Word Drivel

I admit, I am utterly devoid of talent when it comes to writing so I'm  going to apologize in advance to anyone who decides to stick around and travel down this twisting, winding road of 'word' drivel.

I've been in a Fibro Flare for the past several weeks so my morning ritual goes like this:

• Struggle to get out of bed.
• Go pee.
• Grab cell phone, book bag,  Miss Molly McGee (dog) & take the stairs one at a time down to the first floor.
• Boot up the MAC.
• Put the coffee on.
• Put Molly on her leash.
• Take Levothyroxine then wait one hour before taking other meds & having breakfast.
• Read HuffPost & get pissed off (Part B) Tweet on a separate Twitter account created specifically for Politics and articles about Law Makers that have pissed me off.
• Let Molly back in, by now she's jumping, scratching & crying at the door (she has issues).
• Break away from political news before I spontaneously combust due to anger & hostility, moving on to a poetry or (literature <--- I am in shock, I can't believe I spelled that right. Give me just a sec. to bask in this rare moment of achievement).  sorry.

And today while surfing the Net I discovered a site dedicated to Victor Hugo, so reread one of his poems that I adore, Veni, Vidi, Vixi.   I've read it several times yet every single time  something new stands out  (probably due to my dyslexia since it's not written in a pattern common to me).

Veni, Vidi, Vixi

from: Contemplations by Victor Hugo

Translated by: Henry Carrington

I have lived long enough, since in my grief
I walk, nor any arm to help is found;
Since I scarce laugh at the dear children round,
Since flowers, henceforth, can give me no relief.

Since in the Spring, when God makes Nature crave,
I see with joyless soul that love so bright;
Since reached the hour when man avoids the light,
And knows the bitterness that all things have.

Since from my soul all hope has passed away;
Since, in this month of fragrance and the rose,
My child! I wish to share thy dark repose;
Since, dead my heart, too long in life I stay.

From earth's set task I never sought to fly:
Ploughed is my furrow, and my harvest o'er.
Cheerful I lived, and gentle more and more--
Erect, yet prone to bow towards mystery.

I've done my best: with work and watching worn,
I've seen that many mocked my grieving state;
And I have wondered at there causeless hate,
Having much sorrow and much labour borne.

In this world's gaol, where all escape is vain,
Unmurmuring, bleeding, prostrate 'neath the shock.
Silent, exhausted, jeered by felon mock,
I've dragged my link of the eternal chain.

Now my tired eyes are but half open kept,
To turn when I am called is all I can,
Wearied and stupefied, and like a man
Who rises e'er the morn, and ne'er has slept.

Idle through grief, I neither deign nor care
Notice to take of envy's noisome spite.
O Lord! now open me the gates of night,
That I may get me gone, and disappear.

April 1848

Wow.  Just. Wow.

I'm in awe (and admittedly with envy) when I read pieces like this written generations ago when there were no computers with dictionary, thesaurus & spell check software nor ridiculously easy access to great works from great writers.  I am  astounded, Victor Hugo strung ordinary, unremarkable words into this stunning arrangement creating this astounding work of literary art and he did it all from his own genius.

I can not write my grocery list without the aid of my computer, never-mind  poetry or prose... not even bushwa poetry or prose.


sigh.

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