After thirteen, twenty three, forty seven, how-long-has-it-been days of cleanery, moppery, cookery, nursery, and lonery one would expect to sleep like a baby what with the myth of hard work giving you better sleep.
But bang at 6 30 am the eyes open as if on guard duty for the day and one moves about the house like a zombie spying dust particles in nooks and crannies like spelling mistakes in unedited prose. The household stretches out in front of you like a two hundred page thesis in MLA format without pagination. The curtains yearn to be pulled apart as if roadside drama awaits.
You think of watching a good movie but after the credits roll you suddenly remember the boiled eggs in kitchen counter needing to be converted into a curry. Rice, daal, curry, curry, daal, roti, rice, yogurt, oats, carrot, beans, and sometimes fish. If eggs come can chicken be far behind? But rationed. And there is no junk whatsoever. Now that we are unhappy what shall we do? What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?
In the evening I put on a T-shirt, tracks and my faithful Nike to travel to the park and go round in circles. I have been going in circles ever since. In my plans to walk, and my determination to undo it. There is cookery and cleanery but no poetry.
Poetry has gone down the kitchen sink with the amber dish-washing liquid in a kitchen sink drama. I stink of soiled lemons. At night the Muse comes in my dreams like Medusa with her tangled spoons and forks for hair. "What's with that wig you're wearing?" I ask. "It's not a wig you stupid Yo. It is a Relief Fund where you have donated one spoon. Shame on you."
She is showing me her long manicured nails which wave in the air like ribbons for an inaugural ceremony. I am being offered a pair of scissors shaped like a pair of stethoscope.
Excuse me, I have to go now to do some foppery. The times are out of joint, O cursed spite! That ever was I born to set right!
But bang at 6 30 am the eyes open as if on guard duty for the day and one moves about the house like a zombie spying dust particles in nooks and crannies like spelling mistakes in unedited prose. The household stretches out in front of you like a two hundred page thesis in MLA format without pagination. The curtains yearn to be pulled apart as if roadside drama awaits.
You think of watching a good movie but after the credits roll you suddenly remember the boiled eggs in kitchen counter needing to be converted into a curry. Rice, daal, curry, curry, daal, roti, rice, yogurt, oats, carrot, beans, and sometimes fish. If eggs come can chicken be far behind? But rationed. And there is no junk whatsoever. Now that we are unhappy what shall we do? What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?
In the evening I put on a T-shirt, tracks and my faithful Nike to travel to the park and go round in circles. I have been going in circles ever since. In my plans to walk, and my determination to undo it. There is cookery and cleanery but no poetry.
Poetry has gone down the kitchen sink with the amber dish-washing liquid in a kitchen sink drama. I stink of soiled lemons. At night the Muse comes in my dreams like Medusa with her tangled spoons and forks for hair. "What's with that wig you're wearing?" I ask. "It's not a wig you stupid Yo. It is a Relief Fund where you have donated one spoon. Shame on you."
She is showing me her long manicured nails which wave in the air like ribbons for an inaugural ceremony. I am being offered a pair of scissors shaped like a pair of stethoscope.
Excuse me, I have to go now to do some foppery. The times are out of joint, O cursed spite! That ever was I born to set right!
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