A talent of talent

"Talent develops in tranquillity, character in the full current of human life."

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, poet, dramatist, novelist, and philosopher (1749-1832)

Even truer now

"A man may be very industrious, and yet not spend his time well. There is no more fatal blunderer than he who consumes the greater part of life getting his living."

Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)

Child-ness

"Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play."

Heraclitus of Ephesus, philosopher (circa 535 - 475 BCE)

The long run

I am tired of looking for it / tired of waiting for it too / tired of analysing the whys / the wherefores / and the whatnots / tired of trying to please / trying to look the part / tired of having ideas / and strength for two / tired of carrying / of consoling / of listening / of playing roles I shouldn't play / tired of thinking / of thinking deep into the night / tired of dealing with others' Centipedes / of shepherding / of making mistakes / of being on my own / tired of trudging where others run / of lagging behind / of the days without aim / of solitude / tired of averting my eyes / of the long hours of contemplation, tea in hand, at the outside world / tired of waiting for hours for a phone call or a text message which I know full well won't come / tired of the silence even music I love cannot dissipate / of the long sunrises, the fiery sunsets, the howling of the wind, the loud thunderclaps I cannot share / I am tired of masturbating / tired of the emotivity which plagues my interactions / tired of it all / tired of the long stretches of sand rolling under my feet / tired of staying put here / tired of living in a stagnant, one-horse town / tired of running desultorily / tired of the rain / of being out of breath / of this long, drenching-to-the-bones run

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night - Part 3

Poodles really are a peculiar fork in the evolutionary tree. The Wikipedia article concerning them is one of the most ridiculous panegyrics ever written, to men and animals alike. Pudles, as the Old English wills it, are not water dogs: they are etymologically puddle dogs. How come this breed, deprived of any instinct for the most part, became the staple royal items to have? How did they rise to such prominence over, say, the basset hound? I can't imagine a lambda night watchman unleashing a poodle in the dark of night and shouting “Have at them, Troy!” Nor can I imagine them jumping overboard to save the life of a drowning man, nor sniffing their way through the toe of an avalanche. Mephistopheles making his entrance as a black poodle is as ludicrous as having designer dogs, or names such as the Scandinavian clip or the English saddle clip. Poodles were clipped in such fashion by French circus people who, for obvious comical effects, decided to make it look laughable. They succeeded beyond expectations.

The women – pardon me for pointing this out so near after Women's Day, but none of the menfolk have been reported to be clad in similar fashion – who dress themselves and their dog(s) in matching clothes are equally derisible. The interchangeability of the posture of the two is, on the other hand, if you picture it with reasonable accuracy, quite worthy of a laugh.

But enough of poodles, let me direct my irked pen to alternative targets. Others (men and women alike, I can't be picking on the same all the time – bar poodles, they deserve it) who get my goat are those who gesture with their phone as if the person they are talking to were in front of them. They draw aerial charts or point to such and such direction. I can't imagine the bewildered face of their interlocutor at the other end.

Equally irking are those irascible hoi polloi who comment on a movie at the cinema and/or chomp on pop-corn. I sometimes feel like packing an old shoe in my bag beforehand, in order to throw it at them. The cover of darkness shouldn't benefit mosquitoes only.

The effrontery of the rollerbladed post-juvenescent swooshing an inch past my elbow galls me to no end, but more nettling perhaps are the literary parasites who read from your book, above your shoulder, in the tube: their impatience at your slowness – whilst you're trying to enjoy the novel – is baffling. Had they got the nerve, they would turn the wretched page themselves. I drive them around the bend by flipping the page halfway, stopping in mid-air, pretending to finish the page in candid rapture and then turning around and ask: “You done? Because I can't wait to turn that page.” Life, sometimes, has such simple pleasures it would be a sin to let them pass.

The race – or should I say melee – to obtain the last parking space at any supermarket bears witness to the prodigious capacity of man – yes, usually men are up to scratch in this regard – to contrive ingenuous plans of action in a fraction of a second. The ensuing foofaraw between the protagonists more often than not makes your day and appends a flourish of newfangled contumelies to your vocabulary. Unfortunately, we don't usually have time to follow-up on any retaliation taking place once the two belligerents are in the said supermarket. Love is all around.

