…and leave you instead with the art of ee cummings - poet, artist, and intellectual extraordinaire.
this below is my favourite, titled lone figure and tree in stormy sunset. haven’t we all felt a little like this at some point in time in our lives?

taking a micro break from endless translations on drugs and medical tests on mice and rats and monkeys and dogs. i have no time to sleep, no time to eat, no time to grieve… but time must be made for some beauty, at least, in the form of mr. e.e. cummings.

)when what hugs stopping earth than silent is

)when what hugs stopping earth than silent is
more silent than more than much more is or
total sun oceaning than any this
tear jumping from each most least eye of star

and without was if minus and shall be
immeasurable happenless unnow
shuts more than open could that every tree
or than all life more death begins to grow

end’s ending then these dolls of joy and grief
these recent memories of future dream
these perhaps who have lost their shadows if
which did not do the losing spectres mime

until out of merely not nothing comes
only one snowflake(and we speak our names

it seems to have been quite a long while since i’ve posted (of course, considering the overwhelming regularity with which i used to blog). much has crossed my mind, but every time i start a new post, the words go, and my thoughts flash by too rapidly and resist all attempts to convert them into a coherent whole.

mostly, i guess, because i am angry. and it is rather difficult being angry when you are not sure why.

there. i have run into a dead end again.

in between all the anger, though, is a healthy dose of work and social meetings, all pepppered with not-quite-so-healthy doses of alcohol. almost, i am not aware of what i am doing… a strange hibernating beast that knows it must awake when spring arrives; in the meantime, it sleeps, doing the barest it needs to stay alive, and knowing only instinctively (but not intellectually; sensation rather than knowledge) that the new season will bring with it new life. strange, only because it knows it is self-destructive in so many ways – that perhaps, winter is only its own construct, and that spring has already arrived (never left).

and no uppercase still loves ee cummings.

—————————————————————————————————————

in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remembering how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)
in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with praise)
forgetting if, remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me

ee cummings