Well I’ve taken stock. I can report that there’s not a lot out back, we’re pretty much down to zero and, as you can see, the tired metaphors go on. But what was I thinking of, anyway? I have never stockpiled – never had the wherewithal, just grabbed the essentials in a hand-to-mouth kind of way, much as I am doing now. Think of this as a kind of performance piece – character in action running on (not quite but almost) empty, grabbing a few essentials en route; the essentials in this case being words – any words that, cobbled together, stand for some kind of truth. My truth, that is.
It must be spring. Yes, there is a particular quality to the sun’s warmth, there is a heady scent of blossom in the air and behold, a new wooden patio set from Argos and one’s beloved Mr. Signs has filled the tubs with geranium, mint, something white and bell-shaped and something greenish/red and spiky, and if I do not know the names of things now then I never will. But good though these things are, it is not for these that I say it is spring. I, like countless other PWME, register the change of seasons as does the wretched little potato in the vegetable rack. You know the one – it has a greenish tinge and the life force seems to have gone from it, at any rate you wouldn’t put it in your pot and cook it but spring comes and hey, it puts out sprouts and shoots, kicked into motion at the season’s pleasure. Of course the centre cannot hold and is depleted utterly. And thus sit I with an unremarkable but unspeakably draining throat infection, weak-limbed, cloth-headed and, at this very moment dear reader, drugged to the eyeballs on co-prox because sorry, but I need a break from the muscle thing. PWME looking in? You know the muscle thing.
What else? I’ve sent poems off to a competition and am not holding my breath. The point of the exercise really is to bring a bit of focus in on the work that I have sitting there – like the potato in the rack, I suppose. Poems shouldn’t be left lying around for too long. Looking at everything again I realise that most things need work – much work, and meanwhile I’ve temporarily lost sight of what my next task should be. When I decide what it is I’ll bash on. Writing is work and takes strength, but if you are a writing person, not doing it is infinitely harder work and not doing it hurts.
But apparently I am looking very well. On balance, odd as it is that one does not necessarily manifest the inner condition on the outside, I would rather look well than not. And Daughter of Signs came to stay for a couple of nights. The house was filled with the sound of her singing, her lovely voice, as she accompanied herself on the piano.
And then a lovely thing came. Do you see it? Sitting elegantly on my sidebar to the right - from The Periodic Englishman. Press the button and listen - watch for the bird flying past the window.
There are words too, and applause - and, as they say in Textville - :) :) :)