 
still flows from your side
down through the centuries.

© Andy Costello, Reflections

Painting by Paul Gauguin,
The Green Christ, 1887

From Widipedia: "The Green Christ 
(in French: Le Christ vert) 
is a painting executed 
by Paul Gauguin in autumn 1889 
in Pont-Aven, Brittany, France. 
Together with The Yellow Christ, 
it is considered to be one 
of the key-works of Symbolismin painting. 
It depicts a Breton woman 
at the foot of a calvary, 
or sculpture of Christ's crucifixion. 
Calvaries are common 

in town squares in Brittany.

Topographically, the site depicted 

is the Atlantic coast at Le Pouldu. 

But the calvary depicted is an amalgam

 of calvaires from different sites; 

the cross is based upon that 

in the centre of Névez, 

a community close to Pont-Avenand 

several miles from the coast, 

and the figure of Christ is based 

upon the calvaire at Briec - 

also some distance from the sea.

Ave Maria.....

November 10, 2017

FALLING  LEAVES 

Might as well, float, spin,

do pirouettes before I hit

the ground. Up there in

the branches,  I was just one

in a crowd - and when I hit

the ground in a moment

I’ll be lost in a pile of leaves,

so this is my last moment - my

last chance, my last dance….

Now how do I do a parachute?
How do I do the helicopter.

 © Andy Costello, Reflections  2017

November 9, 2017

ONE  WORD 

Wondering: does everyone have one word

they use more than any other word - using

it over and over and over and over again?

Who’s counting? Could this be figured out?

Would we have to wear a tape monitor that

gets our every word? Would we want this?

Here are some candidates: sorry, help, hi,

crazy, God, remember,  stupid, great, stop,

when, why, how, thanks, no, yes, wow!

© Andy Costello, Reflections  2017

SUBJECT:  THE SPALDEEN

FOR THOSE WHO GREW UP IN NY YOU WILL HAVE FOND MEMORIES OF THESE.

THIS story is about a ball, the most wonderful ball ever invented.

It's better than a baseball, basketball or football. It's better than any ball you can name.

It was gone for 20 years, but it is back now.

It is called a Spaldeen, which might not mean anything to you, unless you grew up on the East Coast, preferably New York City before 1979. I grew up in Brooklyn in the 1950s and 1960s, which means my childhood memories are filled with Spaldeens.

Starting in the 1920s, the Spalding Co. manufactured tennis balls at its home base in Chicopee, Mass.

But overruns would occur, so there wasn't enough of the fuzzy stuff for the outside of the tennis balls.

Some anonymous genius -- and I use that word "genius" with reverence -- got the idea to market the bright pink, unused rubber cores as the "Spalding High-Bounce Ball."

Because New York City people don't talk so good, they pronounced Spalding as "Spaldeen"  -- as in, "Hey, Joey, you wanna play? I got a Spaldeen."

Spalding would box the Spaldeens and ship them down to New York City, where kids would buy them for a quarter each.

And, my God, when you bought a brand new Spaldeen, the aroma alone would cause ecstasy; it was the smell of Bazooka bubble gum and summer and childhood and joy and hope.

Then you would go out and play. All those legendary New York City street games began and ended with Spaldeens.

I'm talking about games you've heard about but might never have played -- stickball, punchball, stoopball, hit the penny and a million others.

When it came to inventing games with a Spaldeen, the only limit was your imagination.

We didn't have baseball fields or any other kinds of fields. We played ball on playgrounds -- really slabs of concrete surrounded by cyclone fences -- or we played in the street, using sewer covers as bases.

The virtue of a Spaldeen, besides that you could whack it a mile, was that it didn't break things.

You hit Mrs. Smith's Olds 88 with a Spaldeen, no big deal. No broken glass. No broken mirror. No broken nothin'.

Of course, Mrs. Smith would come running down her steps, screaming, "I'm gonna tell your mutha."

I apologize, Mrs. Smith, wherever you are.

I mostly played in the playground of St. Pat's or on 95th Street or Shore Road's handball courts.

And every kid would come to the playground with a Spaldeen in his back pocket. If someone had a stick, we'd play stickball.

The stick was an old broom handle or a dowel from the closet. We'd draw a box on the wall and pitch to it, and if the batter hit it over the fence, it was a homer.

We'd play handball with the Spaldeen, and sometimes we'd go to a friend's house for stoopball. A kid would throw the ball at the steps in front of someone's house, and as the ball sailed back, you'd try to catch it on a fly. If it bounced once, it was a single, twice a double, and so on.

But the king of Spaldeen games all over New York City was punchball. You'd toss the ball over your head.

You'd swing down overhand as if you were serving a tennis ball. And then you'd punch it with your closed fist.

Guys could hit it 200 feet, long fly balls that seemed to never come down. The puncher would be running around the bases -- painted squares on the playground's grimy concrete -- while the outfielders ran like mad after the Spaldeen.

THOSE WERE THE DAYS !!

[I want to thank Ms. Annette Hogan for sending me this bouncing nostaglia: the Spaldeen.]

November 8, 2017

NOVEMBER DAY

God, you have 30 days to come up

with a perfect November day. It has

to have grey, some moody dampness,

some cold, plenty of leaves on the ground

and half still on the trees. Add the sound of

leaf blowers or removers in the distance.

Also brown, rust, orange colors on the gals;

checkered flannel shirts on the guys.
Sprinkle in thoughts of Thanksgiving, family, apples, apple pie, pumpkin pie, mince pie. 

Wait. I’m talking about mid-America - 
middle and north to Canada, America. Today:

it looks like the best entry in the contest so far.

© Andy Costello, Reflections  2017