Pad, Pad.

I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.

What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad pad.

-- Stevie Smith.

I'm wearing too much make up at 2.05 am.
I've decided to keep a pretentious literary blog of beautiful words that I like. (For instance - salmon). But words preferably arranged in a beautiful fashion:

Immune savagery - dashed
Springs
Crowned. Sudden fear anaesthetizes
This
diptych of disregard.

These are words arguably not organized in a beautiful fashion. These are actually words arranged in a dadaist fashion (generated randomly from my dictionary). I happen to think this process is beautiful within itself, regardless of the final result.

I'm currently reading some Thomas Hardy (I'm treating myself and holding of the 18th century lit for a while) (although Tristram Shandy was mint: "What is all this story about? - A Cock and a Bull"). Current thoughts - don't read if feeling depressed, unless encouragement of suicide is desired. There are beautiful lines, but so far I'm finding the rhythm jolting and halting. Immediate impression is that it seems trapped between conventional structure and freedom - sometimes it seems to conform to a gait, and then stumbles sometimes. Some poems do seem to escape it entirely, and these seem the better for it. Not sure how I feel, having only read a few.

Well. I should try and draft my dissertation tomorrow. I'm failing miserably at work this holiday. I'll aim for 2000 words tomorrow. In the evening I'm off though - Bruges. :) Should be most beautiful.

Goodnight world.