An empty-headed day

Saturday November 4, 2006

I did a really stupid thing today. I stayed shut in the house, not venturing out further than the dustbins. Worse than that, I did almost nothing in the way of chores, or anything else, just fed Dolly and myself and watched junk TV between naps.

I have no valid reason or excuse for doing so. Sure, it was rather cold but towards mid-afternoon the temperature lifted some, quite sufficient for a wrapped-up walk. The sun has been shining pretty well constantly, though, and I suspect it was another lovely Autumn day out there. I can’t even blame my joints—they’ve been no worse than usual.

I didn’t need the rest, either. No, there’s no excuse for it unless it’s to allow my stay-at-home instincts a day to themselves. If it ain’t that, it’s sloth. And I don’t want to go there, oh no. Sloth was justifiably included in the list of deadly sins so far as I’m concerned.

Or perhaps it was just that my get up and go had a day off, tired of heaving my bulk around. Yeah. Let’s put it down to that, and move on.

I did some writing, and put a poem together for my OMPOWRIMO effort. Not much of a poem, more the sort of thing that, in normal times would stay in my notebook with a diagonal stroke across the page to indicate that I doubt its merit. Sometimes I return to them, pick out a phrase here and a word there and go on to produce something a little more worthwhile. Normally that happens later. Today, though, slothful or not, I had just enough determination in me to go on and work it up as far as I can in the allotted time, finishing a little before midnight.

No. The fact is that if I don’t go out, do a little bit of walking, breath some fresh air and look at the sky, nothing much happens in my head. I’m not overly discontent at my stupidity but I do have to admit that it’s been an empty-headed day.

 

Firework display
 
The smell of smoke is on the air,
threading between the houses
from the bonfire on the common
close by St George’s church.
 
The smell of cordite is on the air,
laying across cold damp pavements,
flat as the hissed call of “GAS!”
rising from a forgotten trench.
 
The scream of rockets is in the air,
rending the sky, raising memories,
touching an instinct to cover my head
until the all clear sirens say all is safe.
 
A roman shower of coloured stars rises,
releasing me from my melancholic spell.
I shake myself free of bad associations
and seek comfort in bright London tea.
 
 
John Bailey
Somerset, November 2006

 

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