Exactly what it says on the tin

So, here is some randomness. Things that have just crossed my mind today.

1. I was driving round the M25 today and the traffic was pretty bad in several places. This meant that the traffic came to a stand still a few times. Twice I saw people get out of their cars to talk to people in other cars. Not because they’d had an accident or anything like that, I think they just knew people in the other cars and decided to get out and speak to them. I have to admit to not having read my Highway Code in some considerable time but isn’t it actually illegal to stand on a motorway carriageway and, regardless of that, just plain stupid?

2. I was reading Gripes’ blog earlier and just very much liked the fact that she would write this post. I am not entirely sure I can explain why but maybe just because basically, to me, it says that it’s alright that sometimes everything isn’t alright and it’s ok to ask for help. A friend came round this evening who had a particularly awful Christmas and is dreading New Year and we were talking about how it can be difficult to show people that weakness and vulnerability and admit that things aren’t always ok. I would tip my hat to you Gripes if it weren’t for the fact that I managed to lose said item on Monday.

3. I don’t really do profound or poetic, but Gripes’ post made me think of a poem we were given when I was at school. I am not entirely sure of the connection, but here it is anyway:

He always wanted to explain things
but nobody cared.
So he drew.

Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything.
He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky,
He would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky and it would be only the sky and things inside him that needed saying.

And it was after that he drew the picture.
It was a beautiful picture.
He kept it under his pillow and would let no one see it.
And he would look at it every night and think about it.
And when it was dark and his eyes were closed, he could see it still.
And it was all of him and he loved it.

When he started school he brought it with him.
Not to show anyone else but just to have it with him, like a friend.

It was funny about school. He sat at a square brown desk
like all the other square brown desks and he thought it would be red.
And his room was a square brown room like all the other rooms.
And it was tight and close. And stiff.

He hated to hold the pencil and chalk
with his arms stiff and his feet flat on the floor, still,
with the teacher watching and watching.

The teacher came and spoke to him.
She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.
He said he didn't like them and she said it didn't matter.

After that they drew. And he drew all yellow
and it was the way he felt about morning and it was beautiful.

The teacher came and smiled at him.
`What's this?' she said.
`Why don't you draw something like Ken's drawing.
Isn't it beautiful?'

After that his mother bought him a tie like everyone else
and he always drew aeroplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.

He threw his old picture away.

And when he lay alone looking at the sky,
it was big and blue, and all of everything,
but he wasn't any more.

He was square and brown inside and his hands were stiff.
And he was like everyone else.
And the thing inside him that needed saying didn't need it any more.

It had stopped pushing. It was crushed. Stiff.
Like everything else.

Anonymous