Sunday, April 19, 2015

jet powered fluttering

I love these bright sunshiny Spring days; I was going to say mornings but, by the time I have manoeuvred myself from the divan, and into daytime apparel, ante-meridian is already veering toward the post component of the day. At this time of the year I’ve at least got a few more daylight hours to appreciate, even when the body achingly summons me to an afternoon nap.

What I don’t like about these bright days is the omnipresent temptation to do a little pottering about in the garden. Don’t get me wrong, I loved gardening when it didn’t have a payback clause attached, whereas now it’s far too easy to forget the limited number of spoons available.

When I succumb to the garden’s lure it so easily leads me to forget about “pacing”. My beloved is always good at reminding me to slow down, or stop, these times of physical endeavour, especially when I’m enjoying the change from my otherwise sedentary lifestyle. Actually, much of the time, the word sludge seems more appropriate than sedentary to express how this mode of being feels. Yesterday a short time spent mowing the lawn, albeit using an electric mower, seemed to have used up most of my 24 hour stamina supply.  

It’s always wonderful to hear the buzzing hum of the bees, both bumble and honey, as I walk past the heather laden rockery towards the wildlife friendly reserve at the far end of the garden. Primroses and cowslips are thriving and the nettles are springing back to life; the chatter, piped and fluted songs, of our avian visitors make an idyllic background as I move into reclining mode in the summerhouse.

 Even the fluttering butterflies seem like jet propelled aircraft in comparison to my enforced lethargy.

Monday, April 13, 2015

just so story - zambalouked

absolutely zambalouked - that's it - zambalouked; there's no other word for it, it's indescribable without its forbears, and the whole interminable history of signs and symbols encountered en route.

First we had that dance routine, it starts with the knees this time. A dull throbbing ache vibrates through shins and sets the feet in motion. Next it's the wrists that ache, a slow burning fuse that sets the heavy upper limbs in discomforted motion, and then the nausea begins.

Elbows insist the arms must stretch, release the terpsichoreal spasms that shudder down from the armpits. Turn onto belly, cross arms behind the pillow, stretch legs and hook toes over the mattress end to stop their flailing burn.


Do you know that, this time, I thought I'd gotten away with it.

Nice bright weather coaxed me out of my cocoon, just a little light weeding here, tack down some mineral felt there. Can't have been more than a couple of hours exertion spread across two days.

Then there was the modest change of 27litres of water from the 180litre aquarium, 3 buckets full either way, and that's my exercise!

I wallowed in that grand illusion; this time no payback. Guess what ...


A couple of days later the nocturnal dance followed by this achingly shattered, confused emptiness, a totally zambalouked experience. Absolutely zambalouked, that's all I've got to say! 

Entranced by the strangest zambalouk.