The Orange Thief

Imagine my bewildered surprise when I heard that we'd been robbed sometime in the middle of last night! Ofcourse, everyone at home being wholly unaware, we know nothing about the culprit...save that he/she/it is now quite a few oranges richer. Poor oranges...they should have been hanging, brightening up or front yard, for at least a week more...
I will always wonder what it was about these particular oranges that called to our orange thief.

Variations on the Word "Sleep"

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary. 

-- Margaret Atwood


If I posted just this poem, it would be enough to convey the the art of the written word in (one of) its highest form(s). (Love Atwood's work, in case it isn't obvious).
Most people, on reading or analysing this poem leave with a sense of serenity, beauty and immersive imagery. Me? Not so much...I don't know if it was (Clint Mansell's) Lux Aeterna playing somewhere in the background or my slow descent into madness, but I was left with the impression of obsession. Not the stalker-sociopath-maniacal-murdering sort of obsession. My impression was more Heathcliffe-before-Catherine's-death kind of obsession. 
Speaking of Heathcliffe...I've always wondered what kind of insane brilliance of mind it takes for someone to come up with such a character. How, Emily Bronte...how?!
On a completely unrelated note- Snowy & I, in the middle of our "great poems project", have discovered the meaning of talent and how little of it we possess (at this point, I think we aspire to finish something). The silver lining? At least we can lose ourselves in the immense talent of others (Atwood, Lewis Carroll, Roald Dahl, Poe, Bronte sisters, Tolkien, Coleridge, Rumi, Ghazzali, Dickinson...an endless list).

Procrastination or death & (possible) rebirth

Can it still be called procrastination if there is a 4 year period of ...um ... death/silence/deep & zombie-like sleep? Or perhaps an extreme & miraculous case of  hibernation?

Hmm... how best to sum up 4 years of wasted potential (assuming the existence of such)?

Facebook is quite adept at condensing one's lifetime into a short & banal timeline. Mine for example, includes: Birth....skip a few years to... Graduated High School (yes, I too understand why the highlights of my high school life were aptly summed up with the word "graduated")...skip more years to... Some degree/qualification from one or more University/ies...until we reach today. 

I guess nothing much has changed since...well...birth. I live, therefore I procrastinate.

OK, so the "nothing changed" part may be a tiny exaggeration, since there is now Little Lion Man/ Bear Cub (first nephew- who I think deserves one whole blog post just for him), a new brother-in-law (which means Ash is a Mum & a wife...boggles the mind, that), a new house (after a decade of living in a hole!- Note to future self: hire somebody to buy a house, fill out paperwork & attend boring meetings with stubborn solicitors...oh, and obviously become mega-filthy-rich prior to said purchase), a new job that became an old job when my registration came through (after 6/7 years of gaining unnecessary skills/knowledge when it feels mostly like I could just as easily BS my way through the world of the subtly torturous, man-eating,  money-hungry PBA. Another note to future self : working without pay is not called "volunteering", it is slave-labour and therefore, frowned upon in most societies...i.e.- don't do it!)

Feels good to have my writing legs back (no matter how atrophied the muscles have become- the bones are still there, and the marrow is what counts).

So there!