This being said, I still can't say I'm crustier than my great-grandma, and that means something.

Alt-J (∆) | A Take Away Show

She only ever walks to count her steps,
Eighteen strides and she stops to abide by the law that she herself has set -
That eighteen steps is one complete set, and before the next nine right and nine left
She looks up at the blue and whispers to all of the above:
'Don't let me drown, don't breath alone, no kicks no pangs no broken bones.
Never let me sink, always feel at home, no sticks no shanks and no stones.
Never leave it too late, always enjoy the taste of the great grey world of hearts.'
As all dogs everywhere bark, 'It's worth knowing
Like all good fruit the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin.'

Alt-J (∆) | A Take Away Show

How did it come to this?

How did it come to this?

Long ago, I was loved.

Now forlorn and spurned,

a debile who can't hold his piss.

How did it come to this?

I remember the old feelings –

those which I once felt

when I was young and svelte –

I with eyes fixed on the ceiling.

I remember the old feelings.

My life is a bleak tundra:

none to speak to, none to love,

just good enough to get rid of.

Time's an invincible hydra.

My life is a bleak tundra.

I wish God had left me alone.

Now I sleep to pass the time –

P'haps I did that in my prime –

now I woke up a bag of bones.

I wish God had left me alone.

If only I had the courage,

I would hang myself high and dry –

I'd slit my throat if only I –

But I need to pay the mortgage.

If only I had the courage.

The ennui is slowly killing me.

Lone days pass: I enrage, I whimper,

I envy, I brood and I limper.

Sad to say: I just turned thirty-three,

the ennui already killing me.

I love you - Woodkid

I LOVE YOU from WOODKID on Vimeo.

Hubris

I am the one woman they want, the one they hate, the one they would like to strangle, marry, impregnate with their filthy seed; the one they dream of, fantasise about, write songs and poems to; the one they desire but cannot have; the one they cherish but smother. I smother them in their turn and watch their pathetic eyes wonder, ponder the great question of life and death while the former leaves room for the latter, my hands fast about their neck.

I have become a master in the art of delay, of persuasion, of lying, of execution. Some of my suitors I conjured up when they suited my needs – those shall be dispatched in due time – but my queendom spreads across the mortal world – and all of mankind now grovel at my feet.

I have more facets than Proteus; I am more ruthless than Jehovah, more cunning than the Klok gumma, more implacable than the Erinyes, more enduring than Hauhet.

I allow myself few arms to combat the hordes of men who roam these lands: silence, love and cunning. I, who was once considered a frail, pitiful woman, is now considered by throngs of males to be the goddess of murder, betrayal and love, all bundled together under countless shimmering disguises – nay, they are wrong yet again: I am beyond divinity.

I have consistently defeated the beaus, the lovers, the toy boys, the homo erectuses, the significant others by taking them and their libido to the cleaners, by trapping them with their own feelings, their own sense of guilt, their own inflated ego. Menfolk are so predictable. They are like dogs left alone for a couple of days and presented with a cornucopian bowl of food: they will gobble everything down in a matter of seconds, and will then feel hunger bitterly after just a few hours. And they never learn, unless I come and teach them how to masticate their food – love, sex, routine – and how to savour it – until I snatch it out of their drooling, expectant mouth.

None of the numerous inamoratos who lie athwart my path had more worth alive than dead. Such is the bare truth. None can be trusted, their sentiments are fleeting, inconstant and their hearts two-faced, without their knowing it. Patient I was and am no longer. Long have I waited for their call, for their attention, for their will to live, for their unconditional trust, for their total, unequivocal love. With men one always has to share love, whether it be a bed, a home or a fistful of minutes.

At dawn, a certain sadness stirred my heart. Unquiet are the hours, and at the pit of my stomach churns a leaden turmoil: time passes like the clouds on the plain where I now dwell, purposefully exiled from the world of men. For good. I feel I must lose myself in some senseless activity. Waste my time so that I may not see it pass, so that I may not feel its burden on my shoulders. Ward off brutish time in walking and sowing the land. Lost to the outside world, losing myself in my inner world, where the fringèd sandworts live, where the sólarhringur lasts a century, where I can consume myself in solitude, hatred, envy and fading hubris.