Warp and Weft
The shuttle races back and forth
Click and clack. Click and clack.
Building up with warp and weft
That ancient tartan weave, Defiant symbol of clan’s heritage
And steadfast loyalty
To Laird and Lord.
It has ever been so.
Shear and card, spin and weave
A plaid, a kilt or rustic homespun
Soaked in sweat of a day’s hard labour, Or soaked instead in the blood of battle
Whether it be that of friend or foe
No difference. No difference.
Blood is going to be shed
On heather’d moors
Before this age is done.
It has ever been so.
Our greatest stories all writ in blood
And woven ell by ell, Click and clack. Click and clack.
The shuttle weaves its endless story
Taking note the comings and the goings
Of our generations past
Born in the warp and weft
And product of the weaver’s craft. It has ever been so.
By fireside or factory loom,
Once produced by crofters’ hearth, It moved from hand to factory machine
Until long last it began to fade.
Now kept alive by wizened hands
And wisdom on the wrinkled brow
And lessons taught at old gran’s knee.
We treasure the old things,
The click and clack of the weavers' loom
Clear water to wash the wool
Clean air to fill the lungs
Sheep enough for mutton and for wool.
We yearn to hear the click and clack
As the shuttle tells our story.
Foreshadowing
“To Sleep, Perchance To Dream“
Do dreams foretell?
Are they harbingers of things
That hover ever nearer,
Like vultures circling, descending
Ever closer to roost and feast
On decaying flesh and bone?
Make ready the winding sheet.
Prepare my tomb, my solemn bier,
Rehearse the Psalms,
Tune the pipes, shake off the dust
From somber suits and mourning veils.
I feel their need is growing near.
The ghosts of last night’s haunting tale
Retain a lingering, oppressive air
That shades, infusing these early hours,
Belying sun and morning breezes.
Not me, but one I know too well.
Dear friend, a close relation (neither here nor there)
But close enough to feel their presence
Peering over my shoulder.
Miasmas drift around my face
O’r-coming all efforts to brush away, Demanding to be written down, Pinned to a sheet beneath a glass
To bear examination, to peer behind,
Pull back the curtain to reveal
The Freudian meaning
Of what it means.
Was this a dream of portent, A Dickensian tale from Camden Town,
Offering hope of true redemption?
Or echoing the words learned long ago
“Giving sweet foretastes of the festal joy”?
Neither sweet nor festal
For this is a fate I no longer fear, But do not yearn to hasten. Not yet.
It followed an elaborate script
Complex and almost logical,
Both detailed and revealing,
All the harder to dispel.
The cause of Morpheus’s mischief Has spawned so many theories, From guilt to conflict resolution, From life-lesson’s rehearsals, To blind firings within our neural net No matter.
Despite the lingering effect Or its power to affect my future course, It was, at the very least, Entertaining
From <https://pallimpsest.ca/?p=5410>
Foreshadowing
“To Sleep, Perchance To Dream“
Do dreams foretell?
Are they harbingers of things
That hover ever nearer,
Like vultures circling, descending
Ever closer to roost and feast
On decaying flesh and bone?
Make ready the winding sheet.
Prepare my tomb, my solemn bier,
Rehearse the Psalms,
Tune the pipes, shake off the dust
From somber suits and mourning veils.
I feel their need is growing near.
The ghosts of last night’s haunting tale
Retain a lingering, oppressive air
That shades, infusing these early hours,
Belying sun and morning breezes.
Not me, but one I know too well.
Dear friend, a close relation
(neither here nor there)
But close enough to feel their presence
Peering over my shoulder.
Miasmas drift around my face
O’r-coming all efforts to brush away, Demanding to be written down, Pinned to a sheet beneath a glass
To bear examination, to peer behind, Pull back the curtain to reveal
The Freudian meaning
Of what it means.
Was this a dream of portent, A Dickensian tale from Camden Town, Offering hope of true redemption?
Or echoing the words learned long ago
“Giving sweet foretastes of the festal joy”?
Neither sweet nor festal
For this is a fate I no longer fear, But do not yearn to hasten.
Not yet.
It followed an elaborate script
Complex and almost logical, Both detailed and revealing, All the harder to dispel.
The cause of Morpheus’s mischief
Has spawned so many theories,
From guilt to conflict resolution,
From life-lesson’s rehearsals, To blind firings within our neural net No matter.
Despite the lingering effect Or its power to affect my future course, It was, at the very least,
Entertaining
From <https://pallimpsest.ca/?p=5410>
Haggis Neeps & Tatties
Take all that you have Elevate it to a feast And sing it’s praises
Warp and Weft
The shuttle races back and forth
Click and clack. Click and clack.
Building up with warp and weft
That ancient tartan weave, Defiant symbol of clan’s heritage
And steadfast loyalty
To Laird and Lord.
It has ever been so.
Shear and card, spin and weave
A plaid, a kilt or rustic homespun
Soaked in sweat of a day’s hard labour, Or soaked instead in the blood of battle
Whether it be that of friend or foe
No difference. No difference.
Blood is going to be shed
On heather’d moors
Before this age is done.
It has ever been so.
Our greatest stories all writ in blood
And woven ell by ell, Click and clack. Click and clack.
The shuttle weaves its endless story
Taking note the comings and the goings
Of our generations past
Born in the warp and weft
And product of the weaver’s craft. It has ever been so.
By fireside or factory loom,
Once produced by crofters’ hearth, It moved from hand to factory machine
Until long last it began to fade.
Now kept alive by wizened hands
And wisdom on the wrinkled brow
And lessons taught at old gran’s knee.
