Knackered

Been tidying up over the fence in the “swamp” and up in the orchard pruning.  Trying to use a hand saw fitted to a four-metre pole is pretty tiring. All the muscles in my shoulders are aching and my arms are throbbing. It is kind of nice.

This afternoon I have been reflecting on how clever people can get themselves into “holes” even when they have been warned in advance about them. And then instead of noting they are in a hole; they keep on digging.

“Some things simply are not true, I am so clever, so omniscient. Pooh-pooh.”

There is an outside chance that I may be an incarnation of the dude previous. This has many implications. The most obvious one is don’t be a dick towards me, that is bad karma. Of course, I may also not be an incarnation.

Faites vos jeux, place your bets.

I mentioned previously that I worked in pastoral care. As a part of this some of the students would “try to pull a fast one” others needed help. Now these students were topflight ultra-smart ones. So, I on occasion got involved in some very tortuous scenarios. Luckily, before I got the metaphorical Alzheimer’s, I had a near photographic memory and could recall everything they said. I would make a mental note and when they came to the next meeting with an “improved” story, I reminded them of version 1.0. I would warn them that I would continue to do this. It is quite funny watching someone dig themselves a hole and then carry on digging. They were obviously smarter than me, at least in their minds.

It is wok time tonight. The wok is my oldest possession, bought in Migros in Berne. It is ~ 27 years old!!

Time to get chopping…

Margin

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

in its blind surety

always too busy to think

think, things through

its clever and cunning

brings only cataracts

and sudden sink holes

 

always glossing over

dependent upon

immediacy and desire.

it sees not the margin

at the edge of the page

where the truth is written

 

hens in a coop

they coo, chatter and cluck

as the spirit

silently passes them by;

no knock on the door

which they might hear

 

pecking in the mud

always for more corn

and the winter’s eggs

lie unsullied in the hay

and soon, there is nothing

for them to brood upon

 

in the tranquil margin

the water reeds bow

as the spirit plays his flute

softly amongst them

and the warm wind fades

into the cold of night

 

there in the margin

the ghost, the sprite

an ephemera, even a man

waits for an aeon

for a sensitivity which

never, ever comes

 

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

Behind Closed Doors

Strategies,

Whispers,

Plans,

Gossip

 

Five streams

Closed doors

Hands over mouth

Plotting

 

In the crying

Scrying-glass

Nothing changes

Says the seer

 

Intrigue

Power

Dominion

Face

 

Bolts

A stable door

Tardy

Late

 

Not even

Clever Jim

Can fix-it

This time

 

In the crying

Scrying-glass

Nothing changes

Says the seer

 

Always clever

and

Never

Wise