Normal again

Some of you may have noticed a suspicious silence the past few months.  My apologies.  I got a little broken.  Maybe you know the feeling?  The times when you feel like you’re living in a wat of honey?  Something slow-moving and unbreathable at any rate.

For the most part it has meant that I’ve been disinclined to talk.  Or write, or make or print or bake.  Do any of those things that would mark me out as being alive.  So I haven’t been still, I just haven’t been here.  Turns out Sartre (and a whole other bunch of more depressing existentialists) had it to rights, being in-itself is well nigh impossible for people.  So this is to say: I’m sorry I disappeared, I am here now, I will catch myself (and you) up and I am project.

Normal is fragile (and if you recognise the reference, delusional) and much helped by the presence of friends.  Thank you, and much love.

Also, how much do I love this song?

For the benign indifference of the universe

I have a twisted love for the absence of grand design.  It comes from being an atheistic hindu.  You know, I don’t believe in the intentions of things (even though occasionally the way they behave makes me question this generosity) and I have not the arrogance to think the universe is conspiring against me.  I find it comforting to think of the world as benignly indifferent rather than actively evil.  I suppose this denies me the luxury of believing the world to be deliberately helpful, but I’m okay with that.  So this poem makes me happy.

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

W. H. Auden (Orginally published in Homage to Clio, 1960)