Inspiration from Halt Near X
Daisy asked me once if I ever got bored. I sputtered in surprise. How should I know?
I can’t remember the last time I was bored. That was a shocking thought. It never occurred to me my blathering brain could be an asset, instead of its usual libelous self.
It goes on and on and ON: stoppable only by donuts (momentarily) ponies (a lot longer) and heavy medication (which I don’t take). Boredom is not in the cards.
I got through an MRI by musically taking apart the orchestral version of Tchaikosky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies”. By taking apart, I mean: first mentally separating out the violins and listening only to them, discarding those, going on to the violas, etc, but the real excitement was listening to the oboe section by itself: so eerily weird when singled out. Those poor oboe players had to practice that at home alone? Torture.
This is my brain on nothing.
It also paraphrases poems, or bits of poems, when it has nothing better to do. I call this Jane-a-phrasing.
At times, my brain simply makes assumptions. Did you know there was a Bob Marley song about the importance of standing up for civil rights via food? It’s called: Stand Up For Your Rice. How about The Rolling Stones song about the consumerism inherent in expensive running shoes? I Can’t Get No Status Traction.
While making for much humor at completely inappropriate moments, (such as singing along with friends in the car) it’s usually at my expense, so I resent the unbored brain.
(That was all disclaimer. Yup. That whole thing up there.)
My only explanation: mud season is upon us.
A Prayer in Winter
Oh, give us pleasure in the mud today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain shedding-out ahead, keep us here
steadfastly stoic in the dripping of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the sucking muck,
Let us laugh at our tyres spinning stuck.
And make us happy in the happy scraping,
Dust clouds poof and bloom curling round the curry
And make us happy in the soggy vultures.
That suddenly above the squelch are heard:
Silver syncopated drops, off wingtip falling, Now and Now…
Before a ruffled fan of feathers shake and drench the cow.
For this is love and nothing else is love:
The slime-coated horse reserved by God above
To sanctify us for what ends He will
But one end at least, in joy (please?) we shall fulfill
The Brown Horse
so much depends
glazed with muddy
beside the once white