Literary Nonsense

An Artist’s Room

[Source – Pixabay]

I forgot my hat, the cat on the mat didn’t forget anything, but I did, somehow, somewhere, my hat.

A summer fresh rhyme, time for the flowers to blush and soak in the summer fresh rhyme, flower, them I looked at with love, picked and plucked, and placed neatly on my hat that then looked summer fresh.

Our colours matched, summer fresh orange and violet, my hat and tiny bead-like flowers as if beaded in a chain, the summer fresh evening sky, seen from my room’s window.

My room, my small room, an artist’s room. A dream for some. Back then? No, even now!

A chair and a table and good space to work and rest and look at the summer fresh evening sky and rolling gushy whispery light clouds through the window.

And the neighbouring spaces, floating yet firm terraces, all cheerful, soaking in the summer fresh colour and air.

In the room, small room, I roam and wave my hat, let it dance and then rest on the chair, I spoke through it and it spoke on my behalf, my hat, with all that appeared static but wasn’t.

The hat carried and passed my restless ideas to nowhere and no one; the calm space let the restless idea be, which when rested, breathed its last and vanished. The artist’s room continued breathing and then so did the artist, and every time later, even after losing her hat.

The cat sitting on the mat, the neighbour’s cat, this one, a peace-loving warrior, jumped up when the artist opened the door, climbed to the window, its tail waving a slow cheerio at the artist before sauntering out on the roof top.

Back in the room, hat still missing, the artist sat down to work, breathing in the room’s calmness inside, forgetting about the matters that followed her till the room’s door shut.

One glance around, the hat’s not in the room, the artist sighs, gets up, walks towards the window, finds that cat on a different terrace, sitting still like a statue, aware about the artist’s glance, itself looking downwards at a passer-by – a dog, notices the artist too and turns looking up at the summer fresh sky and then goes back to work.


A Corner of the Artist’s Room in Paris by Gwen John (1876 – 1939) inspired the blogger.


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Not so Lonely Island / And I am with Jake

Literary Nonsense

Not so lonely island.
Image from Pixabay.

Me – Hey Jake, do you want some coconut water?  

Jake – No, I don’t want coconut water, I just had coconut water, how much coconut water can a man drink? (Pause) Okay, give me some coconut water.  

And so, I and Jake drank coconut water.


Me – Sand, sea-shells, sea-shores, ships, sharks… ‘S’… aren’t you playing Jake?

Jake – Seagulls, sea urchins and no, I am not playing.  

Jake’s not a spoilsport.


Me – Nightingale knows the night and knows the stars.

Jake – Of course, it does, it has been painted along. Painted all white, white in the night?  

A classical realist, just generally I mean, nothing to do with the international relations, that’s Jake.


Me – A word for me? Describing me? Like for you, I’d say… Hvorfor Ikke that is Danish for Why Not.

Jake – Hvorfor… that’s for you.  

I won’t flounder and hence, I am super quiet. Dead quiet.


Me – Time’s so slow! (Laughing) That’s my joke, Jake.

Jake – Seems more like a taunt. Here, quickly, burrow my watch in the ground.  

I took it and now it is in my pocket.


Me – Why so glum, chum?

Jake – Really? I have been yodelling for an hour. What’s wrong with you?  

My chum’s so caring.


Jake – I see a ship… hurry, light a fire, fireworks, burn everything, now…

Me – But we are out of firecrackers… I used them while you yodelled and I danced.  

Hey ya, my bad. Jake is all smiles.

Jake – No I am not, I am clenching my teeth. And… and stop adding these footnotes. I hate it!

Me – As you say, dear confidant.  

Jake is awestruck.

Jake – I am more appalled than anything else.

Me – But no one can tell… I know you want to keep my morale high. Wait, where are you going?

Oh, time for a stroll. This will be our 57thround around the island. Cool! Well, 57th or 59th?

Jake – (Talking to himself) God, kill me now.  

Jake’s praying, god, just fulfil his wish, whatever it is.

*

And I am with Jake.
Image from Pixabay.

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