On Dylan and Being Deficient.

I’ve had a couple of nights away from the computer and the blog. Instead, I’ve been sitting by the fire musing on many things, not the least of which was whether I have a future, and if I have, whether some ship might pass by on which I can hitch a ride. Maybe it will be going to China, which would be nice because I’ve always wanted to visit Shanghai. All China-bound ships go to Shanghai, don’t they? It’s why the modern version of the cheomsang was invented there. At least, that’s my theory. I also did some reading and discovered something interesting.

I thought I’d give Dylan Thomas another shot. I first bought an anthology of his poetry when I was about twenty, and didn’t understand a word of it. I still don’t understand a word of it. To be more accurate, it isn’t the words themselves I have a problem with. He talks about wombs and worms a lot, and they’re not so difficult to understand as words go. It’s his choice of words and the order in which he places them that leaves me floundering. Clearly, I am deficient in my comprehension of the poetic form.

And I watched this week’s episode of Sherlock, which also kept me feeling well floundered. I mean, what was all that stuff about Mrs Watson’s past about? But it was while I was watching Mr and Mrs Watson making up that I had a profound revelation about myself. It can remain my secret, since self indulgence can easily become an irritating habit.