There are times when I bore myself to tears and a hateful rage with my me-ness. To tears. Okay. Forcing myself to see five lovely things:
The buds.
The (new) leaves of this year's weeds.
The sunset pink reflecting in the bog.
The frogs fucking in the puddles in their dozens.
Seagulls, fishing, luminous in the dusk.
Brittle heart of leaden glass, don't break.
God how I bore myself.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Waxing lyrical
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29 comments:
5 lovely things and you didn't think to look in a mirror?!
Can I steal "frogs fucking in the puddles"? Actually I'd also like "Seagulls, fishing, luminous in the dusk."
Hang it all, why don't you just write the poem for me?
I thought it very telling, btw, that you did not include the cigs.
Oh But Mutta, that is pretty weeptastically sweet of you, thank you. But no, having seen both myself in the mirror and frogs fucking, I know what is on my list of lovely things and what isn't ("Shall I compare me to frogs a-fucking? They art more lovely and more int'resting."). (Let it be known, though, that I do really like frogs. I consider them to be the endangered friends of my childhood, and have often thought to write about my girlhood relationship to them.)
There are days when I cannot help noting an inherent quality in me, you see Butkins, which seems to make every Prince I kiss turn into a frog (and here we take a paradigm shift and see frogs as inherently something less desirable than Princes. A literary device, if you like) and all the gold I touch to turn into - muck. Call it the Princeling Shitas touch, maybe? No, that's a bit clumsy. I'll retire to think about it for a while.
But thank you for your visit and words, But. Multi much appreciated.
Signs-sees, you have no need to steal in this house. Take, take, you're welcome to whatever you may find here (totally lovely to see you, incidentally, and thank you for your words. The post was initially a (shhhhh) poem but I sort of glued stuff to it because I couldn't bare the shame of it all. There are distinct limits to my tolerance levels, still. This may be a good thing and a blessing. We don't want to see where a fully-developed shame tolerance would take me).
I am going to try and go out to enjoy the gob-smacking spring's day we have been given, but I will be back later tonight, I hope, to the various threads we have open, Signs. Have a lovely day (you too, Mutta, as well as anyone else looking in).
Mwah and twice mwah...
(And oh - the ciggies are simply a life-sustaining necessity at the moment. No way could I go on without them. But lovely? They would have to be somehow an additional something, or enjoyed out of volition to be that. I think.)
Hey. Just saying hello, and don't be sad.
Get even?
Cxx
Hei Lottie, lovely to see you. Thank you for nipping in to say hey. I can't help feeling desolate sometimes, it's somehow written into me and I dislike this in myself quite a lot from time to time. There's not really any getting even, either, as I don't do angry very well (in spite of what I sometimes say) and getting back even less so, even when there'd be a call for it - and at the moment, it isn't really the case, it's more like I see myself as being full of blame and guilt and shame and shite and stuff. Jolly Anna. This is what I do really well, Lottie, I could feel guilty blame-shame for Finland in an international battle on the art of it. And it feels pretty wanky as I know I don't have it all that bad really.
But thank you for the sentiment of support, it is appreciated. Listen, I have uploaded a picture on my flickr you may be interested in (and, if you're listening in, But Why, in doing so have also pushed back the borders of the end of the internet, again), since you were so sweetly supportive of my little jetty in the countryside. It has suffered a bit over this winter, and photos of it have a new angle.
Hope you are doing okay over there in the huge world outside. Hugs from the sunny-but-cold Far North.
xx
this poem caused little bubbles of laughter to well up inside me. they didn't quite escape. How can you be sad or bored when you can write like this? Did the writing cheer you up?
Thank you, I'm glad you told me that the little jetty was starring in another of your pictures, and in such dramatic circumstances too - hard to believe it's the same place.
We've just had a Typhoon 3 here and there was flooding everywhere.
I will send you (under separate cover) something I really like which may, in its small way, help.
