The Bully

Sometimes English can be a goddam uncooperative language.

Let's just leave it at that today, shall we, friends?

Stern Measures

It has been an empty few days here at WhenIwasOneandTwenty.

I tried for several hours this weekend to get back into the spirit of the Pushkin project. Alas, when Alexander Pushkin met my poetic shovekin, and I re-read what I had written, I realized that all I was doing was bullying the English language into oblivion. So, I deleted what I had written, apologized to my dictionary and closed my laptop. Enough said.

I turned to Stevie Smith for consolation. But even 73 pages of Miss Smith, with all her wonder and whimsy, have not been able to pull me out of this psychological quicksand I seem to have stumbled into. Sterner measures are called for.

Therefore, I have taken Tristram Shandy down from my shelf here at work. Wistfulness, you have been warned. Ennui, prepare to meet to Eternity. Ye congregated Powers of Depression [a flutter of paper napkins] draw up your several wills and testaments, while mind and body remain yet sound. Uncle Toby hath mounted his horrible Hobby and draws his sword against you!


...

In the meantime, while Uncle Toby and his comical cavalry are busy chasing away the blues, and while I am rinsing beet and horseradish juice from the skin of two Macintosh apples (we seem to have had an incident with a leaky lunch container in our back pack this morning) here is a little piece from a few months ago, when I was feeling friskier, more creative, and more frivolous.


Zeus


While you showered, I put down my book
And yawned. The poet Yeats sat on a chair
Regarding me intensely, with that look
He liked to give farm girls from County Clare,

Parsing their potential, as a lover—
The wayward lock of hair, that muddy shoe—
Eyes darting up and down, like bees, over
A field of Irish clover, crowned with dew.

A dark, demented rain induced the trance
In which I met his scrutiny. Still, I
Was startled when a pair of underpants—
A lightning bolt—descended from the sky,

Landing on the face of Mr. Yeats,
Jolting me out of my reverie.
Clad in a cloud of steam (or was it Grace?)
You adjusted your—artillery.

The Good Soldier

April 1st, 2008 was the date of my last posting.

I am not sure I really appreciated the solemnity of that particular date at the time, and for this I was punished by the Powers of Creation for impiety. Less than sixty seconds after pressing the POST button on Blogger, I slid under my desk, into the trenches, knocking over my computer, and falling into a deep and dreamy electronic sleep.

What visions coiled about my unconscious mind during the intervening year, I have yet to fully unravel. I probably will be spending the next several weeks stretched out on a divan, with Dr. Freud, just sorting out the naked women from the serpents and artichokes. Which is much better news for the ladies than it is for me, I suppose.

From my present perspective, however, back at work, calmly collected in front of my computer, my shadowy face glistening in the screen, the time between Aprils passed with uncharacteristically gentle alacrity, my consciousness wrapped in a soft, muddy, almost matronly mist. I woke refreshed, thanks to the kind words of a concerned friend, who found me curled up under my desk, next to the trash, gathering discarded apple cores, balls of crumpled Xerox paper, twisted paper clips, tired teabags, and dust.

Now, after a much needed change of clothes, a shave and a bath, I feel wonderful: as if I had just spent a delirious month in Deutschland, with my wife, Mrs. Dowell, and the Ashburnhams, taking in the salubrious waters of Bad Nauheim.

The only problem with this sunny scenario (if you want to be picky and call it problem) is that I am not married to Mrs. Dowell. I have no idea who this lady is, Constable. I am not married at all. My name is not Dowell. It is, as I have been telling you for twenty minutes, Shandy. And I have never been to Germany. I don't even know where Germany is. And even if I did, I am sure I wouldn't like it. The place sounds less like a spa to me than a spoiled petri dish, a sort of gigantic brothel for bacteria, the kind of establishment respectable middle-aged gentleman like myself never visit.

Seldom in my experience with literature have I met a more reckless, unreliable narrator than myself. I probably should be horsewipped. Indeed, this morning, it actually feels like I have been. Or it may just be that my undergarments are too tight. I am told by my two friends down there that I need a new tailor. Pshaw! I say, gentlemen. This whole recurring nightmare (some may call it "blogging") reminds of me of a poem once penned by my father, Professor Housman, concerning the delinquent diversions of one Terence (a man not to be confused with the immortal playwright).

Thus, the Professor:

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

...

Until tomorrow then, I guess.