all you need to know

Found an old poetry book I used to really love, 'The Breath in the Flute' by John White. Some of the poems are in Waka form (31 syllables) but most are Japanese Haiku (17 syllables) though they don't always follow the strict five, seven, five syllable pattern, nor do they always have a seasonal reference. A couple of my favourite:

I have lived
in so many ways
a despicable life,
and when I have done,
or tried to do,
what seemed right,
there was no merit,
nothing to praise.
I did it because,
by my nature it pleased me.
*
But life
is unjust
and I
am a happy man.



What is
this strange
thing
in which
I live,

this me
which is
unknown
to me?



Words,
words,
wasted words;

the wind blows,

winter is here,

and the silent
snow.



You of pure
faith,
I,
who am certain
of nothing,

travel
the one
road.



Consider
one leaf

falling.

It will tell you all
that you need
to know.

'a weird bug colony nestled between my ears'

My brother has started learning this Beethoven sonata. He's been playing it all weekend. He stopped playing it about ten minutes ago - I think he's gone to bed - but it's still dancing around in my head. By mid-week it will be like having eaten too much great cake - just the thought of the opening chords will annoy the hell out of me. But right now it is still beautiful and exciting. It has these 'frilly' bits, sort of trills, which I try and sing at him. He laughs at me, and tells me that the noise coming out of my mouth could just as easily be identified with 'Billie Jean' as with the sonata.

I couldn't sleep last night, and was flicking through an old book I read years ago, 'Ophelia Speaks' (edited by Sara Shandler). The subtitle is toe-curlingly embarrassing: 'adolescent girls write about their search for self' but it includes some clever essays. An extract from one, 'Psychiatrist's Garden', by Willow:

I am seated on an ancient-looking sofa, overstuffed with polyfill, covered with coffee stains and Victorian blue roses. The woman is standing behind me. If she would keep quiet for a moment, I could pretend the stink of heavy perfume is coming from my resting place - from my little bed of roses. I could seize each wrinkle of fabric, crush it between my fingers. But she is watching my every move right now, pen in hand, so grasping for the flowers probably isn't too brilliant an idea.

I feel like an exhibit in the flower show from hell.

Behind me, she drones on and on, until her words are lost in the buzzing of insignificant sound. Funny, isn't it? A drone - a male bee among flowers. Strangely appropriate. I consider sharing this thought with her. But if I spoke, it would only give her an excuse to move closer, to strangle me with the scent of fake flowers as she tries to plug herself into my brain.

Though I'm sure she could come up with a million great theories. Maybe my thoughts indicate a subconscious belief that men, like bees, sting the hell out of any girl who gets too close. Maybe it means I'm afraid to love. Maybe it means I'm a lesbian. Maybe it means there is some kind of weird bug colony nestled between my ears.