Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Drinking the Snot of Summer

The post title may sound gross but it's exactly what I'm doing today, and what I have been doing for the past three weeks, leading to a black hole of activity, cognisant thought and an excess of mucus and apathy.

I'm sporting a pair of beautiful black rimmed eyes right now: no, not gothic excess, just as summer paints some people with golden hues, it taints me with decay. I risk an asthma attack every time I walk outside. I am being a morbid drama queen of doom right here and now, but I don't care. I've put on seven pounds in weight in a month purely by not being mobile in my usual way. And now I'm sick of it!

Nine million people in the UK have hay fever to varying degrees. People who have never had it before are developing it now in their fifties and sixties, not childhood as previous, and they're not growing out of it in their forties (bad news for snot bunny here). It's a curious phenomenon yet it is an ailment derided by the working establishment for not being a serious ailment. Well, I can't see properly, look like I've been fighting, am so crabby that I would actually like to have been fighting and I have HFT (Hay fever tension). My lungs are gasping like holey bellows and my nose bleeds frequently. I'm a lovely sight either at work or play...

Given the widespread nature of the disease there is very little support or research happening aimed at finding comprehensive cures. I'm still hankering after the worms (you eat them, they live happily inside you, your immune system turns on them and ignores the pollen) but the husband isn't quite so keen. Gene therapy solutions are a little new and permanent for my liking (just watched I Am Legend, crap film but likely scenario).

Anyway, this little tirade has quite exhausted me. I am now off for my afternoon nap. I feel about 102. Pah...!

GD is: listening to the Juno soundtrack again, lusting after pencil drawings in the Baltic arts centre by Yoshitomo Nara, especially the one that states 'Burn Everything'...

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

If I don't see you again, it was a hell of ride

Genetics by Sinead Morrissey

My father’s in my fingers, but my mother’s in my palms.
I lift them up and look at them with pleasure –
I know my parents made me by my hands.

They may have been repelled to separate lands,
to separate hemispheres, may sleep with other lovers,
but in me they touch where fingers link to palms.

With nothing left of their togetherness but friends
who quarry for their image by a river,
at least I know their marriage by my hands.

I shape a chapel where a steeple stands.
And when I turn it over,
my father’s by my fingers, my mother’s by my palms

demure before a priest reciting psalms.
My body is their marriage register.
I re-enact their wedding with my hands.

So take me with you, take up the skin’s demands
for mirroring in bodies of the future.
I’ll bequeath my fingers, if you bequeath your palms.
We know our parents make us by our hands.

GD is: in a wistful, abstract mood, listening to Neil Diamond's 'Home before Dark', thinking that anyone who likes the above poem should buy the Bloodaxe twin anthologies 'Staying Alive' and 'Being Alive' (from which it is taken), wishing I'd the skill to craft something as beautiful as either 'Genetics' or Mr Diamond's 'If I don't see you again', and being very very avaricious and ordering all five Johnny Cash American Recordings in one go...