What a difference a day makes or, more strictly speaking, a night since that’s where the problem probably lies, so to speak. Moogie, caffeine, the office and sunshine – nothing has changed except that I feel as though I’ve been buried alive in a claggy, clayey peat bog. Perhaps it was the three large glasses of Rioja last night or staying up until 11pm that did it, but today I can barely summon the energy to continue breathing. This is doubly frustrating because attempting to bubble up through the mud is my desire to continue flogging yesterday’s Mari Lwyd of inspiration for all it is worth.
I’m reading volume one of Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at the moment and thoroughly enjoying it even though I think I’m more interested in the Celtic mythos that preceded it and that of the Anglo Saxons that followed. Honestly, I don’t really know much about anything: my education’s been such a mismatched patchwork of historical and literary periods; and of the bits and bobs I have at one time or another learnt very little has escaped the daily tides of forgetfulness.
Somewhere in the mud of my brain are lodged the shipwrecks of secondary, tertiary and post-grad courses, not to mention the jetsam of current affairs. Today I found myself trawling the interweb for evidence of a shadowy recollection that Joanna Lumley has a trout of a sister who resents her – my google nets came up empty, nothing to show me that my memory held anything more than a wicked sister fairytale. Now I’m left wondering if I’m suffering from recovered memory syndrome or simply wishful thinking.
Of course, as a bored office worker, I trawl the interweb with the dedication of a commercial fisherman, although probably with more success. The treasures I find – haraldskær woman, for example – seem to only surface briefly before becoming submerged in the sucking and acidly sterile peat of my mind. Wikipaedia accidently gave me the answer – I need to turn my flotsam into ligan (or lagan), by tying it to a buoy so that I can find and retrieve it later.
Of course, in more ways than one, that’s what this is – a ligan of my life – an attempt to mark treasures for later recovery.