Artists, this time of year, sit in garrets (if they can find one) or, more commonly, off in some corner table considering the splotched patterns of spilled coffee as the wind blows against the wall, just inches away .
It is March, the glum, gloom, precursor to Spring The Delightful and the most appropriate time for the poetic imagination (unfortunately often in the most prosaic pathetic pseudo-journalistic rant form).
Behind the cages of curled-up circus animals here at the tent and slightly upwind into the corners; the wail of the wind, grey of the sky, and general earthiness has encouraged poetic rants from those emotives who have wintered-over here.
While the jesters play with their jester’s sticks, taunting the winds and the windy-wise ones there are voices coming from the corners. “But, I didn’t…(followed by indecipherable words) came several times. “But, I didn’t…”. But, I didn’t…” (“didn’t” what, or to what end is not clear).
You have probably heard many similar expressions, repetitive, loud, hammered with an unceasing mechanical rhythm; but these are presently unadorned by electronic amplification and overwhelmed by the prairie wind and animal snoring.
It might be some marvelous insight predicted by how the coffee got spilt.
And so it goes, artistic inspiration. Oh, and the answer to last weeks riddle from Yorick?
The Handrail…
What is She doing?
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 