Margareta de Lange – Surrounded By No One

I am standing in a photography exhibition, staring at a black and white photograph of a woman.
I am immediately captured by the photo, by something I spot down in the left corner
Though standing in a crowd of people, I know instinctively that only I see the particular item that has caught my focus.
The woman is nude, and appears to be standing in a hotel room.
She is holding her panties in her left hand, by one corner, so that they hang down. Her right hand is on her left temple, brushing her hair back.
At first it appears she has a shadow cast across her lower calves, but looking closer I see she is wearing short sheer stockings
So not completely nude
But none of this is what has captured my immediate attention, or is what I am sure only I can see.
She is standing at the foot of the bed, near the corner closest in the picture,
and there, on the far corner,
cast amongst the crumpled and strewn bed linens,
I am convinced that I see,
clear as can be,
her soul, or a part thereof
lying in wretched anguish.

Discarded

I couldn’t help but
feel a pang of sadness.

Someone had left a bag
of soft toys,
big and small.

And spilling out
onto the ground
next to the dumpsters.

A large teddy bear
lay face down on the
recycling bin.

Face down as if in despair.

I wanted to hold it.
Cuddle it.
Comfort it.

Eww..don’t touch that!
I was told. I know.
Someone put it there
For a reason.

Silly of me.
To feel sad for the toys.
But they were once loved
and adored by children.

Now abandoned,
discarded.
And forgotten,
on the ground.

Someone couldn’t even
be bothered
to throw them away properly.

In the morning….

…as he leaves the house he removes one of his earphones, leaving Kate Bush to serenade him on only one side for a moment. He does so partly so he can hear the sound of the children playing outside in the nursery school across the way, but mostly so he can hear them if they say hello, which they often do. He wouldn’t want them to think he ignored them. That would never do. Having passed the children and heading to the bus stop he restores his Kate Bush balance and begins his day.

Sleeping Cat Ohai-ku

Face and paws twitching.
Wonder what she dreams about.
Probably cat food.

Survival of the Fluffiest

I wonder sometimes
Whether cats in warm climes
Put on heavy fur coats when it’s winter.
Though not necessary
Evolutionary biology
Says it’s needed at that time of year.
My cat puts on her
Heavy layer of fur
When the weather begins to get colder.
Fluffs up in the fall
And in spring sheds it all
Never once going out in the weather.
Is it also true that
The Equatorial cat
Has fur coats for both winter and summer?

Liquid Courage

It’s said that public speaking,
Is by far the most feared thing.
Most would rather die,
Than to give a speech a try.
So maybe this is after all,
Why we invented alcohol.

Bibliomania: In Pursuit of the Book

I’ve always been a bibliophile. I love reading. I love walking into libraries and book shops, browsing endless rows of books, stacked from the bottom of the floor to the top of the ceiling. I fear that one day I will be killed by a bookshelf falling on me, but what a death that would be! Alas, they will say, “he loved books and they killed him.” I can think of no better epitaph than that.

Recently, I’ve taken up the obsession of book collecting, a noble pursuit, and one that is filled with many mysteries. Few creatures are as misunderstood as the book collector, and especially the ones of the antiquarian kind. They have their own language, and not many understand their bibliomania. Most are not in it for the money, but for the passion, for the pursuit of that elusive book that haunts them late at night. Is it a first edition they seek? Is it a signed copy? Is it just the name of the author that drives them to despair? They must possess this treasure at seemingly any cost or detriment to their mental sanity; like a CERN scientist chasing neutrinos with chalked hands and a collider.

No doubt you are thinking, “well what book do you seek, good Sir?” I shall tell you, it is a signed first edition of Damn Rare: The Memoirs of an African-American Bibliophile by Charles L. Blockson. The irony is not lost on me that I’m searching for a rare book written by a rare bibliophile with “rare” in the title.

Damn Rare: The Memoirs of an African-American Bibliophile

In my first attempt to locate this book and read it, I scoured my public library, but to no avail. Not even through an inter-library loan could a copy be found. The nearest library that actually has a copy is in Champaign-Urbana, a good 45 minutes drive away, and this being an academic library I can not check it out without being a student or faculty of the university − for shame! Searches on AbeBooks and Amazon give me prices ranging from $30 to $130 dollars should I wish to purchase a copy. This cements my theory that the book is a rarity indeed, for why else would it be so expensive? I must now commit my time and energy to tracking down a copy of this book and I will keep you posted on my progress.

Six Years So Far in Sweden

Six years so far in Sweden,
For the most part have been good.
I’ve tried hard to be lagom and,
Do what a good Swede would.
I learned the Swedish language
And I did the best I could.
But I still don’t hurdy gurdy,
As well as I think I should.

Six years so far in Sweden,
Have not been all that bad.
And yet there are still certain things,
That make me kind of sad.
I feel out of place on holidays,
And I miss my mom and dad.
Though my Swedish family loves me,
And to see them makes me glad.

Six years so far in Sweden,
All the laughter and the tears.
Six years of glorious vinglögg,
And watery Swedish beers.
Six years of not quite fitting in,
Of culture shock and fears.
Six years so far in Sweden,
Have been strange and wonderful years.

The health of my youth

It is starting to dawn on me that the older I get, the more frail my body becomes. I’m missing the body of my youth, where the biggest problem was some acne. Now it’s aching muscles, rashes, general fatigue, etc. How carefree those days were when my body just performed. Not so now. Now I take medicine for my blood pressure, and I never thought in a million years that I would become one of those complaining old people. You see, when your body is not feeling well, you become irritable, and you complain. You complain about small things, large things, invisible things, today’s youth, coffee, people’s driving, et cetera. Oh how I wish for the health of my youth!