Never Dusted Nor Done

How many ways can we colour love,

How many songs to be sung,

How many words to express what we mean,

How many before dusted and done.

Colours of rainbows, permutated for life,

Notes neverending, play on,

Speak what we feel and write it all down,

Never dusted, never done, for the one.

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For Science. Slainte.

In the interests of maintaining an upright position beyond four o’clock in the day it is necessary, after a certain age, (for me, anyway) to take some measures that may facilitate this aim. As a proponent of scientific experimentation to determine cause and effect with some accuracy I am about to undergo a series of tests that may affect my blogging capabilities.

It has come to my notice over the last year or so (it takes me a while to see patterns emerge) that my ability to sleep right through the night is now a matter of unrecorded history, merely living on in my memory and those of my family who can attest to previously witnessing the strains of my dulcet snoring at odd times throughout the night, proof, I dare to hypothesise, that I must have been sleeping.

Not being a proponent of early nights, I have laughingly called ‘bedtime’ any time I felt like it. Ridiculously low hours of sleep have previously not been an issue and added, I like to think, an edge to my humour throughout the day, being as how I haven’t always necessarily been in full control of my mental faculties. My excuse, sticking to it, although yet to be proven.

However, when problems arise, requiring answers, I turn to science as one possible means of exploring the wonders of the body and the mind in the belief that some bugger surely has investigated this before me. They have. But they’re them. And I’m me. So I’m testing for myself. I was good at science. I’ve got this.

I have taken copious notes on the problem (even written some poems about it. During the night. Can many scientists say that? Didn’t think so.)

The problem, as outlined, will require looking at from several different angles. I have, in fact, already studied one or two. And dismissed them as not scientifically proven.

This week, tale-end of, I will be drinking wine before bedtime while watching movies. I found it somewhat helpful last night and only woke three times during the night. Marvellous dreams recorded for future poems. Bonus.)

Tonight I will be experimenting with one Baron Saint Jean, ‘a smooth and mellow red wine with cherry and damson flavours’, hailing from the Spanish heartlands. Not one of my usual go-to countries for red biddy but I’m prepared to experiment in the furtherance of science.

Someone’s got to do it.

Last night’s Australian offering, ‘a deep ruby colour with a nose of raspberry and strawberry with spicy pepper and cloves’ may have helped a little in the insomniac stakes but I am a little concerned that the addition of spices may have done little to alleviate the problem entirely. And, who knows, may even have exacerbated it as can be the case when ruby murrays are indulged in before slumber. * Note to self, I am not from the east end of London.

I shall be researching various fruit combos from varied parts of the world to ensure a full bodied range of experience to experimentation ratio. Notes will be taken, dreams or absence thereof recorded, some songs may be sung but only if really pissed.

I will, of course, pursue other avenues and intend to take this matter as seriously as any scientist who can’t sleep through the night. But, I am working from the premise that a good bucket at the weekend sometimes has the ability to knock me out cold for lengthy periods that I will call sleep.

Please bear with me in these hazardous times as there may be groundbreaking results. I feel relatively confident that I can do this although I haven’t ascertained whether other noted scientists, apart from myself, have gone this route. ( I got excellent marks in biology. Chemistry was another matter. And physics, well, let’s just say that it was beyond my capabilities. But I’m pretty sure that I write better poetry than Stephen Hawkings. That fact has not been checked. So I could be wrong. But sometimes I make facts up. It’s a teacher thing. I’ve heard. Also not proven.)

Wish me luck as I venture where vintners have never gone before and where science has seriously let us down.

I will attempt to maintain decorum at all times, keep to regulation uniform (well, I’ve still got my nurse’s dress, that’ll do fine) and optimise results by having a control. Two glasses shall be the rule (of thumb) and, as I’m not driving to work these days, I feel confident that I shall maintain an upright position without any intervention from law enforcement.

Further updates will be notified. Probably in poetry.

Some sacrifice may be required and Lent is out the window.

Slainte!

 

Almost Comfort

Job’s comfort in the empty arms of absent,

In disappearing trill although it’s dawn,

In sunshine while the clouds are smirking,

In dreams departed long before they’re born.

Vague soothing in the airs all sung there,

Tranquility despatched, bestowed, bereft,

Fleeting glimpses snatched, strange sort of joyful,

Almost

as if the arms of comfort never left.