ode-ious

whilst sorting out some crap earlier today, i came across one of the myriad notebooks that breed in dark corners of my house.  this one had (unusually) quite a lot of writing in it.  flicking through to see what that writing might be, i discovered my journal notes from our trip to France last summer (*happy sigh*), and the following horrific doggerel, which may need a little explanation, lest you think i have gone completely batshit (as opposed to just a bit batshit, which if you don’t already think i am, you clearly haven’t been reading).

some time ago, i bought The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry.  there were a couple of reasons for this purchase.  one of those is that i enjoy Stephen Fry’s voice.  i can’t recall him ever being uninteresting about anything.  the other reason was that i was completely baffled by poetry, and thought this may be the perfect opportunity to unbaffle myself – even just a little.  i thought the combination of Mr F’s humour and knowledge may help to make this subject a little more interesting and easier to understand.  however, it seems that even the great Fry cannot engage my interest in the formal structure of poetry.  christ, it’s dull.  however, at least i now know what iambic pentameter is.  hurrah!  i learned something new!

before i retired gracefully from the arena of formally structured poetry (i.e. threw in the towel because it was difficult and dull), i engaged in several of the exercises at the end of each chapter.  the result of one of which turned up in today’s notebook, and which i now lay here for your sniggering derision.  please – feel free.  i did.

iambic sex(?)tameter (i dunno – the bloody thing’s got six feet, all right?!) (also alliterive arsing about…) concerning food:

with the dantiest dribble of damask plum jam

my rice cakes really are radically improved

but what i would really wish to be eating

i’m not to go near – the merest nibble is death

had i but half a choice, held on my plate would be

Aunty Pat’s astonishing and awesome roast dinner

never was food so wonderfully, wickedly good

or perhaps a plate of Kate’s perfect cauli curry

ice cream is not called for – can’t have it in the house

it would get eaten greedily, giving only regret

and besides, my bloody teeth would be on strike

chocolate’s out, oatmeal, too.  one too sweet, the other not enough

lentil soup, believe it or not, deliciously might serve

but really the bald truth is i badly want crisps

walkers plain with salt would just turn the trick

i’ve tried to deny it, tame it, truly my desire’s hot

for the salt and slippery oil, shutting my arteries

clanging and calling to Charon of the boat

but i wobble when i walk, or just when i move

so i’ll stick to the rice cakes, smile, and munch.

i love…

the internet.

my tribe.

the first helped me to find the second. and they’re still turning up in all sorts of unexpected ways, in all sorts of unexpected places.

it makes me happy.

Sunday in church

If anyone cares, this is where I was at the weekend:

With Hubby and DSD:

It was the first time in about a year and was, in equal measure, frustrating and achy and painful and fun and shit.  My confidence is completely shot to ribbons.  I knew my physical ability would be far less than it was (lack of condition and being a good 20 pounds heavier than last time I went did *not* help), and adjusted my expectations accordingly.  Or so I thought.  I had forgotten, however, that climbing ability is not about strength to weight ratio alone. It was truly astonishing to realise just how much of it is related to the brain.  I mean, yes, I was aware before of things like the right mindset, positive attitude, etc.  But this weekend,  I was practically smacked in the back of the head by the sheer enormity of its importance. At one point, I was sobbing like a big baby at the fact tat the routes that o wanted to climb – that were interesting to me – were all graded 4+ and various gradations of 5, yet I could barely manage a 2! It was mildly traumatic.  However, having had a very bad-tempered and somewhat petulant argument with an overhang (really – don’t ask), something seemed to click into place.  I didn’t instantly start spidering up grade 6′s or anything, but a tiny bit of familiarity crept into the experience. My body started to gather wisps of muscle memory. My brain started to pull stuff out of long-term storage. 
I’m not nearly physically dedicated to it to ever be any good at it – I’m not into intense or intensive exercise (it’s boring) but I think it has the potential to be at least a pleasant and fun hobby.  I daresay
Hubby will be pleased about that..

when dental hygienists attack

today was mostly spent being beaten up by my dental hygienist, or asleep.

i had to have a root planing (where the hygienist scrapes the roots of my teeth clear of deposits of…  stuff…). i had seven or eight injections to numb my upper jaw, and then she spent half an hour or so or so scrubbing and scraping at the roots of my teeth.  there was lots of blood and, despite the anaesthetic, a fair bit of pain.  fortunately, it was mostly the itchy/scratchy kind, rather than the nerve kind, so more or less bearable (have i mentioned what a wuss i am about pain?).  this, however, did not stop the tears periodically leaking from my eyes, nor great waves of adrenaline washing through my body.

by the time it was finished, i was shaky and only semi-coherent.  partly due to the numbness of my upper mouth, partly due to the partial disconnection of my brain from reality.

i had to call in sick.

it took three hours of sleep, and bananas in blueberry custard, to get me feeling anything like human again.

i imagine that i shall now be obsessively cleaning my teeth when any kind of solid food passes my lips.

the notsmoking’s getting much easier, though…

 

Listen to your blogorhythms

this evening, i’ve been catching up on my overfull and groaning g-reader , because my creativity is still as dry as a bedouin’s flipflop, as previously whinged about.  and in there was this post on The Blog Up North…

Listen to your blogorhythms.

if you’ve ever experienced a creative dry spell, i urge you to read it.  it made me feel better, and i suspect it will do the same for you.

thank you, @himupnorth.

