The Fool

To continue the theatrical theme ….

I was looking at a post from Kate, in which she suggests that ‘life is no different from acting on a stage’, and I thought it begged for a Shakespearean reference.

For whatever reason I started thinking about Marcel Marceau and how sad, to me, he always looked. It seemed that people that don’t talk much give the impression of covering something up. I don’t talk much myself, to be honest.

*

The curtain opens, I must show
The only face you’ll ever know
Clasped lips that hold the truth inside
A costume that can barely hide
The scars, the buried injuries
The nightmares. Bitter memories
No role here for the truth to play
The audience must have it’s way
The actor, he must always act
Absorb the laughter, not react
Mimed emotion. Hidden pain
Tomorrow do it all again
For all the world’s a stage, you see
Come watch my comic tragedy

*

I have never been a great fan of Shakespeare, to be honest, thinking him to be something of a hack, but a lot of his words were planted within me during an almost forgotten education. If I had to pick a favourite quote, though, it would be, ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport’.

In a long ago production of King Lear, by the way, I was (type?) cast as ‘The Fool’. I jest you not.

What is it all about?

The above is a question that constantly plagues me. I am not alone in that regard, of course. The best answer I have come up with so far is ‘probably nothing much’ which seems a little bit unsatisfactory. Even if we accept life as entirely without meaning it remains difficult to shrug off the impression that, for some reason, it should mean something.

Anyway, I spotted a post from my buddy, Cyranny, that suggested the human act of breathing in and breathing out was sufficient for getting one through to another day. That might be right, I suppose, but it is notion that, likewise, struck me as being a little bit unsatisfactory.

It occurred to me though, that if two humans were involved …together … just breathing in and out … together … then just maybe, somehow it might all be worthwhile.

So this is what I wrote …

*

Our beating hearts, our inhalation

Beating faster. Perspiration

Skin to skin. Sweet expectation

No spoken words. Negotiation

Two souls entwined, let no-one sever

Moments pass that last forever

Just breathing in and breathing out

And that’s what life is all about.

*

I’m not really trying to say very much. Because there’s really not very much to say.

A Visit to the Cinema

This is supposed to be 87 words. I cheated a bit. But THE and END are both words and I seem to remember them featuring at the completion of those magical movies of my youth. So they sort of belong here.

This is for a prompt from Sammi (#230 …. so I’ve only missed 228 thus far) … to be found here

*

I shed my worries, take my  seat

A box of popcorn at my feet

Brief encounter. Brush with fame

Though I don’t know your real name

You take me places I’ve not seen

With magic on the silver screen

Smiling starlet, look my way

Remind me of a yesterday

When everything was wrapped in gold

And I believed all I was told

This brief escape. Just you and me

This refuge from reality

Open curtains. Dim the light

Be my dream for just one night

THE END

 

*

I am going soft.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t post often on here these days (I never did, really) but when I do it’s tending to come out all warm and fuzzy and suggestive that I have some sort of social conscience. I don’t. I’m rude, obnoxious and self-absorbed. I like nothing more than talking about football, heavy drinking, irresponsible drug ingestion and women’s bare breasts.

Any yet, occasionally, something blurts out that seems to point to a conscience, of sorts. Is this some sort of emotional breakdown or simply another symptom of senility???

My ‘sort of’ relative, Kate, (don’t ask … it’s complicated) is always banging on about flowers and cute animals and peace and happiness and incense sticks and meditation and how we should be nice to each other and all sorts of other crap. And whilst I blame most of this on her mother I can’t help but worry that it might be having an impact on me.

I find myself writing ‘nice’ things occasionally.

Sometimes even a bit sloppy.

A recent post of hers suggested that Mother Nature might be a bit pissed off with us. I don’t happen to agree. I don’t think Mother Nature could give a flying fuck about us. Mother Nature is perfectly happy to see us out. We’ll be gone soon enough and Mother Nature is unlikely to really notice. To her, we will come and go in the blink of an eye. If we render the planet uninhabitable for humans, she really couldn’t care. She’d be perfectly happy if Earth became an uninhabitable gaseous wasteland. She’s seen it all before.

It might come as a bit of a disappointment for our great grandchildren, though.

She’s an observer. She doesn’t intervene. We create the floods and the famine, not Mother Nature.

Anyway … I responded to Kate’s post in a sort of embarrassingly warm and fuzzy manner, and I repeat it, below.

I will be back on to inflammatory insults and gratuitous nudity in my next post.

I promise.

*

Mother Nature doesn’t care

She’s barely noticed that we’re there

To her our presence will be brief

Our departure, a relief

She’s started packing up our toys

So much rubbish. So much noise

 

Mother Nature has no rules

(though some intolerance for fools)

And fools we are for our belief

That she will offer some relief

Many fools she’s seen before

To her we are just one fool more

 

So pack your bags. Arrange your stuff

Mother Nature’s had enough

She’s tired of us. She’s bored

We’ve taken what we can’t afford

She’s locked the gate. She’s slammed the door

Too late humans. There ain’t no more.

 

*