bryan dillon spiel

"these days in boston"

a brief storie of uncertain quality

this is just a little something i whipped up on my birthday for no apparent reason.

In the long ago and far away before time began and all was dressed in grey and mist ther lived a most enchanting lady. Though she had no name for there was no one to name her for you to know her we will call her Music. To discribe her is to speak of beauty itself for her skin was wholly silver like the mists that surround her and often she would faid into the shadow and pale till all that was known of her was her voice. Oh what a gracious voice indeed. It fermented in the deepest of chests and slid up a silken throat as long as her arms. Because of this Music breathes songs of long and short notes, of deep and sweet notes, of sharp and high notes. every breath is a different tone, every panting a melody. This innate gift drew all the birds to her for they were just hatched and still mute. Every plummed brest tripphammered in envy at her draw and draught. Many of the smaller birds would nest in her comely coat of spiraled golden hair that cascaded from her high set crown down past her knees. and this was because there were no trees to perch in for they were all short as grasses in these grey beginings. So modestly attired in her flowing tresses and accompanied by her avian admirers Music tred the short green ground and breathed and beamed notes sweet and clear. After ten thousand steps and twice as many tunes Music felt the long strong hands of fatigue pulling down her bones. She found a lake to lay beside for the gentle lullibye of lapping waves and to be truthfull this lake was an ocean but in these times they too were small and cozy. Music succumbed to fatigue and set herself to lay upon the lush green ground but when she put down a hand to ease herself she pricked her index finger on the tip of a pine tree and from this welled up a little pearl of blood. Even in her cry her tones were dulcid and a little yellow bird peeped out from behind her ear to see what caused her sounding. It was entranced by this glistening bead of blood and flew down to investigate. First it turned a curious eye to these new found treasure then on impulse it quickly pecked it up. The stickyness sealed the insides of its beak and in panic it swallowed the red heat. In the featherd belly of the yellow bird a boiling began. the bubbles pushed and wallered up into its tiny throat they built and pressed and and filled the yellow birds throat until it feard it might explode. Then all at once the residue broke open and from its short beak it let out light and twittered notes of joy. Music and the yellow bird shared and astonished look. Then Music bent her hand to a red vested bird with a long brown jacket and said; "Drink of me so i may know." and timidly the bird obliged. THe bird hopped back ans shook its feathered head, it flapped its brown wings and puffed out its red chest then burst out in song. Different and fuller notes than the yellow bird but floating on the same bubbles of joy. So each time Music went to rest she would prick here finger on the top of a tree and teach an new bird to sing. She would have taught them all if Magic had not sent the golden crow but that is a different storie for a different time.

and so this is what i did for my birthday on this last sunday of october in the clear autumn dusk of Boston. It is new to me and old with history and i am charmed everyday by the possibilities.

Often i think of you all and hope you are well.

Quicken. Or bryan. whichever you prefer.

sun, 25 oct 1998

Halloween Lurks under Clouded skies

the eve of all souls is still in the early morning parts and the sky is indecisive pulling on a pale blue face then frumping up with glowering clouds. It seems to be finding the just right way to wear its makup for the big evening. But what kind of candy does the sky recieve when it sends down its windy fingers to rattle from door to door? Perhaps that is why it pushes over Pumkins and porch rails with quick and blasting cold because it too has a heart for treats and tricks and if it goes ignored it lashes out like any denyed one and rails against the percevied insult. What does one offer the wind? Should we fly kites with chocolate kisses attached? should we send up bottle rockets with fruit colored chews in celleophane wrappers? Should we build bricked altars to burn sugar sweetend rice papers with wishes written in molasses to send their smoky signals to the heavens? How brash are we to celebrate a season with out including the elements who have made the season for us. What ungrateful children are we to tromp into this house and play rambunctious games on the furniture and acros the rug without acknowleging the matron of the house. and why are we so startled when she comes raging with a broom to smack our naughty bottoms and sweep us out into the street so she can set things right again. This is just me rambling. I am in a kinko's in cambrige near harvard square and i like this place. It is old and brick and many of the street curbs are long blocks of granite. it has a great feel to it.