Lx
Sweet young Bindi, a delight as always to see you, and super pleased that you bubbled with laughter. That is A Very Good Thing Indeed. I am an episodic mopester and it has to be confessed I was not in one of my bubblier moods last Friday when this, erm, poem came to me (I need to point out that this was whilst out walking my beloved wolfi girl - they had to be things I saw during the walk and hence no loved ones, children, cetra blah were allowed to be included. Ms Dogot is still sulking for not being included, and all my explanations as to why she couldn't be, being as she is A Lovely Thing as a matter of course, have fallen on deaf ears and accusatory-woeful brown eyes. I have been put into the doghouse by my own dog. What a fate to suffer, Bindi - is it any wonder I fail to laugh at life, on occasion?). But yes, to go back a bit - I wasn't particularly giggly but I will confess to you and you alone that the frogs fucking cheered me up quite a lot. I mean, not just the fact that they were there, all over the place, in every boggy pond, splashing away lustily (Ms Dogot was dying for some testosterone-flavoured frogs' legs), but the phrase itself appearing in my brain as point four of my list thing.
Thank you most humbly for the compliment,
Signed,
Anna, Queen of the Mopesters.
(And hei, just to clarify, I'm generally not bored, as such, but sometimes-often my moods bore me, the way I believe my moods bores me shitless, because I simultaneously know it's a mood and yet can't help but succumb to it. What a total prat.)
Hei Lottie, glad you liked the picture although the drama of a Typhoon 3 is a far cry from what we have suffered here. Oh no, no such swift violence - my jetty has had the slow, crushing embrace of ice, mercilessly, relentlessly, unstoppably, over long, dark, freezing months, wrenching the floats from under her. Yes. (Although given how crappy a winter we've had this year I'm not entirely sure the lake froze at all, and it may well be it was just a combination of high winds and the fact that the ties were loosened by the previous summer's excitingly-boatlike sway action, cetra. But I think we'll just stick to the ice story, because that's what should happen here, what always used to happen here - the lakes freezing almost to their bottoms (although for reasons of fluid thermic physics, the bottom-most bit remains at +4 and doesn't freeze. Water is at it's heaviest at that temperature and, whatever, I can't remember the reasoning and besides, I've always thought it flawed (though I'm assured it's scientifically correct) because following that logic we wouldn't be able to have any puddles at all that froze through, yet we do) yes, the lakes freezing through, mauling and disfiguring jetties and forgotten-abandoned boats. It's more Arctic-romantic that way, no?)
But Typhoon 3 sounds wild, dodgy, dangerous, highly photographable, a little bit like a tropical illness (akin to typhoid), and something you should by and large try to make go away, Lottie. I think so, anyway, although maybe you're used to the tropics.
Goodness me, I'm blabby tonight. Sorry about that, Lottie. And thank you for The Thing under Separate Cover. Very lovely of you and most highly appreciated.
x
From one irritated-with-myself, unbored, mopester to another - thank you, Anna.
You need a break. You need some rest and recreation.
Why not apply for the job of Finland's Foreign Minister?
These fellows seem to have discovered how to live life to its fullest and most tawdry excess!
As Foreign Minister, you do not have to concern yourself with worrisome matters.
In a serious vein, your posting has caused me to think about what you term "me-ness", and I am wondering why the individuality of conscious beings is the source of their unique brilliance and their abyssmal suffering.
If I do ever get around to writing about it myself, I shall give you a heads-up.
As for the rest of us here, we are fine.
We all think we are fascinating and star children spawned of the greater galaxies. Our self-love is legendary; we are not bored; we crackle with satisfaction.
Your mediaeval boredom(perhaps "accidie" as it was called back then), felt keenly in a monastic heart, is actually a sign of genius that moves fast as quicksilver to escape the mundane.
There you go! Was that hard? Now drink down that half full glass in one big gulp.
xxx
Pants
Oh you are in a puddle aren't you ? I'm just emerging from mine I think --- it's that horrible feeling of trying to drag oneself out with the weight and gloopiness of wet clothes.....
oh and offspring...sheesch !!! Love 'em to death and drive you crazy.
Hang in there dear and when it gets too much hug the dog and talk nonsense to it. That's what I do and he always comes back with good answers or a lovely doggy smile
;-))
Listening? Yes, I opened my ears this morning.
Thankyou for the lovely wishes and for the prompt to visit the jetty. Yes, it has suffered. Poor jetty.
And your dog. She really is beautiful.
