quandary

now there's an interesting word

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can you be out of a quandary?

or sitting next to a quandary, on a bench? can a quandary jump up from behind and scare the living daylights out of you? can a quandary swim lazily alongside you as you splash in a Cambridge water meadow on a hot summer day? does a quandary ever send you a gift, for no particular reason. . . have interesting conversations with you. . . make you feel ever so slightly happier because it's in your life. . . bring a smallish smile to your face. . . make you cringe with awkwardness. . .

what does a quandary feel like? is it gritty, oily, silky, do little shards of it break off into your skin as you touch it and make you bleed

does it have a smell? citrus, with a hint of vanilla that doesn't quite go, and perhaps a bluff charcoal note

it is very quiet, this quandary - it makes no sounds whatsoever: in fact, on the noise front, a quandary is the audible equivalent of a black hole, sucking in murmurings and cracklings and whistlings and hummings and buzzing from all around - at such a force that in their ambient backgroundness these rustlings almost become overwhelming; but the quandary itself is silence

what does it taste like? bittersweet, I can bet - really sharp and acidic, it makes you gasp for breath and yet at the same time you want more of its sickly sugaryness; strangely there is a crystal of salt in there too, melting on your tongue

it is deepest aubergine in colour, part matt part shiny
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. . .or can you only ever be in a quandary?

because that is where I find myself, dear reader

yes, you (you!) (not you at the back, lurking (I know you're there, but I've given up worrying about your presence) ("silence is golden" and all that) (apart from the singing, of course) (you are off key) (way off)

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*sigh*

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(about the quandary, not the lurking hordes)
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what do I do. . .
what do I do. . .
I don't know

so I'm going to do nothing (if in doubt, do nowt); and then, when I get bored of that, I'll have another think about it

sun dismantling; Sunday rest; stopping clocks

one flies off with the cuckoos
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so last week, two days before the move, when I'd packed up and the POVS were with their father until such a time as I'd unpacked at the new abode and they could move back in to their weekday residence, I swallowed all my sleeping tablets; before I took them and whilst I took them and before they had had any effect, I was the calmest I had been for a very long time; it was a wonderful feeling; I went to bed and let go very very gently; altho I didn't expect to wake up, when I did I felt everso slightly dopey and spent most of that day in bed asleep. . .

that evening, the day before the move, feeling equally calm, I swallowed all my remaining anti-depressants and a packet of extra-strong neurofen. . . XCH came around, for some reason, totally unexpectedly and unannouced, a while later - something to do with the move I think - he must have seen I wasn't very well and he insisted I went back to his for the evening and that I hug and cuddle the POVS on the sofa; I didn't expect to wake up the next morning and when I did felt extremely sick and had the worst headache I have ever had. . .

g*d knows what they put in these tablets, but methinks in restrospect that the vast amount of their bulk is made up of some kind of placebo (the Head Doctor had admitted as much to me when he signed me off a month or so ago, as he wrote out my prescription)

that evening, despite feeling like death warmed up and being totally shattered from the packing/move/un-packing, I went to the opera with Patrick and almost fell asleep a number of times. . . it was remarkable that I didn't throw up, actually, I felt so dreadful; the strangest thing about the evening came at the end of the night, when I gave the cab driver instructions for how to return me to the new abode

where I shall now be for the duration
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time, it's a strange thing

this week I've had withdrawal symptoms from not taking any medication, and have continued to feel as sick as a dog, altho the headache has worn off as the week's progressed and now I just feel slightly naseous

about three quarters of an hour ago I put some batteries into a cuckoo clock (a little like this, white, altho mine has no pink touches and two more cuckoos) that I bought about two and a half years ago and have never even taken out of the box - the machine cuckooed twelve cuckoos at me shortly afterwards and a little bird popped in and out as the doors to its perch opened and closed; with each "cuckoo" there is a faint "echo cuckoo", it sounds just like the cuckoos from my childhood in the countryside; the clock and the cuckoo and the echo will do that now, until the batteries run out or the internal mechanics break down

I think my internal mechanics have broken and it feels as if my batteries are flat and have been for a while now
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I just want time to finish

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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, Bring out the coffee, let the mourning begin. Let aeroplanes circle moaning above, Scribbling on the sky the message He Was Love, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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wat WHA

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POST SCRIPT: then I read the following on mel's dream. . .

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Is it unrealistic to look at the bright side, to remain generally positive, and to expect the best in life? No, because reality itself is neutral, and what you get from it depends upon how you view it and what you make of it. The raw forces, circumstances and events are, for the most part, out of your control. Yet you can completely control the way you perceive, respond, adapt and yes, even prosper under their influence. The control you exercise over your own perceptions, thoughts and actions will make all the difference in your life. Reality is what it is, and your own relationship to that reality is precisely whatever you choose for it to be.

this is what it's like for me. . .

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Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of
A neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one deared
Disturb the sound of silence.

Fools said I,
You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.

Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you.

But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming.

And the signs said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls.
And whisperd in the sounds of silence.

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S&G (again)

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but then I suppose nothing is obligatory, is it. . .