A friend whom I love dearly believes in and talks to angels when she wakes up in the morning, and indeed her life does seem to be blessed. She’s not religious, it’s just the angels thingy.
The last few months have been traumatic for many, me included. Some health problems, loss of income, lockdown, Trump and Johnson vying for top dog in a nutcase competition have all cranked up the stress levels. Drink didn’t help much and so I decided I would talk to the angels too.
But it’s not that easy.
First off, waking up from a deep sleep, the first angel that appears has long auburn hair, milk-white skin and a very loose and low cut diaphanous top that shows a hint of nipple. Everything else is there, the wings and such, but they are not easy to focus on. Talking to her isn’t easy, either, because for whatever reason she wants to talk dirty when all I want is her help to find a parking space outside the bank later in the morning.
Summoning angels while half asleep is a risky business. A couple of times I’ve heard the unmistakable roar of a Harley Davidson and there, hovering over the bed is a 300lb smelly Hells Angel from California wearing a MAGA hat.
Between the sexy succubus who wants my body and the hooligan looking to smash me up with his motorcycle chain, I am sometimes visited by angels as depicted by the great artists and displayed in galleries, museums and on the ceilings of great cathedrals. But they’re boring and they always turn up with a flock of cherubs blowing those one-note trumpets, and some of the brats are even blowing two at the same time when I’ve hardly woken up. I think God gave them to the cherubs for a laugh to see if they could annoy the goody-goody angels so much that they would swat one. Splat! A bit like giving the horrible kid next door who kicked your cat a tin drum in order to piss of the parents who might just give him a hefty whack.
Back to my angel with long auburn hair. When I can get her to behave and fasten the top buttons of her shimmy, then she’s great to talk to. But then she’ll go and spoil it by spreading her wings to fly. Back go her shoulders and her other bits thrust forwards and … here we go again.
But does it work, this talking to angels? Well, my friend swears it does and who are we to say it doesn’t. Anyway, I’ll let you know next time I need a parking space outside the bank.
The Wounded Angel by Finnish symbolist painter Hugo Simberg
To go with this blog, I looked through many images of angels until I came to the one you see here. I found this painting so incredibly moving that I couldn’t stop looking at it. Many people have put forward theories about the painting, however, Simberg himself declined to offer any deconstruction, suggesting that the viewer draw their own conclusions.
I see so much in this incredible piece of art and it stands as my favorite angel of all time.
You can read more about the painting and the artist by following the link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wounded_Angel
Thanks for reading.