Do you ever get those days when you just can’t find the words to write what you need to write. Well, seems like this last academic year has been one continuous ‘one of those days’.
I have a spotless house, the garden is on its way to being in a managable state (main bedding sorted, only the front garden areas – x4 and about a quarter of the vegetable and herb garden to weed and turn over soil ready for the children to do their planting), but in all areas of writing I am drawing a blank. It seems to be the same for getting back on track with my lifestyle change – ie food and exercise.
It’s just too good darn easy to fall off the wagon and stay there with all the temptations around all year round! If only I could work out something to get me back on track. That said, as I have been gardening (and hard digging at that…) for around 4-9hrs everyday this week (with the exception of today as Elijah had a friend over), I hope it has made at least a small difference.
Well. I think I know what I need to write about, I need to choose four texts, one from James Joyce and three from Langston Hughes (well it doesn’t have to be Hughes but it makes it simpler for me the frame of mind I am in…). So I think I shall write about ‘An Encounter’ then ‘Jukebox lovesong’, ‘Harlem Sweeties’, and ‘The Weary Blues’… or maybe another instead….
Harlem Dance Hall? maybe…
It had no dignity before.
But when the band began to play.
Suddenly the earth was there,
And like a wave the floor –
That had no dignity before!
The Weary Blues… Maybe, maybe not….
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. …
He did a lazy sway. …
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Coming from a black man’s soul.
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan –
‘Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.’
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more –
‘I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied –
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.’
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
Too much wonder, too much choice…