Noisy Boy

Yesterday’s heat has punished me for some wrong that I have perhaps recently done. The walking I did in the morning should have loosened me up for further activity, but I found myself rather floating in idleness the rest of the day as the sun progressed further over the trees beyond my garden. This morning I am studying the light coming through the roof skylights and I am expecting a startling dimension of correction.

I may just sit with notebook, park myself beneath the red umbrella beside the kitchen, hide from the furious sun, doodle with words and construct ideas into a more likely form of understanding. As I wrote only yesterday in a poem, some days ideas just come in abundance–but make such little sense, while other days my mind is full of sense–but has little or no imagination, no pursuit of art in my thought. I would prefer the days when thoughts are soaked in emotion and intellect, and I know I must make an extra effort to pull them out of this self-styled, gummy marinade.

I have been reading Norman MacCaig, Scottish poet, who writes a little differently than what I have been accustomed to reading. Yes, by afternoon I see that the heat will keep me quite close to any long shadow I might find, such as the one that is usually slinking along beside my house. I will park my ambition there where a car might as easily fit, and start up my quiet appreciation of this Scotchman. I am not so sure which of his poems should be the one that grabs me and keeps his name locked in memory, so I will flip through the electronic pages in my e-reader and sip a little of his wordage from many years of his career.

If snow were sunshine I would be, by now, buried in avalanche. Give me tablet and pen and let me work at what I am seeing outside of me with my one good outside eye, and make it converse with the other inside one that goes with me wherever I go, and often needs to be reminded to be quiet for awhile, like a noisy boy in a solemn library or museum.

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3 Responses to Noisy Boy

  1. Irene Bean says:

    I found such perfection in these thoughts you gave.

    You pluck it down so well, the enigma I think we share.

    Unlike yours, my thoughts are yappy and yakky, and once worn to a nubbins, I retreat in confusion.

    For me, I think the problem is the gluttony of time I have. I smile to think of the number of times I wailed for more time. Now I have it and am overwhelmed. The abundance of time shackles my enthusiasm for things I love so much: writing, painting, reading.

    It’s all a tad confusing as I allow (yes, allow) my precious time to tick-tock away unproductively. My 24 hour days now have 48 hours… or so it seems, and that intensifies my sense of waste.

    Ahhh, but maybe I set my standards too high. Maybe we’re intended to parcel our pleasures in small parcels otherwise we all might be walking around with one ear?

    In my *other life* I felt shame if I took an afternoon nap. Now I graciously invite myself to lie down once or twice each day. It’s time well spent. After all, I now have 48 hours.

    Love.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. jurnul says:

    It is such a delightful luxury to be able to freely waste time any way you choose. And why not? Others are doing it with cars on loaded freeways and calling it productivity.

    Like

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