I worry about myself sometimes

I think I’ve mentioned before that in addition to getting earworms, I also get poetry or bits of blank verse stuck in my head – sometimes for days. I’ve recently realised this also happens with short phrases, or even words. For example, a month or two ago I had the word “pasilurken” floating around in my head, popping up to the surface of my consciousness and submerging again at irregular intervals, and I couldn’t decide whether to be more annoyed or amused.

Now in that case, obviously, it was the unusualness of the word that caught my fancy. At other times, quite ordinary words get stuck, and then twisted. Like soup. Innocuous enough, as words go, right? Well, the other night it reduced me to tears of amusement. It went like this: I had soup for lunch. Then, at bedtime, I commented something my husband said with “surprise” (our normal slang for “what else is new?”). As usual, he countered with a bad pun “If the soup rises, please try to make it to the bathroom in time”. And as usual, I laughed. (I laugh at bad puns, especially my husband’s bad puns. This is one of many reasons he claims I am easily amused.) We then turned off the lights and proceeded to attempt to fall asleep. The word “soup” and the word “rise” continued to float around in my head, though. Some time later, I snorted out loud. My ever trusty brain had presented me with the alternative Hemingway title “The soup also rises”. My husband wanted to know what was so funny. I tried to explain, but realised it really wasn’t particularly funny, and so started laughing harder (impeccable logic), so it took a while before I managed to fill him in.

I worry about myself sometimes…

Tounge all in a twist?

I need to keep these somewhere:

Three witches watch three swatch watches. Which witch watch which swatch watch?

Three switched witches watch three Swatch watch switches. Which switched witch watch which Swatch watch switch?

Three swiss witch-bitches, which wished to be switched swiss witch-bitches, wish to watch three swiss Swatch watch switches. Which swiss witch-bitch witch wishes to be a switched swiss witch-bitch, wishes to watch which swiss Swatch watch switch?

Appropriate to the evening’s activities

An Islay Malt

I hold within my hand
The isle
Within the glass.
The life and times
Of loved ones.
The morning dew.
The sea.
The sun.
The sand –
And then, through that,
The smoke from Donald’s fire
Comes drifting through the years.
The trout that Susan’s man caught.
The breath of deer, then back
To days unsure,
When Somerled did rule
The wild peat covered land.
All this within
The glass within
The hand.

Janette Hannah

(Taken from The Whisky Muse, edited by Robin Laing)

I am…

One may be overwhelmed. In this day and age, one may also be underwhelmed (though I suspect that’s a modern “invention”). But may one be simply whelmed? A word is wanted for certain occasions, and whelmed may be it. As in: The film was neither interesting nor dull, simply whelming. Coming home after having reached fourth place in the world championship, the team were whelmed by their reception.

And so on.

I am feeling distinctly whelmed today.

Voice on the stereo: Paul Simon – The Obvious Child (Concert in the Park)

Security Considerations

I am trying to lift the lid,
logically, the lid
on my private crate.
It isn’t a coffin by any means,
it is just a package, a cabin, or,
in a word, a crate.

You know what I mean
when I say
crate, come on,
don’t play the fool,
all I mean
is an average crate,
just as dark as your own.

Of course I want to get out,
and therefore I knock,
I hammer against the lid,
I call out
More light, I gasp,
logically, pounding away at the hatch.

So far so good. Unfortunately,
for security reasons,
my crate does not open,
my shoe box has a lid,
a rather heavy one to be sure,
for security reasons,
since we are dealing here
with a container, an Ark
of the Covenant, a safe.
There is no way out.

For our liberation, joint action
would, logically, be needed.
But for security reasons
I am all alone in my crate,
in my very own crate.

To every man his due! And hence,
for me to escape, by joint action,
from my own crate, logically
I would have to be out of it
to start with, and this condition obtains,
logically, for all of us.

Thus I break my very own back
against the lid. Now!
A chink, a narrow gap! Ah!
Marvelous! The open country
outside, covered with tins,
containers, or just plain crates,
in the background, the high-rolling waves
ploughed by seaworthy trunks,
teh enourmously distant clouds above,
and lots and lots of fresh air!

Let me out, I proceed to cry,
feebly, with my tongue coated, against
my better judgement, covered with sweat.
To make the sign of the cross: imopossible,
To beckon: no, I am short of hands,
To clench the fist: out of the question.

And hence I cry: I express
my regrets, woe to me,
my very own regrets,
while with a hollow plop
the lid, for security reasons,
comes down again
over my head.

From The Sinking of the Titanic, Hans Magnus Enzensberger