When we are at our lowest ebb, dear reader, we reach for something higher. The higher life, if we believe in all that, or something highbrow. We reach. We are always reaching. Until we give up.
In order not to give up, I always reach for a favourite book of mine: 101 Poems That Could Save Your Life. J'adore them all, but two favourites are as follows:
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Perhaps I shouldn't say so, but Résumé by Dorothy Parker always brings a smile to my face. If I need to think, to consider, I turn to Fujiwara No Kiyosuke's I May Live On:
I may live on until
I long for this time
In which I am so unhappy,
And remember it fondly.
Why do we turn to a poetry anthology for inspiration, put pen to paper or wander an art gallery? Why are theatres obvious secular cathedrals? Why do we reach? Why are the arts, then, on a higher plane, above us, within reach of some, out of reach to others? And do we like it that way?
Now, dear reader, it's time to turn to Fib Sunday.
If you don't know what's going on or indeed what Fib Sunday is, click here to read the original instructions.
1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...
A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:
- Spiraling mixture:
- Math plus poetry yields the Fib.
(So glad we made it)
You are in fucking Narnia.