‘Patrick, calling Paaaaaatick’, please present yourself at the check in desk. The American accent rang out over the PA. Interrupting an uncharacteristic flurry of emails. Putting his laptop away and swiftly slinging his bag over his shoulder, he presented to the front desk. ‘Good morning, I’m Patrick’ he said. Calmly, expectantly. ‘Oh, hello sir, I have a family that we’re trying to seat together, would you be happy to move… we currently have you sitting in Seat 8A—’

‘Yes, put me anywhere,’ he cut in.

‘Thankyou sir,’ said the flight attendant.

Patrick smiled, and patiently waited for his ticket, noticing first the flight attendants stubble and then his stigmatism. The flight attendant continued. ‘Thankyou sir, their child has down syndrome,’ the attendant added.

‘Yeah… mmm,’ said Patrick.

I went to Paddlefish –

For dinner with view.

The first table was average

So, I tried a few.

The setting was four –

Then three, then two.

The clams were good,

With warm bread, to chew.

There I sat by my lonesome.

And thought of my crew.

It was a world without her, until Rene’s birth.
Tough times without her. Sans, Rene – you could say!
Until one day, for hap’ and for mirth.
There she was poppled, all swaddled and gay.

Her parents they sigh, with exhausted relief.
A child, of calm, and cheer – all beauty, no beast.
No need to chide, only coo and cheer.
And she lit up with smiles from ear-to-ear.

The family name was a glorious thing.
‘Sans’ they were called. Like sand with no ‘N’.
Solemn they reflected on lost baby Chance –
Their second and only was Rene. Rene-Sans.

How is it that you can start a stopwatch but you cannot stop a start watch?

Unless you’re Italian?

Bright little warbler of the air,
The world to thee, I ween, is fair;
And free thy life from shade of care
So gaily dost thou sing.

While from thy happy throat is sent
That flood of song in ravishment,
Thou shamest me without intent —
Sad mourner that I be.

To one who knows not grief nor care
I doubt me not this world is fair,
And “pretty” “pretty” everywhere
As thou dost iterate.

But birdie dear, didst thou but see
The world as it appears to me,
Then “pretty” “pretty” might not be
The burden of thy song.

But oh! could I like thee arise
And wing my way toward the skies,
Not here, ‘mid human miseries,
One moment would I dwell.

But once released from bonds of clay
I’d upward soar till thy sweet lay
Did in the distance melt away
Amidst an awful space.

I’d pause not till, through shining breach,
I’d catch, in songs that seraphs teach,
Notes only angel voices reach —
Where my loved one is gone.

Ah, birdie! were it thine to know
The grief that makes my sad tears flow
Thou couldst not sweetly warble so,
Thy little heart would break.

— Louisa Lawson

Shifting Baseline Syndrome. 

It was nice in the 1950’s

It was not so nice in the 1990

It was positively bad in 2020

Here we are…

As a spider will make its web on a crown. Nature will gives no special consideration to you, or your human things.

For every crumb of toast, there is a star in your eye.

For every grain of sand, there is a star in the sky.

I am Godzilla, you are Japan.

I am the Straight of Hormuz, you are Iran.

I read his T-Shirt, it said ‘Ofcourse I Talk to Myself’. I think I get it. Do you get it? Am I asking you, or am I speaking to myself right now? I reading, just speaking to yourself? Who else are you engaging with, with your shirt. Are you speaking to yourself, when you take your shirt off? What are your pants saying to people. Sometime they are on and down and saying things. Other times, they are off and in the drawer – saying nothing.

That’s what it says. Though, perhaps not to all of us.