Skip to main content

Bleugh


Sun follows mist, so this afternoon I am able to lie on the sun lounger and read. I am trying to ignore the symptoms of being ill, but craftily resting to speed recovery. Maladies are not popular with me. They interrupt play. The plus side is, on resting, one can practice calm quiet skills like the art of self-awareness, which is importantly distinct from selfishness. Although while I take the time to lie on the sun lounger, gripped by the actions of an entertaining thriller, immersed in sun, faintly aware of the birds’ blathering and Dog’s wish for me to throw stuff, I have a teeny weeny epiphany: if this is selfish, a bit of it must be healthy for me. Having recalled this valuable lesson, I am disappointed that the illness doesn’t immediately evaporate. 

(A self portrait, aged impatiently 14, with a style debt to Ronald Searle)

Comments

Teresa Cypher said…
Very nice! Well, not nice that you are under the weather--and I hope you get better, soon! Nice how you set the mood. And, as usual, the artwork is so fitting... :-)
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you Teresa, I am on the mend, I know this because I've just requested a glass of wine :-) Glad you are appreciating the artwork- some very old work getting a new lease of life on here!

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

A Happy Kind Of Idiot

I am watching hazel leaves shimmy in a breeze, they are keeping time with the buzz of nettle stings that run from my fingertips to my elbows. It feels like I'm wearing gloves made of needles; why didn't I just wear gloves to clear the nettles from the raspberry hedge? But I like to know the plants, how they grow, how they smell, how they stain and sting, what bugs shelter in their leaves, what grubs and gastropods nestle at the roots. How the roots sneak under weedblocks, moon-pale, and over open ground where they are purplish, bullish.  I like the work to affect, I like interactive life.  It has a little pain and a lot of interest.  Not all the nettles are gone, of course, some must be left to house caterpillars, and they are a healthy vegetable for people too. Today’s crop is for compost though, to feed the soil, the miracle stuff from which this abundance grows. How could I not wish to be close to that?  At home I have a shower, scrub my sore hands- and still I sm...