We treasure the old things,
The click and clack of the weavers loom
Clear water to wash the wool
Clean air to fill the lungs
Sheep enough for mutton and for wool.
We yearn to hear the click and clack
As the shuttle tells our story.
Foreshadowing
“ To Sleep, Perchance To Dream “
Do dreams foretell?
Are they harbingers of things
That hover ever nearer,
Like vultures circling, descending
Ever closer to roost and feast
On decaying flesh and bone?
Make ready the winding sheet.
Prepare my tomb, my solemn bier,
Rehearse the Psalms,
Tune the pipes, shake off the dust
From somber suits and mourning veils.
I feel their need is growing near.
The ghosts of last night’s haunting tale
Retain a lingering, oppressive air
That shades, infusing these early hours,
Belying sun and morning breezes.
Not me, but one I know too well.
Dear friend, a close relation
(neither here nor there)
But close enough to feel their presence
Peering over my shoulder.
Miasmas drift around my face
O’r-coming all efforts to brush away, Demanding to be written down, Pinned to a sheet beneath a glass
To bear examination, to peer behind, Pull back the curtain to reveal
The Freudian meaning
Of what it means.
Was this a dream of portent, A Dickensian tale from Camden Town, Offering hope of true redemption?
Or echoing the words learned long ago
“Giving sweet foretastes of the festal joy”?
Neither sweet nor festal
For this is a fate I no longer fear, But do not yearn to hasten.
Not yet.
It followed an elaborate script
Complex and almost logical, Both detailed and revealing, All the harder to dispel.
The cause of Morpheus’s mischief
Has spawned so many theories,
From guilt to conflict resolution,
From life-lesson’s rehearsals,
To blind firings within our neural net No matter.
Despite the lingering effect
Or its power to affect my future course, It was, at the very least,
Entertaining
Dangerous Waters
One of those nights, One of those moods.
Bit of a buzz and clear signposts are few-and-far-between. Dangerous waters aswirl with hidden teeth. Keep to the center & go with the flow.
So damned many stars. As many come and go in the span
Of my life as would fill an hourglass. Yet on and on they come, Flashing for a brief moment, imprinting on my mind's eye before dying, And instantly forgotten.
And yet ,,, there is a chance that (a cosmic butterfly-effect, if you will ) something I have done here, some event that I've set in motion, some task left done or undone, some lasting relic of me. Empires and pyramids are for greater fools than me. I've said elsewhere; My vices are small, harmless and of little consequence.
I need to record when things occur, begin to capture
The images and novel insights that occur.
Do I ramble? I've found that rambling is a most efficient form of A-to-B and gentle to the heart. Yes, I'm rambling
And it's rather pleasant (delightful?) sensation: liberated, unburdened, a more clear and centered path, free of brush and bracken, distractions intruding on my illusion (dream?). In this illusion, I can see clearly, left & right,
a condition not so in real life.
When the startling thought occurs; that I may not be the master of my own course. There we have it. Doubt, nibbling at your cornerstone. Away with this. Re-start my playlist. I've forgotten how it begins, so it's all new to me. Where was I on this ladder, this awesome ladder? Looking checked-flannel familiar and ready-to -roll. Nowhere but up from here, else ,,, We know how that ends.
There are two rather attractive options to my predicament, as both come to the same conclusion, but by different routes:
I could look for various & vicarious means to maintain this state, intermittent as it may be. I've developed a deep distaste for the day-to-day emotional, psychological and mental abuse, and I have found a means to rise above. God bless the Federal Government for entering the 21st century with their moves to decriminalize and legalize certain botanicals. As with all such blessings, it is a double-edged sword. Balance. Balance. Everything is balance. I know one side all too well. The other side beckons. This will lead to an obvious conclusion: I get caught. I pay the price. C'est la vie.
Where was I? A symptom of something, either boon or bane or both . I'm hoping this thread will help me see where I've been recently. There may be something of worth.
Someone said, "If it can't be measured, it doesn't exist."
I am a measurer. I see the exquisite beauty on every side and I have this foolish urge to pin it down with steely pins to measure it and thus, make it so.
It may be a false hope that this will lead to better understanding, a defining, measuring moment, this Palimpsest, this Ink & Quill and all the scribbled Notes-in-the-Margin. Somewhere in here, in this digital legacy, there is a thread. I know there is else why all this searching, exploring, detailed examination? Why all this effort to expose and explain my frailties and banes?
I measure with the tools that I have. Most of those tools are now primitive and dull, hammered first into a utilitarian shape, then worn by repeated use. Perhaps skilled teaching during formative years might have produced a more durable or flexible tool, finer-edged, better suited. But who knew then where this twisted thread would lead?
Ladders. A glance down, a gust of wind , the goddamn foolishness of old men.? None. Or all of the above. A world of pain. The implications were profound.
There are alarming moments when I hate myself for what I do, the pettiness, an unforgivable streak of mean. If it will rise to a mere provocation, then the most damning truth is that it was there all along. Not so noble and pure of heart after all are we? NO! NO! NO!
As for the second of those two rather attractive options I mentioned earlier, it approaches like a train with a full head of steam. The signs are there as sure as the grey in my hair and the ache in my bones. Be assured; I have made my peace with this inevitability.
My only concern is that there might not be enough time to find what I'm looking for - have been looking for these past 50 or-so years. I am still looking for hints, traces, scents. Pity that the full extent of my search should come so late. Had I known, I might have picked up tools more appropriate to the task, saved myself a world of hurt along the way.