Oh Montag - accidie had me firmly glued to google again for quite some while. See under my name for a sample of my findings.
A break, rest and recreation are surely in order, you are right. The post of Foreign Minister has, sadly and foolishly, been filled already (and they didn't even ask me!) but perhaps something else can be arranged. A stint as a wee womanly monk in her cell, mayhap. I have the accidie already, so I'd no doubt make a fine one.
But listen, genius is a word that had me snortling in horror. Shush now. And yes - the consciousness of existence is a curse and yet, I don't know. I already said "and yet the only thing we have" and then I took that back. It isn't the only thing we have, but we do seem to be stuck with it, save for some fleeting moments of timeless, selfless bliss. Do let me know if and when you start unravelling the matter.
And as for being star children spawned of greater galaxies - for a while it gave me massive wow-effects to think this was really the case, that the haemoglobin in my blood (and yours, to be fair, Montag) was iron from some distant supernova activity, cetra blah and blah. Then I grew weary of wowing over that. So what? It has to come from somewhere, doesn't it (spinach being rather a firm favourite around these parts, preferably fresh, served in a salad accompanied with tomato, feta cheese, lightly toasted pine nuts, and a helping of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Yum).
Sorry for taking for ever, as ever, Montag my dear. In my defence, I am down with a bug at the moment. Hoping you are well, though.
Why Sr. Nicola - you are welcome. (And Nicola? Where. Is. Your. Blog? No pressure, you understand. Just, you know, asking.)
Sorry, incidentally, for messing up the reply order here. I could have sworn I'd already got back to you but this doesn't seem to be the case. I have been the hostess with the leastest, lately, and all I can do is offer my most heartfeltest apologies. Sending love, whilst wearing and operation-theatre mask so as not to cough on you, hoping you are well.
Hurrah and hello, esteemed Pants of Pöksyt, the upside-down underwear par excellence. It's good to see you (and sorry I've taken a light-year or two to get back to you). I would quite categorically state that the "Most Succinctly Put Advice of the Week, Anywhere" Award goes to you this week. I shall do as you recommend, and not only that, but I may well go and pour myself another half-full glass.
I'm so rock'n'roll. Not as rock'n'roll as you, though, Pants, because girlfriend, you rock.
(And Nicola - an not and. Bloody, bloody typos.)
Hei Cusp - a puddle, yes (although not the same one as the frogs, the lucky bastards) (sorry, couldn't resist that). Sometimes there's just no pretending otherwise, whereas sometimes things can be just as badly and it doesn't seem to get to me so much. Go figure. But you are right - dogs are just the best company, at any time of life, really, but the comfort they offer when one is down is remarkable. Although mine still seems to be all worried when I'm sad. God, poor thing, she'll get an ulcer if she's not careful.
Lovely to see you, and glad that you're pulling out of your respective puddle. Splish-splash, Cusp, hope spring has arrived for you.
But Mutta, I am pleased you are listening and even more pleased that you're talking, because you speak words of true wisdom. Yes, the jetty has suffered (poor jetty) and an even bigger, more resounding yes - my dog really is very beautiful.
But? You are wise.
That is a pretty thorough account of "accidie".
I like words like "accidie". Words like "depression" are so commonplace that one might as well name one's dogs after anti-depression medication.
Come to think of it, I have named my dogs after such medicines. I think my latest poem- due yesterday but not yet posted- is about Zoloft and Cymbalta.
"Genius" seems to be the right word; a free spirit which is not "had", nor does it "have" things.
It moves instantaneously from some rural cul-de-sac in the outer reaches of the Universe to downtown at the Milky Way in the blink of an eye.
"Genius"...that's what it is. You are born with it and have it tutored OUT of you.
(ps: you certainly have caused a furor with those frogs.)
Mwah Mwah Mwah!!
:)
;)
xxxxxxxxxxx
(and yyxip, which is WVL for hip hip hooray, Your Honourableness (that being me with the MOCDOC)
Ha. The excellent Zoloft, the wonderful Cymbalta. I have adored them, their names, and your writings about them (taking particular glee in the one where the little girl asked you the names of your dawgs), Montag, and somehow it has never crossed my mind to question the origin of their names. If I've thought of it at all, I've assumed (oh, the intellectual laziness thus exposed!) they are named after some minor deities or household sprites in the Germanic or Saxon tradition or similar (and maybe, given it's you, I could be forgiven such an assumption). I had no idea, however, none at all, that your dogs were named after anti-depressants. What a totally apt and wildly delightful thing to do (and still, their names are cool and oddly beautiful).
