I don't really desire this new day,

but since I've entered it,

or it me,

I take it on (or, again, to follow up on the line above; it me)

and slowly feel the enthusiasm rise

like the sun

over my indifference,

still with a few scraps of dreams

hanging like curtains of rain on the horizon,

for instance this middle-aged, blonde woman

who came up to me out on the floor of a large arena

somewhere in the USA,

asking me about my bicycle,

presenting herself as a Swedish former professional biker

called Ulla,

me asking her if her surname was Johansson,

to which she replied that ”it could have been”,

explaining that she married an American,

and now had a double surname,

the second part of which I can't recall

This section of this text exists in between before & after;

after what I've said so far,

and before what I'm about to say,

here in Middle Earth,

which is

that in one hour and a half

”I will rise and go [now] and go to Innisfree”;

not really, of course – but to an area which spiritually

and naturewise corresponds to William Butler Yeats' poem,

beautifully interpreted by singer and guitarist Hamilton Camp

on his album Paths of Victory from 1964,

for I will rise and ski into the forest,

with all these spruces clothed in thick, fresh snow;

a Christmas picture postcard or a fairytale scape

- and here I end this sprawling, straggly line of words,

but as Alan Watts said, again and again:

”Life is wriggly!” - and so am I