You're probably reading this just before and maybe after the electoral circus in the United States. Hope against hope, however the finale turned out, anxiety floats through the air like a sewer gas. Tranquilizers do not help. Courvoisier will, but it's too foreign a pleasure for most Americans. So I offer you this distraction to help you sleep and to help you stay awake... dreamfully.

If you don't know what a Faerie is, you're part of half of the current population of 8.5 billion humanoids on this imploding planet. 8.5 Billion! What an exhausting thought that is!

The other half is mired in Peter Jackson-Harry Potter-Walt Disney gobbledygook and writers and poets who claim and maim their experiences with Faeries; experiences which are not real... fantasy for the sake of fantasy, and profit of course.

Here is a wee bit of reality about these usually wee people: Faeries live on our planet but not in our dimension (ask Kip Thorne about that). They exist for their own purposes and for none of ours. Sometimes they wander in our dreams, for fun. Figuratively speaking, they are deep in the lore of many cultures. The Irish for instance, whose culture is woefully loreful and the English, who reached a point where they were forced to allow some of their male elected officials to hide their confusion beneath their frock coats and wigs. Note: Faeries do not wear garters.

About PETA

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) is the largest animal rights organization in the world, with more than 10.5 million members and supporters. If you're not with them, visit them at peta.org. If you're not with them, your visit will thrust you into the most horrific, abhorrent portrayal of the human pandemic as it scourges life on this planet. Sorry about that.

Well... not really.

About Harold Cherry

He wasn't old and he wasn't young. He was a wayfarer, one who never changed. He was an errand boy, a clerk, a waiter, an actor, not a husband nor a father or a relative. And he was important though he didn't think so. He ended his time lost in fading memories. He was a wayfarer... and I knew him.

So? So this. When I knew him as an actor he was kicking around New York and the summer-stock circuits. Lots of off-Broadway and off-off Broadway but never 'on'. Always secondary often very minor roles, never a lead. He was a small man, with an interesting face and an interesting voice. Diligent, professional, easy to work with, people liked him because he had a wayfarer's ego that didn't shine when they even remembered who he was.

During one off-Broadway show, a Shakespearean production, he met a girl, who played a minor role as he did. Ellie was a fragile, nervous, jittery woman who had to smoke a little dope or sip a little wine to get herself on stage. Harold became her friend, helping to get her to the theatre on time, to get through the performance, to get herself together to go home.

Ellie was in trouble. In the space of a few weeks  she had been the victim of a series of assaults, one on the street, one that burgled her apartment, one that came through her bedroom window when she was asleep. She was terrified to go home, terrified to go anywhere. So they moved in together into Harold's place, a 4th floor walkup. He provided as much comfort and security as he knew how...

There's more to this story and it's rather disheartening, not a very distracting relief. He was a good man in a bad world. There are millions like him. Nevertheless, his life ended in a wee beautiful way. He married Ellie and she married him. At the end, they were a wee bit happy and now... now he's with the wee people.