A monologue...

It all feels a little mad with the juggling of tasks that I accomplish in my head. With exuberance to contend with, contentment backs away bearing in its wake, the ease of a subdued conjecture and suddenly, I am of the illusion that the world is at my feet for any ambition and any plan that doesn't break the law. So blow the whistle on me if you must 'cept I wouldn't care a might.
Somewhere in the back of my mind and in recent days, tranquility took its bow for revelry. I see no clown's face but the real haphazard smile of my own...no paper crown to a wise man's hat but the jester's cap in my drawered soul. My writing tasks are tossed upside down no matter how carefully I police them to sense...they playact children splashing up a fountain that may have sprung a leak or rocketed to space. Frankly, it all feels like sailing on a ship that cannot make up its mind either to swim or sink and as for my dreams, it may just have to float along the Milky Way.
I may be disordered but happily so.

I say, I say, watch me hang the laundry in neat straight lines although my clipboard marked "Things to do" stay scribbled with lines and scrawls and the dash of squiggly cancellations that may have looked like a report card gone all wrong.

There is lovely, warm sunshine that hails the cool fresh air in Dublin today, wouldn't you know, even if marked by the gatecrashing trespass of a freezing winter snap that doesn't care if you ice your bones in your bed.
So when you go out to play on this thrilling sunny day, don't forget the umbrella, mind! A fireplace and sweater are still best friends. After all, the sullen gale's not one to be kind.
As for me, I must write with might to save my pride.

I want to write about all the obscure reads I've been buying in strange and silent obscure places. The new hardback titles that fight for recognition on my resurrected bookshelf. And of how I listen to the opera and ballet in the mornings and of how a celebrated orchestra can wake me up like no cornflakes may have mastered the triumph. And then too, of how super it was in recent days that the Guardian and the Independent had printed free collections of poetry which included Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes and Edgar Allen Poe. Could buying the papers have been such fun? It needed treats to go with it like lollies and cups of tea.
And there was the scandalous V.S. Naipaul where in spite of his brilliant genius so bewitched me with his loveless marriage and tolerant loyalty that only added to torment, I had to buy the Daily Telegraph and spread its long telling sheets in my lounge...words that masked the daring extracts of the new Naipaul biography. What fun! What fun! But oh...whatever happened to the sun?