11 Jul 2014


Here's the thing.  I have spent a long time losing and mourning the loss of abilities like fine motor function of my hands, walking without aids, balancing to stand, the will to write, draw, paint  - and on and on and on...

The nature of my 'embuggerance' -as Terry Patchett has called his particular and altogether more dreadful demon, nach meiner meinung, means that the sand beneath my feet will always be shifting and horrifying me in new and subtle ways.  So, in order not to run screaming into the road each and every day (although in  my case, that would be 'wheeling'), I need to "screw my courage to the sticking place" - and I hope you get the reference, there... it's Macbeth. This is taking me longer and  requiring more energy than I thought it would.  And with me already being of a depressive nature, it is taking an Herculean effort, actually - and I can't always and at every moment, rise to it.  Not a failure, just a fact.

1 comment:

  1. Our Myth seems creakily Greek

    Dear Her-cules, your Atlas
    Lies open to a Page
    That's not quite finished yet,
    Mapped to aging's Age.

    Hour to our Hours' passing
    Is always Shifting Sand;
    Shiftless is not embuggerance
    Which sticks not to the planned.

    Energies are required,
    Renewed. The question: How?
    By seeing not one Failure,
    But plain Facts, I too shall vow.

    Aches and Pains and Losses
    Accrue like Debts unpaid,
    But still a clever Lassie
    Will dog Life's Steppes portrayed

    In Words and Shapes and Colours
    (I spelled it right for once).
    One asks not always Rising
    To face a day's Turbulence.

    Dear Her-cules, your Atlas
    Turns daily Page's pains,
    Quite different from a Her-cules,
    As Embuggerance pertains

    To one and all and all and one,
    For Life in its Living reigns
    To do as it will, its Will with us
    As each Stage and Play ordains.

    Sticking to that Sticking Place
    Is that which simply is,
    Whether or not acceptable
    In an answer-emptied Quiz.

    What will be? I have no Clue
    And never really did,
    But Facts I know attest to this:
    For now we live Amid

    All That Is and All To Come
    As such Embuggerance deals,
    But behind It all there lies a Truth
    Which hides and which conceals

    The Mystery behind great Mysteries
    And Truth behind all Truths,
    That when All is said and All lies done,
    Plain Mystery's kiss sweet soothes.

    What is Made, is Writ, is Sung,
    Is sent out in Bright Beams,
    Which even when we are blind to it
    Is our Universe, it seems.

    Dear Her-cules, your Atlas
    Shoulders a World of Cares.
    To the Passages we must go through,
    Old Atlas stands not unawares.

    What can be said? Why, Nothing,
    And Everything as well,
    For in our Worlds and Living
    Comes a Heaven after Hell,

    When one faces the greatest Piper
    Who plays a winsome Tune,
    As comes to One and comes to All
    For no One is Immune.

    Shifting Sand is all we have,
    Embuggerances all,
    Thank Goodness Atlas crossed your Path,
    Made better overall

    For Her-cules, who wavers,
    Her Strength eroding now.
    Such came, comes, will come to us,
    Such as Lives allow.

    Life is Odd, I see, and Ill, I add,
    And creaks most Greek-ily.
    The ticking clock ticks, then tocks,
    Clocking us most sneakily.

    - a nonny mouse