Words like "genius" seem to get different meanings from different people. I tend to be quite careful with my definition. A very, very, very exceptional inborn talent, is what I would call genius (Mozart being the obvious example here, and I understand mathematics is another field where such people sometimes appear - but alas, it's not my field at all, so the names of potential candidates evade me for the moment). But I would agree with you in the idea that we as children have facets and talents which are ground out of us by life, family, the world, the educational system...as a mother and a professional educator of sorts I find this dilemma something deeply troubling as well as fascinating. If we could have ideal surroundings, what children could we bring up? What brave new world, that hath such people in it?
(PS - Yes, people seem to have liked the frogs. I'm glad. I really like them myself. Once, on a river-bank walk in my lost Wales, a frog jumped onto my shoulder. I felt touched by a fairy tale. Go frogs.)
Why, Signs MOCDOC, you are acting quite wild. People will think you're mad. Good, good, I say - keep up the good work.
Mwahs right back atcha, knightly sisterling (and please, always remember to pronounce "knight" in the Monty Python fashion).
xxx
But sister Knight I am mad. I am. As I have said countless times before. I am thinking of taking to the streets with a loudspeaker in order to proclaim this. Well I never said I had style. How do you pronounce Knight in the Monty Python fashion? Knecht? Knicht? I should know this, being an erstwhile scholar of olde and middle Englissche, but on the other hand they didn't do Monty Python on my syllabus.
How are you? You can reply in code if you wish.
bsmgf suggests something rather dodgy though, my dear, so you might not want to say too much - understood. But on the other hand, me and the WVLs are all ears if you feel like sharing.
Bloody sodding mutha-gurgling fucked, I believe the weevils' wisdom is trying to whisper. And they'd be right, too, Sees MOCDOC.
Hello. I've just been warbling away this minute to you over at the more recent thread so we are sort of dancing in and out of doorways here, barely managing to avoid each others' heads as they swing open and shut (the doors, not the heads) (although, well, I don't know. Heads swinging open and shut sounds quite a party trick too). I am hoping that you'll find me here before too long because, for once, I am replying promptly like I always used to, you know. One takes a feeble pride in such matters (when one has precious little feeble pride to take in anything else, granted).
Listen, I salute and congratulate and sing the praise of your madness, loopy Signs. That's what I said up there, keep up the good work. Oh, and it's "knn-ig-h-ts" (hoping you can imagine this. Oh, sod it, I'll go to youtube and see if I can't find it. Shouldn't be impossible. Moment... right. Please find pronunciation samples enclosed, round about 2:15, 4:02, and again at final moments 5:35).
Right, that's taken me way longer than it was meant to, but I have had work-related phone calling and coughing to do in the meantime. Hoping that this will catch you soonest in any case, sweet sees in the Coveted Order. Mwahs with delicately-waved hankies, probably safest from a high tower window though - would hate to contaminate you.
x
Fabulous. I'd forgotten all about this and now want to see the whole thing again - must get dvd. I want to be a French Knn-igg'ht just like the one up in the turret.
You are very kind to have taken the trouble, in your condition and all. Knn-igg'tly courtesy, that is, Sees.
x
Yees. Quite a lot of amusement can be derived (I know what I'm talking about, because I'm deriving it as we speak) from imagining thee and me, Knnnigg'htly Sees, up there in that turret, blowing raspberries and shouting wholly inappropriate taunts to passing, um, bloggers, I suppose, particularly if they suffer from self-importance. Of course the other types can shout back at us, in which case they will receive our love and reverence. (Although I am very hopeful that The English Knnnigg'ht MOCDOC will hold true to our colours because I'd not like to engage in a taunt-slinging match with him, no. I know when I am beat, usually even before I am. Yes.)
And do you know, it was ridiculously easy to come by this clip, so no need to thank me. For good measure, I've enclosed another version here, for your scientific interest, if you like.
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