The Ignorance of Bliss and Blue Socks

The Ignorance of Bliss

Actually, this is a painting of how my memory sees Rose and I looking out the December window of my cozy hovel during courtship some 18 years ago. There was a very used couch backed up against a big picture window. I set my books of literature and philosophy on the ledge. There was another I wedged in there too. Wake Me in Spring was my daughter’s book. She was five year’s old at the time and could read it well. I read into it very well.

Wake Me in Spring

The mouse monologues to the sleepy bear about all the fun times his buddy will miss if he sleeps away the long winter. “You’ll miss sleigh rides in the snow,” and “hot cocoa in steaming cups”. The bear keeps yawning and going about his bedtime business, pajamas and teeth brushing, while the mouse tries his best to convince bear not to sink into a deep sleep. “Yawn,” goes bear, but he is wise to spend time convincing his best friend that everything will be okay, and they’ll do fun things in spring, after he wakes up.

Winter is not a happy season. Only humans pretend it to be. Life that can, flies south, hibernates, goes dormant, or seeks human house heat to run all night long in terror of the house cat. The ancestors called it the “intellectual season”. The moderns anthropomorphize the human condition to bears and mice, brush their teeth, drag their feet, and outdoor exercise maybe once or twice over a span of 150 days. Winter is a season in Hell. The bear knows. He sleeps it away.

Bliss is like hibernation. Ignorance is joy. Falling in love is the only winter anti-viralbiotic to Hell.

Now how to do it all over again with the same cast of characters…

An old bad poem when I could have cared less about winter:

Blue Socks

Last night I got two blue socks
Blown in by the wind
They came with the rain
On her little feets and toes
I opened the door to the dark
Just a wee bit little
Pulled her blue socks off
And threw one each way
We heard the water splash on eaves
I watched the shadow play of leaves
Dance across the feathered skies
And for my face a freshet cleansed
From the gladness of her eyes

Yet tonight I sit alone
In this box without my one
I put the blue sock on my shoulder
The storm became a gale
She called about the hail
And the madness of the skies
Here my blue one look
How the trees stand up in rain
Stronger than all men
Us two
We are lost among them

Still I don’t think it matters much
If once and for all
They stood up tree tall
And meant it
I mean cracked open my head with a bough
Now that I’ve had the pleasure of it,
Blue socks
And love’s absence
Can brave these storms
Without hesitance

Blue Socks

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