Twitchy

Mondays are twitchy days. You don't know what to expect, or you think you know what to expect and hate it. And then if the Monday is a holiday, it's worse. It's like having a prolonged Sabbath, which instead of being particularly sabbatical, is overabundant. Twitch.

Sunnight

A Sunday night seems so oxymoronic. It's just like a Monday morning. Both these things are the low points of the week, in some subconscious way. It must be the misnomerism of it all.

See What Has Become Of Me

This is not the first time, nor should I imagine it will be the last time, that I am quoting from Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. I have a noted affinity for songs like The Sound of Silence and Scarborough Fair/Canticle; I've used them in lessons before.

But one song which always hit too close to the bone (in a subtle way, like a stiletto, not the rock-hard clout of I am a Rock) was A Hazy Shade of Winter.

Time, time, time, see what's become of me
While I looked around for my possibilities...
I was so hard to please.
But look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.

Hear the Salvation Army band.
Down by the riverside,
It's bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned...

Carry your cup in your hand.
And look around,
Leaves are brown,
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.

Hang on to your hopes, my friend.
That's an easy thing to say
But if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend that you can build them again.
Look around
The grass is high
The fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my life.

Weaving time in a tapestry.
Won't you stop and remember me
At any convenient time?
Funny how my memory skips
While looking over manuscripts
Of unpublished rhyme...

Drinking my vodka and lime,
I look around
Leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground

Indeed, what has become of me? It's been an interesting journey; it looks set to continue being interesting. I await Mondays with a fierce joy, knowing that they WILL be interesting. *grin*

Mon Mon Mon

Waking up on a Monday morning, only to suddenly realise with blinding insight that 'Mon' and 'Nom' are enantiomorphic. Such instances are what life is made of.

I eat my processed food, my bread and rolled oats, and wonder why people insist that processed food is bad and yet tell me to cook my food.

I drink my boiled water and think of how far we have come, we environmental barbarians, using up fossil fuel just to boil chlorinated water. That, I suppose, ensures that anaerobic bacteria will be able to thrive in the resultant deoxygenated, dechlorinated liquid. If they could find any nutrients in it.

Then I realise that this is what I am. I have become an anaerobe. I live in an environment that has been boiled. I can get by without the oxygen of life. And there isn't even any chlorine left.

Nom nom nom. The quest for food beckons.

Monday Reversal

I've realised that back at the old place, I loathed and loved Mondays in equal measure. I loved Mondays for the singing of songs and the renewed contact with people in the classroom; I loathed Mondays for the delivery of jargonistic phrases and the renewed contact with some people outside the classroom.

Now I love Mondays without reservation. It's a return to work that I love; I get to meet people who want to learn and who I want to teach. And I don't have to meet the people that used to irritate the heck out of me with their lack of professionalism. What a win!

Monde

It's like sitting in the tail-gunner's turret. You look behind you and see the world spread out, all its kingdoms and powers. And then you launch a hail of fire, and part of that is obscured, but not for long. Meanwhile, you remember the sermons good and bad, the self-aggrandizement and the self-humiliation, the true humility and the true grace, the many flavours and varieties of service and of style.

Like many wyverns who have left the nest, the Monday service is what we miss. It isn't for the substance always, but for the fact of its existence, the fact that there is an anchor that begins the week with the opportunity for reflection, for meditation, and for those who believe, God.

It's a lot like sitting in the tail-gunner's turret. Your parachute is just outside and you have a bunch of .50 cal heavy machine guns in front of you. If anything serious happens, you just might not get out in time. But you will go down with guns blazing, active till the last, just before your ascension into the heat of the day.