Dejunkin' a Dresser Drawer

mismatched earstuds

dusty bottles of stale perfume

an empty jar of ecollagen

plastic-coated hairclasps

broken-toothed french combs

a box of white petroleum jelly still in its protective sheath

a dark-eyed peacock feather

l'oreal liss control long past its expiry

a gift tag saying merry christmas. love you lots.

bracelets in skin tones and sky blue and aqua,

silver and gilt-edged worn off in places

economy packs of neosporin and dipsalic

sunblocks in lotion, cream and gel

button strays

cds

a candle

dust whorls

hair strands

dog fur

and this is just the top drawer

wonder what's in the other three?

PS: After my last blog post, some folks seem to have pegged me down as being in some kind of deep dark depression. Not quite. Mood swings is the more correct term. Anyway, it made me remorseful enough to post something more lighthearted to say hey I'm ok.

Sunrise, Sunset and the In-Between (Midlife Crisis Blues)

And so a new time frame begins. Seems like only a couple of years ago that everyone was talking about the problems of things not being Y2K compatible but all that's ten years down the line already. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset, and in between those two eternals, our lives are seamlessly spun out.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,

The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,

And after many a summer dies the swan.

Much as I usually try not to think or sound negative, I feel incredibly aged this year. The immortal lines of Eliot's Prufrock, learnt a long lifetime ago when the world was still sunny and warm and bright with promise, speak for me.

No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.