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Friday, January 06, 2012

Twelfth Day

I have become so lazy that everything I write is short and lapidarian (I wish!) merely because I am too lazy to pick my fingers up and down on the keyboard. The keyboard... there seems to be a loamy soil in the cracks of the laptop's cursor keys. With a glass I can see there is incipient life forming: the stray molecules of water combine with the fine-grained sands of the claylike dirt, and seem to be producing rudimentary life.
I look further. You know, when you look at a keyboard up close, it begins to look like the topography of China, possibly Yandang mountain:

for which a case could be made that they do indeed resemble the keys on a gigantic keyboard... or at least Gargantua's molars; or else possibly the mountains and rivers of Giulin:

where we have very irregular "keys", but they do resemble my keyboard, certainly, the high points, the valleys between them, and the sandy, loamy mulch I have neglected to clean out.

Of course, from where I sit and view them, it looks a lot like a Google Earth view of the land, a view from far away in the stratosphere:

That is how it goes on these lazy mornings when I have no particular inspiration, a sad and mundane state of affairs. The news of the world irritates me, but rarely inspires. Instead of reading the BBC, I wish I had a juke box to play in the mornings;  "1-2-3" by Len Barry would do well right now... or "Just like Romeo and Juliet"... some Motown, Stevie's "Superstition" always drives out the ghosts of tedium.

Today is the Twelfth Day; last night was Twelfth Night, being the twelfth night after Christmas Eve, and officially ends the Christmas season.
Since it was Twelfth Night, I played Sir Toby Belch as usual, She-who-must-be-obeyed as Lady Olivia, and Herman Cain had been invited to play Sir Andrew Aguecheek; he could not come. The rest were supplied by a motley crew of neighbors. Therefore, we sat about all night drinking and singing "trick canons" as did Sir Toby and Sir Andrew in the play:

Sad away the old year chasing,
he sits here after dinner,
and sings of season's many pleasures,
and the evils he omits
and politics he skirts.

with the absent jolly good fellow, Mr. Cain, in mind.


Baysage said...

The sad and mundane state of affairs of having no inspiration is familiar to me. I find myself writing down ideas for blog entries and poems. Because if I don't, I'll never remember. But even if I do read later what I've jotted down, the inspiration may be gone and the note might as well be nonsense . . . well, I guess, in fact, it is. Sad state of affairs indeed.

Montag said...

Well, I have had to quickly write things down all my life, so it is not what wags like to call "a senior moment". It really grinds my gears when somebody in their 40's says that... as if they were trying to sneak into the hallowed fellowship by insulting me!

Interestingly enough, this post Twelfth Night was done totally while sitting at the computer with absolutely no sense of inspiration.
I sat down feeling uninspired and forced myself to go into that Jumanji jungle of writing stuff down, and it came...

The fact that I ended up with a "trick canon" on Herman Cain: "chasing... after... many... skirts." surprised me more than anyone else!