Monday, March 13, 2006

Changing of Parts

Following on from my previous post, and Neil's comment

"I was hoping that you were going to write a poem comparing the ease of switching a hard drive with the complexity of love."

Of course he was right and it would tie up all the loose ends on that posting very nicely, but I had serious trouble finding anything out there. So, with profound apologies to Henry Reed, I give you...

To-day we have changing of parts. Yesterday,
We had de-fragging. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after upgrading. But to-day,
To-day we have changing of parts. Red roses

Glisten with dew in all of the valentine posies,
And to-day we have changing of parts.

These are the outer case screws. And this
Is the phillips screw-driver, whose use you will see,
When you are given your new drive. And this is the
dvd re-writer
Which in your case you have not got. The lovers
Hold their bouquets with silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the IDE connector, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone cutting through wires. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The lovers
Are whispering through phonelines, never letting anyone see
Any of them cutting through wires.

And this you can see is the hard-drive. The purpose of this
Is to keep all the data, as you see. We can slide it
Easily out of the casing: we call this
Removing the drive. And rapidly replace with the new.
Our early loves are receiving and giving the flowers:
They call it falling in love.

They call it falling in love: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your heart: like the power supply,
And the mother-board, and the cd-rom, and the peripherals,
Which in our case we have not got; and the lovers
Silent in all of the chatrooms and the e-mails going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have changing of parts.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

I've been having a very busy week. My eldest, S, has been off school since Monday with a gastric bug; work goes on apace; the house is a tip; there are nowhere enough hours in the day. This evening I escaped to the local acoustic club for some friendly faces, some familiar and surprising music. Even some singing from me.

And still no reply from Mr F-M. I don't expect a reply. And yet I do expect to hear from him. Sometime, maybe not for days, weeks, maybe even longer. A strange mix of hope, dread and resignation combines in the feeling that he will always be in touch. The hope really has to go.

And in the meantime, my pc is on its last legs. It has been showing odd signs of wear & tear by insiting on diskchk occasionally when it's switched on. Then yesterday it started telling me that the hard disk is about to fail (I guessed as much). So, any day now it will pack up and refuse to co-operate with any more of my life's essentials - Listen On Demand (courtesy of Radio 3), online banking, my diary and my blogging will have an enforced sabbatical. How will I cope?!?!

If I take it into the office I can filch a hard drive (it's ok, it's my company) and the emergency will be averted, but S is ill so I'm working from home, holding my breath and hoping the pc fairy will wave her wand for a few days more.

And I'm thinking about love, how it appears, how it slips away, how it's a a conundrum, a cocktail of the selfish and the nurturing. If only it was as easy to fix as the hard drive on my pc.
So, in want of some time to write something more meaningful I'll cheat and fall back on some poetry...

Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does it's odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all it's time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of it's own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

W.H. Auden

Thursday, March 02, 2006

The search for the perfect man (Part Three)

Mr F-M

When you phoned me just before Christmas, wanting me to come down to Heathrow, I said that I needed something more from you before I could do anything crazy like that again. So you drove up to me. Although it was good to see you, that wasn't really what I meant. I meant I needed to see a change to the pattern of things to help me feel it would be worthwhile opening myself up all over again. If you'd have kept to your word about getting a laptop & communicating more regularly to see "how things go", it would have been a step forward. But it's all just the same thing routine, isn't it? I mean, last week you sent that email suggesting you ring to arrange to come round and I've still heard nothing again.

So we're now in March and we've passed my deadline of seeing how things go. I know you mean everything you say at the time (well I think you do, anyway), but what is the point in saying it if nothing transpires? As the man says " What we think, or what we know, or what we believe is, in the end, of little consequence. The only consequence is what we do." You're clearly comfortable enough in your life not to want to rock the boat any more, and time is going by too quickly for me. I'm getting on with my life.

I guess I'm saying that I don't want to hear any more about how much you think about me and how much you love me, unless you can show me the evidence of it. And I'm not feeling in the slightest angry, just rather sad that I'm fast approaching the point of becoming bored with the same old routine.
There was a point when I really believed you loved me, but I don't think you do any more. Probably not for some time. Anyway, I miss the times we used to spend together, both in real life and online, but those times are so rare now. Maybe the time has just passed.

Take care
love Ginny xxxx