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Those shadows.

By Gerard Oosterman

Sparkling windows.

Here’s a Song;

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

(Christina Rossetti 1830-1894)

A wise man knows nothing, a fool everything! It is to be hoped by many that gaining some insight and wisdom might be the final reward for getting old; apart from the inevitable final curtain call of dying 😉 There isn’t a great deal that can be done about that one, except be prepared and choose your own coffin in time. ( the laminated Mount Calvary with chrome handles might be a good choice) 😉 🙂

I usually welcome the coming of personal shadows and my advice to others; welcome them! I know there are Men’s sheds and Beyond Blue orgs to help out for those in serious downers. I take a different tack. I invite the blues and let it wash over me like a thick but reassuring fog and accept the challenge. It will dissipate as sure as the sun goes down behind the horizon. Who wants to be happy; happy all the time? It is badly overrated. The nurturing of Western forms of happiness is nothing more than terminal capitalistic Overlords wanting you to empty your wallets, doing shopping in huge shopping malls filled with truly depressed and oh so sad people seeking ‘happiness. Is that what I want? No, go and get fucked; give me a solid dose of clear sighted shadows at any time.

Lately I have been deeply immersed in cleaning windows. With the double glazing and carpenters fingerprints all showing, with the yellow afternoon sun at a certain angle, I decided to seek survival through a bout of window washing. I love dish washing and avoid dish-washers and not because of economics, no, more of enjoying swirling my hands around warm water. It satisfies. Don’t ask, why? There is a lot there, I know.

With windows I could not understand that using the clear blue tinted window washing liquid from that Mecca of cleaning detergents, Woolworth, and a good cloth, that the glass seemed keen on showing a film of milky white as soon as the afternoon sun hit it. I re-washed them again, this time with sparkling clean water and brand new cotton cloth, cut from my old pair of pyjamas. The same milky white again. I then remember my mother using a special cloth. Is it called a chamois? It was a kind of leathery cloth and made a squeaking sound when drying the windows. I bought one…and…victory. The windows are sparkling. I am so happy.

I know, I know, but it is probably a Dutch thing.