So i have packed some candy in my black bag and as i tote around town i hand out chocolates to the becostumed and bedazzling. I figure if they are going to put some effort into it i should to. so i have no costume but i have treats to give and there by balance my half of the human play that is this last day of october. The sky still seems unsetteled but i will make my peace with it soon and then only the others will have the blustery hands of autumn to fear.

See pleasantville if you can. It is really good.

I send this electronic love unto you all.


sat, 31 oct 1998

i am freaking out

Just an update. I am working in technical support for bread and circus here in boston. It is a food market company selling orgainic and hormone free foods. very tasty very upscale. like the nemian marcus of supermarkets. I answer calls from the 14 stores about computer issues. How do i reinstall this, how do i get my mouse to work, all the computers are off line what do i do. Blah blah blah. I do not know these things.

When i came in there was Ardeen the supervisor of the department and joe the supervisor of me and Sean the hired gun for the nt machines. they let sean go last week. they let joe go today.... I am alone and i have no idea what is going on.

i am freaking out.

arden says i am doing a realy good job and i have nothing to worry about.

I am very worried.

i cant type anymore, my hands are shaking too mmuch.


thu, 12 nov 1998

the thursday before

it is a party day here, not in the dance and sing get up and do your thing kind of way but in the next thursday no one will be here because of the holiday so lets get some turkey action with the co-workers while we can because that is the kind of touchy feely granola communists we are, so rock on with the big lunch action.

i am wearing my party clothes. A black and white mondrian style nylon shirt with a zippered collar over a black turtle neck shirt and black slacks. Sandy the receptionist is wearing her party clothes also with a shimmery silk shirt imprinted with 19th century botanical drawings and she has on a bronze flowing skirt to match.

we are the only ones wearing party clothes. everyone else is just wearing everyday clothes. boston is so viciously drab.

the sky is nice and pale like running horses and there is a rain black tree with leaves burning up the branches in fresh crimson. it is very unreal and beautiful

i gotta go eat now.


thu, 19 nov 1998

Read on a Thursday in November

the wind is brusk and cold pushing past the last red leaves and rattling at the windows getting these last days of november swept clean for the comming of december.

the sky is pale and clear like old glass bottles and drifting over are thin and timid clouds short and flat like smears of milk.

there are many and they are far away so in that they remind me of you, no more could i touch the clouds than clasp your hand to feel the pulse of friendship that the pressure of your palm in mine revives.

It is a day alone like many others and yet it is a day of forced reflection as the holiday is hammered home not by the presence of my beloved little ones but by the absence.

i am not saddened truly for i know you are out there and i touch the flat and static glass to feel the crackle of electrons in the ridges of my fingerprints. i press my fingers on that cold hard surface and feel for you among the lines.

just knowing that you are there in the long cabled dark away i draw my comfort and thankfulness on this day of many counted blessings.

so as i sit and write today, just another day in boston, i will think of you with all the fondness of my heart.

There is an ache brought by your absence but it is a treasure too for it lets me know that i remember the beauty that is you.

ugh, bad poetry. look at what you have done to me.

Today i send the biggest love from boston,

be graceful, be good, be glad.

Quicken to some
Bryan to others

wed, 25 nov 1998

today there was snow

well small and drifty bits of fluff that melted in the sunny rays that fell warm and pale on the pavement from the eastern side of the sky. It was cloudy in the western ways and the furrowed grey brows shook out some few flakes but now there is none. winter is timid before it is due but the word in the almanac is when it musters up enough gumption it is gonna kick down the door and whup some ass.

they say winter will be harsh this year.

We shall see.

it is friday in boston. and i will write again

fri, 11 dec 1998

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