One of my high school English teachers loved to stress the point that it was The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence, NOT The Stone Angle. All anglers would be mocked.
The title of this post was supposed to be Calling All Angels because the beautiful song of that name by Jane Sibberry (actually a duet with k.d. lang, another Canadian gal) is running through my head but a typo intervened and i feel that the tone of the new title lends itself more to examination, prediction and dissection than to transcendence, luminosity and feathers.
So in this post I will not be lamenting that the beautiful play Icaria by Number Eleven Theatre will no longer be produced (the set was ceremoniously burned last summer after the final performance). If you missed it, you should feel a little sad.
I will also not be relating the story of how my cousin's budgie was killed by the fumes of a chili sauce being pickled in a summer kitchen.
Or, I suppose the transcendence of that chili sauce - the earthy spiciness! the tart bite of vinegar! the sweetness of the tomatoes that summer! Oh for a mess of scrambled eggs!
No, none of that.
Instead I call forth the engineer within (not a very good one - neglects to measure twice or use a level), the pool shark of my soul (cue awonk), the protracting pundit to look at all the balls on the table, the lay of the land, the hang of the string in the wind and call all angles, name them now!
But first I need to go and listen to that song. (And maybe go to bed - these long midsummer evenings make me lose track of time.)