scraps (17/March/18)

there’s a weary solitude to the morning… will it snow, will it snow, will it snow I ask, I ask and ask again of the solitude masquerading as morning and yawning surreptitiously into light… will it?… hush……
it’s a scrappy day.. I can feel it… can you even begin to imagine how many words have been written in books since writing ever first began, and imagine counting them, even guessing… and how many are lost, totally, shreddings, confetti, ashes….
rain, rain can wash it all away
(but will it snow…?)
the colour, the fog, the noise, the fear… sending it skittering down drains swilling to the sea or deep into the cracks and fissures of the mantle, to seep into geology locked forever among the unfound fossils that no one would believe anyway growing ageless in their airless cavities, while out in the wide not actually blue oceans it’s swallowed, diluted, sheared of identity in exchange for some kind of uniformity, all provenance, self, subsumed into the selves of others….
rain will banish it…
flay it from the skin as if it wasn’t ever there… a chance of starting over always in the air… evaporation…… dark and light are just different jackets worn to suit the weather… but will it snow?… new skin please, my old one has worn out, a little worse for wear, under the weather one might say…
I despair at the human condition… carving out lives from thin air with no foundation and nothing to break their fall from their imagined lofty heights…… fall is inevitable, whether by your own hand or that of others, fate or not some things are what they are what they are… like the weather… but will it snow?… that’s what I’d like to know…
falling without hitting the ground is always going to be a, as they say, big ask… as in the end, and ends are as inevitable as beginnings, gravity always wins…
but will it snow, will it snow, will it snow I ask, I ask and ask again… see, I told you today was a scrappy one, sweepings off the floor, the sort you’d use for teabag, the thrown-aways… even the gulls are restless again, gulling away, even they want to know will it snow…… talking of gravity……

© 2018 robert greig

eggs for breakfast (6/Feb/18)

it’s ten to ten
is it?
yes…
good-o
think I’ll go to bed then…
at this time?
yes, why not?
a bit early isn’t it?
is it?
I mean, it’s not even 10 o’clock, or “ten of the clock” as they say
do they say that?
I supposed someone must…
ok…… and you’re right it isn’t 10 yet, it’s ten too…
indeed, I stand, or as I’m sat, sit corrected
it just feels like bed time to me, being winter and all, dark, has been for hours and hours, like everything outside has already beaten me too it and is well on the way to slumbertown…
I see, well yes it is dark and has been for hours and hours…
are you going to repeat everything I say now?
… no…
good-o
oh, good one, sneaky, you slipped that on in under the duvet that’s for sure
I have my moments…
so it’s ten to ten and you’re off to bed then… I made a rhyme!
[flicks eyes skywards] I feel like I’m tuning into something, finding the darks wavelength and resting the dial just… there… just there between the static and some far, far away foreign station whose language I have no idea of… I feel it could slip off any moment as analogue dials are prone to doing, design quirks an’ all… I’ve found the frequency and daren’t move it now…
wow, sounding all a bit profound there
thanks?
albeit it a bit over-egged…
over-egged?
a bit yes
you comparing my stream of philosophical consciousness inspiring revelations with something on the breakfast menu?
keep your hair on, oops you don’t have any [mild self-giggle], you don’t even eat eggs for breakfast, what do you care?
I don’t, that’s true, but I might… sometime…
might? when?… when have you ever eaten eggs for breakfast or have even entertained the idea of it in any foreseeable, entertainable future?
admittedly I never have, again, can’t disagree on principle… actually, I tell a lie, I have, once, when I was 13…
well, that hardly counts…. so what did you think?
clearly not a lot as I’ve, as you say, never had them for breakfast since, anyway the point is…
what is the point?
the point is…
yes?
it is….
what?
… that it’s now ten past ten and I’m way past my bedtime…

© 2018 robert greig

the a.b.normal (4/Feb/18)

I finally got to the end of the day’garies, seven blogs  for seven days, normal service now resumes however normal this may or may not seem… welcome to… the new normal!… same as the old normal, it’s even spelled the same… n.o.r.m.a.l……… see!

……

………

…………

oops! my apologies, seems I forgot to carry on writing… but what more is there to say about normal?… have I merely boxed myself into a corner, a blog-end?… finally managed to vanish up my on bloggery?.. there’s basically no agreed premise as to what is or constitutes normal, no agreed baseline, just a spectrum of possibilities depending on your personal point of view and even that’s debatable and arguable and one confounding, profound moveable feast of many herbs and spices and colours and flavours and dance-steps enough to make the head spin or your stomach lurch or both, simultaneously inciting a melange, or blancmange, decidedly unpleasant motions akin to having sat through an entire speech by the US president which is enough to give one a stomach ulcer… art thou still with me dear reader?….. I know not why I choose to ask that in such an archaic manner… am I required to be a normal to b(e) normal and if so does that make me a b(e) normal, like a blood type?…… when you think about it, and I heartily don’t recommend you do as it can melt your brain, it’s immensely puzzling why we even bother using such a fluid and intangible word that merely evades capture by definition at every single turn……

© 2018 robert greig