Wednesday, 21 May 2008

Hair and Gnomes

I´ve had my hair cut. My to-waist-long curly out-of-date hair has become trimmed straight modern something. I like it but I need some time to naturalized it:-)
I have gnomes at home. I am absolutely sure about it. Some are in my washing machine and always eat one sock from the pair. Some are on my table and hide things. So when I put my make-up on, they hide my lipstick or mascara just when I am in hurry. Or they hide a pen when I really need to put down something very quickly. Those clever scoundrels! They can read my mind and anytime I really need something they know it and hide it.
Sometimes I look for something very hard and I can´t find it. A year ago I saved my psychology notes very carefully and when the time of the exam approached and I needed them I couldn´t find a single page of them. I was looking for the notes absolutely everywhere. I searched my rooms, the kitchen, the dining room, even the laundry room. Nothing anywhere. So I had to borrow the notes from my classmates. About month ago I was cleaning the bookcase and I found them.
I have a theory why these things happen. When the gnomes are bored (perhaps when I am not at home and they have nothing to hide) they are making the black holes all over my flat. The secret black holes are in my cupboards, in the corners of the shelves, and even in the wardrobe. And from time to time some (very important for me) thing are sucked up by the black hole and appears after some amout of time somewhere else.
In Irish Rain
by Martha Haskell Clark
The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,
They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;
But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again
To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.

The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills
The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;
That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,
And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.

And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,
Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;
The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,
The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!

They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,
But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!
And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day
With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.

There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,
But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,
But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again
To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.

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