Spammed by Renegade Catholics!

OK, I just got a "Passion of the Christ" spam comment on my previous entry. I'm not deleting the (anonymously posted) comment, so anyone who is interested can go look, just in case you don't get any of these things yourself. (Hah!) It's got a blood-drenched image, pretty vile looking, though, so be forewarned. (And, yes, Mel Gibson's version of Jesus appears to have long hair, in violation of the Jewish laws which the Rabbi Jesus would have scrupulously observed.) The spam asks me to post it as a comment in five of my LJ friends' journals. A chain spam! Apparently, Followers of Gibson's particular Catholic heresy believe that Hell has frozen over. How ironic.

I'm about to go to bed, so I don't have time to bitch at LJ abuse about this. I'm sure plenty of others will, though. And look! I'm using my rarely-seen dragon icon! It's my standard response to spam. I hope it doesn't have to be seen more frequently.

Windy

It has been windy most of the day, and the chilly gusts are continuing, filling the night with whispers and moans, odd rustlings and thumps. When I was a kid, I'd have had a kite out on a day such as this was -- clear and bright, when I could watch the fragile construction of sticks and paper rise higher and higher, diminishing to a speck in the blue vastness, and feel it tug against the string as it breasted the wind, companion to birds and kin to sailing ships. There are few childhood joys as liberating as that derived from being the captain of a soaring kite.

One of the oaks up the block still has a few pale brown and desiccated leaves clinging to its twigs, and this afternoon I listened to their dry rattling, and marveled at their tenacity. I saw only two of them surrender to the hastening air, and those fairly took flight, spending their last moments above ground to spin and whirl a hundred feet or more of slow decline, landing at last with a skitter along the pavement. While yet airborne, they reminded me a bit of butterflies -- and in fact I mistook the first I saw for a butterfly out of season, until it landed and became more like an oversized spider scampering to cover at the base of a fence. It reminded me that last spring I saw almost no lepidoptera other than the few nocturnal moths who fluttered about my porch light. I hope this year will be different, and there will be an abundance of butterflies.

But that will not be for a while, yet. Though the day was bright, the air remains brisk with February chill, and grows colder as night progresses. I feel it now, spilling from my open window, and smell the smoke of wood fires in it, reminding me that half the season lies ahead. I'm pleased enough by that.