Where Have I Been All These Weeks?

It was recently brought to my attention that I had not entered anything on my BLOG for almost eight months. Yes, when I visit, that appears to be true. I don’t know exactly how to explain such a non-event. Perhaps I’ve had nothing to say during the entire time, then again, not. I may have been in a deep, blissful, meditative state, a coma even. Maybe I have been held incommunicado by outsiders who demanded all my time and resources, or, given the state of the nation, of the world, preoccupied with discovering solutions. Regardless, I seem to be unsleeping at the moment, even alert and capable of at least muddled thought.

When one has the opportunity to grow old, that is, pass into one’s sixties, though I suspect the term ‘growing old’ is subjective, and not easily defined, time really does appear to accelerate. Seems I am forever putting out the trashcan, yet the conscious part of me knows it is only once a week. If asked I would tell you the electric bill arrives three or four times a month. If only Zeno’s arrow paradox were true, and the shaft of time remained in flight forever. Alas, such endless flight is not possible, or should I say, Hurrah, such endless flight is not possible!

Sometimes, usually in the heart of night I hear the waters of the river Styx lapping against my front porch. I waded into the warm waters of Lethe some time ago, but I suspect the Styx will be considerably hotter.

The garden continues to expand into undeveloped areas of our two and a half acres despite declining energy, and shorter days created by a greater need for rest. I no longer propagate hundreds and hundreds of plants; a few hundred have to suffice. I fire the kiln occasionally, just to watch some of my clay projects explode. Creating new concrete garden art, I now realize, will have to end, perhaps as early as next year. Why sixty-pound bags of concrete mix seem heavy and awkward I have difficulty understanding. Travel to unknown towns and countries is always thrilling, and never fails to stir creative juices to a youthful passion. Still write; or rather make copious notes and convoluted outlines for poems, stories, plays, silly films, love letters and a category or two I have been unable to define. I make the occasional mosaic, putter around with stained glass, collage, art books, etc. but generally am content to read, add books to my library, listen to music, watch an occasional ‘art’ film or documentary, and generally spend the days musing on the past, the present, and a variety of futures.

The ‘tea house’ is a welcome refuge from what is already near silence and tranquility, and sipping tea while reading the poetry/haiku of Basho, Li Po, Buson, Issa and a glorious host of others brings much pleasure. And after fifty years of toil, at mostly unrewarding and uninspiring jobs, it’s nice to at last have a certain amount of freedom to follow those paths not taken.

Now, having read the above, I sense a distinctively negative atmosphere, and nothing could be less true. Life is at worst a grand adventure, and the ability to draw breath should not be taken lightly. ‘Carpe diem’ may be a hackneyed phrase, but true nevertheless.

Suddenly I feel a resurgence of creative imagination; a flood or words crowd my fingertips. I happily yield to such inspiration and hope I can find material suitable for this site before another eight months have elapsed.

Not Proust

A Remembrance of Childhood Past

I was only eight, perhaps nearing nine. Mother in hand, my hand in mother's hand. We tramped muddy back roads and rutted country lanes and mouldy woods in search of grasses. Me, diving eagerly beneath every brambly rabbity hedge or piney copse, scrambling up sandy banks held together by Hawthorn roots and blackberries, tiptoeing into fetid bull frog marshes awash with swamp-loving snakes, ready to grab every turgid green stem I saw. We searched on more than one day, or perhaps not, maybe it was only one long day. I recall we scoured the edges of pig pens and goat fields, sheep nibbled pastures and all the odd neglected cabbage, rutabaga and pea fields we could find. Toward the end of the day we climbed slowly up the Snipes, a balding hillock where a few years later my cousin David would find evidence of early Roman occupation and then use his discovery as the theme for a float in an annual school parade, but I don't think we discovered any Italian grasses to add to our collection.

But the collection of grasses. It was a school assignment, perhaps a science fair, with coloured ribbons to be awarded, and untold prestige heaped on the winner. I suppose the ribbons were Blue, Red, and White, what other colours could they be? Green? I worked hard. My mother worked harder, much harder, she always worked harder, but I think she was used to it. It was my mother who carefully carried the grassy stems I had plucked or clipped (with what I know not) in her billowing dress, or was it a paper bag? (Perhaps a bag that once carried hot chestnuts, or baked potatoes, or licorice allsorts) But, whatever the means we managed them home safely. The contest, as I remember, was to see who could collect the largest number of different grasses. We had worked hard, very hard. Then, after the sun had set my mother and I sat in the front parlor, or else in the kitchen beside the hob, and arranged what I had collected in a glass vase, or perhaps only a tin cup, but it was full, overflowing, crowded. I looked at it, how could anyone else have ferreted out so many different genera and species I thought, though I doubt I used those terms?

On the day of exhibition I confidently placed my collection of grasses on the display table beside the others. Glancing quickly at the other contenders I thought there was no possibility of my failing to take home the most important, brightest ribbon, whatever colour it might be.

After the judges had ooh'd, ahh'd and coo'd for a very long time they eventually chose a winner.

It wasn't me. I had been disqualified.

My collection of grasses, they said, would have easily been the undisputed winner, but, I had included a sedge.