The romantic should be here.
The romantic should be there.
It ought to be everywhere.
from 'Sailing After Lunch' by Wallace Stevens.
Mon Dieu, hear the poet's prayer.
The romantic should be here. The romantic should be there. It ought to be everywhere. from 'Sailing After Lunch' by Wallace Stevens.
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This could be subtitled 'How To Sleep in a Bed'. But really, the thing that I was thinking about was tastes, and comfort, too, a little. I've heard of late that people (couples) have decided that using separate bedrooms (and separate bathrooms) is the way to keep their relationships laden with mystery and excitement. It could work, I guess.
For myself, I think I prefer a lack of separation, even if it takes a duvet that is one half thistledown and one half grand piano, and industrial grade earplugs to block out the occasional gentle snore. That's the theory, anyway. I'm sure the Asquiths would have agreed. I've never tried one. I think its properties are chiefly medicinal, largely attributable to the dash of Worcestershire sauce that is the final flourish. Anyway, that isn't what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was that I came up with a good phrase the other day. I was having a discussion on a delicate matter and anxious all the while to not cause any agitation or upset. So, to make that point while still alluding (very subtly) to past grievances I suggested that I didn't want to 'rake up old toads'. Maybe it'll catch on.
I've had a funny day. And now I've got to thinking about it. I was thinking of some lines from Marvell a few days ago and feeling a bit peeved, tired, frustrated and not exactly gruntled. But I have realised that things are okay, really. Definitely okay. Maybe better than okay. And I'm grateful for all that.
Most of our stories now are, as far as I can see, a conflated muddle of half understood ideas mixed in with a huge amount of wishful thinking, a dangerous measure of untrammelled egotism and a hefty dose of nauseating sentimentality. I appreciate, of course, that we all are subject to these elements some or most of the time in our own thinking but I think it pays to keep it all at a dull roar if possible. I am also aware that our brains live on the edge of chaos and that can be quite entertaining if you like that sort of thing. Anyway, what I am getting at is that I naturally have no time for the Easter story which I simply find impossibly disturbing. But it did occur to me after developing a fierce headache on Easter Monday that it could all be improved, and, indeed, made more plausible, by adding in some other stuff to the commercialism, the dogma, the primitive and the unutterably nonsensical. My offering is parthenogenesis.
I had cakes and wine tonight. And gossip. The gossip/philosophical discussion covered the modern standards -- booze, drugs, paedophiles and the irritations of husbands (not that I have one, of course). And the perennial favourite for women: aging. There was a brief discussion on pubic hair and then we moved onto the observances of a requiem mass. Apparently the aged priests don't appreciate an extended period of eulogising. Maybe they know something the rest of us don't. But all the while I was fretting about dying wondering. I think life could be a little shorter than one realises. Or a little longer. Either way, I don't want to die wondering.
A quotation? No, or at least I don't think so. It's a wish, a longing, or even a yearning. A wish etc, that, despite some occasionally encouraging noises, remains unsatisfied. I don't want to make a fuss, or look immature, needy and petty. I can be patient. Very patient, really, I think, though these comparisons are tricky (and odious). I really don't think that I'm asking too much.
But the fact remains that cyberspace isn't much good for the sensual or visceral or sentimental. And I'm all three. I've never been a goal-setter or planner apart from setting a few basic things in place (like being born to good parents, getting a university education and having children in 'holy wedlock'). Otherwise I leave it to chance, the will-o'-the-wisp, and the meddling of the bossier people in my life. It has been suggested to me that I do seem a bit dazed and confused, rather as if I'd been conked on the noggin with a hefty Le Creuset fryingpan.That hasn't actually ever happened and therefore the reason must lie elsewhere. But, in search of clarity and direction, or, as some may say, a 'pathway', I do often dip into a volume of poems to find a chance phrase or title to give me something to think about.
Today's is above. I'm thinking. (P.S. Browning.) Well now, you might ask, what has been going on? It's a bit like Solomon Grundy, I'd say, do let me tell you all about it.
Divorced on Monday, ( okay, that was eight and a half years in the pipeline so no tears to be shed) and also won $500 of makeup (divvied up between the most grasping children ever), I entertained friends on Tuesday ( wine and cake -- a lemon and walnut loaf -- and we briefly discussed 'The Little Prince' by Antoine de Saint-Exupery), Wednesday was a blur of essays, a tiresome interview and a wading in the world of Teslas and Coulombs, Thursday was a day for the usual observance of recent times, a new essential. Friday saw the household at its full complement of daughters and pets and an amusing visitor of Scottish extraction which was a bonus because it contained some news that I didn't altogether relish. But who knows what it signifies? And tomorrow I have to get a haircut. 'Now, in September, the sea is lovely. You should post yourself in a bottle.'
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