Woke inadvertently having slipped into a parallel realm.
It has no sense of humour. It is clumsy and it frowns too
quick, although the day begins in bold white fractals of mist. Nothing in this
time is less beautiful, yet the empathy for it is absent. Whether the change is
irreversible is unknown. As a cure, time is spent outside, where the mist
merges into blue sky, shiny untrammelled sun.
In the sleepy heat some semblance of normality shimmers:
and the rich tang of earth turned with dung in the surrounding fields is not
unfamiliar. It is the right Earth, of course, it is the person who is wrong. It
is the usual kind of wrong, of course: simply overtired. Deceptively simple and
infiltrative. Easier to put one's self in another dimension than admit that the
idiocy has struck again. Or to say, the creative output is worth it, or even
that it is tied into this delirium: but life is the most authentic creative
experience: but then this is part of the experience: a strength being also a
weakness.
After the house is swept and the fire
stocked, the evening is absolved of further work. Tomorrow's mist settles over
the river, the dog curls asleep on the sofa. There's soup in a plain bowl,
chilli spiced; bread and butter on a gold side plate.
 |
| Moves mountains of dung, flattens them out to fertile fields. |
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