…oh yeah…i rememer this…

it occurs to me that it’s the not-smoking.  this inability to get into The Zone, that is.  see, once upon a time, i had a wisdom tooth removed.  i know – explains a lot, right?  even more when you hear that i only actually have one wisdom tooth left in my head.  but i digress.  anyone who’s ever had a major extraction will likely remember what your mouth feels like afterards.  the pain, the bloody drool, the awkwardness of it.  the not-being-able-to-smoke…

yep.  i went through a short period of non-smoking before.  for three days, i couldn’t.  physically, i was unable to smoke.  but i found that i didn’t really miss it as much as i thought i would.  so i thought i’d give it a go.  see how long i could go before i gave in.  i lasted until the first time i got drunk.  however, in the ten intervening days, my concentration was shot to hell.  i couldn’t read, or knit, or settle to anything for long.

and my concentration has been shot to hell this time, too, though obviously for a longer period.  it’s not completely the quitting, but it’s a big factor.  i’m also out of the habit of reading, and writing.

and tonight, i have a toothache, too.  in a molar next to a big gap left by another molar that had to be extracted before.  i really, really don’t want to have to lose any more teeth.  i’m hoping it goes away….

not feeling it. still.

this is me not feeling it.

ugh.  i am so not feeling it.

no particular reason, but there’s no fire in my muse.  she’s just sort of lolling about, going “Meh.”  i havent seen The Zone for weeks.  except for that poem, yesterday.  i love The Zone, but it’s the kind of place you don’t know you’ve been untill after you emerge, blinking, into the light.  it’s beset by typos and bad sentence structure, but the sheer flow of words feels soooo good.  editing can come later,  as i said – you don’t notice, whilst you’re in it.  it sounds a bit poncy, but it’s like channelling the story…being the story…  well, i suppose not that poncy, but still, i feel a little uncomfortable using phrases like this.  which is why i’m absolutely no good at reviewing/critiquing/whatever.  i feel uncomfortable using the language i percieve to be associated with it.  and because i percieve that association, i’m incapable of thinking in, and therefore speaking in, any other terms.

whatever

*clunking gear change*

we went to see The Taming Of The Shrew, last night.  our very first ever live Shakespeare.  ’twas ace! the performances were, for the most part, smooth and layered, and Petruchio (Sean O’Callaghan) was, by turns, mesmerising and shiveringly terrifying.  not to mention despicable. really enjoyed it, but it left me somewhat conflicted.  i find myself necessarily thinking of it in tems of metaphor and satire since, if i take it as a demonstration model for how the relationships between men and women should be, even if it is over 400 years old, i die a little, inside.  it’s bad.  so bad.  the worst thing?  there are so many relationships out there that are built just like this.   fuck patriarchy and male entitlement.  the way he broke Katerina down made me want to weep with grief and fury.  basically he starved her of both food and sleep, and fucked with her head, until she was desperate and broken enough to comply with whatever he said.

*further clunking gear change, following procrastinatory laundry and desultory dicking about in the interwebz*

gah!  see, this is what i’m talking about.  i can’t even find the zone for a blog post, FFS!  something for which i don’t (generally) have to make stuff up!!! i was dissembling, before, as there is a particular reason (though i am wary of it, as i am so good at giving myself excuses not to write) here’s the problem:

normally, when i write, i am to be found in the front room, curled up on one of the sofas, tapping away.  the room is too small for a desk, but it does…ok.  sort of.  mostly.  however, it depends largely upon what the television is doing as to whether i can get any actual fictionalising done.  often, there will be computer golf going on, along with some music on the stereo, which is…  not too bad.  but that was before ss#2 came back to live with us.  now, more often than not, there is some sort of fucking godawful warfare simulation dross being played.  lots of gunshots and explosions, sounds of dying gurgles and stupid macho dialogue.  and the swearing.  oh, gods save me from the frustrated swearing that happens in my front room when these goddamn stupid-ass games are being played.  i would swear, if they weren’t playing them ALL THE FUCKING TIME that hubby and ss#2 hated these games with a passion, and were being forced to play them at gunpoint. (ETA: i think hubby is actually fairly sick of them now, too, but it’s a case of share and share alike, i guess…)

anyway.  my point is that it is very, very hard to find any kind of mental quietitude in my house these days, without escaping to another, less comfortable and usually colder, room.  the only reason the above rant has happened with any kind of continuity is that i have finally cracked and am now hiding in our bedroom, with the cat for company.  and he is asleep.  it was that or scream in ss#2′s face.  and possibly bludgeon him to death with a PS3 controller.

think i’ll take advantage of the respite and have a ook at that oogly piece i’ve been failing to write.  it may go nowhere, but at least i can give it a fair crack now.

breath of summer

Breath of summer

Skin of feather

Dream of meshing, twining

In the swirl of lust and love, you pull my soul

warm it with your fingertips.

It’s you, my darling, my love.  One intense moment

A bright point in the soft wash of life through my body

I feel you

I connect to you

I hold you so deeply in my heart it pumps and pulls on the breath of summer

I love you hard and soft and true

Messy, tangled and broken, I need you, bless you

You draw my laughter skylarking from my belly

Deep, deep down

Cut me in half you’ll find your name seeping from every vein, every entrail

Every cell stretches from my core, seeking you