Coming over all Leary...

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My blog is broke, my blog is broke,
The words all eaten by the Runnaby Goat,
And I swear by the trives of the words I wrote,
My blog is unquestionably wangle poked!

I mentioned previously that some days my life is like an Edward Lear rhyme, a nonsense, nice to listen to but not as nice to be in and it can be quite small things that turn it upside down and break the rhythm. I’m afraid that I’m a creature of habit and the break to my blog last week really took its toll. I feel like life has been out of kilter since last Thursday, the day before my blog loss episode. I feel as if I’ve been, in almost the words of Edward Lear…

Tossed where the angry breakers roar
As they beat on the rocky shore;
When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore:

Or thereabouts at least, if not directly on the hills of the Chankly Bore, then I wasn’t a million miles away from them. You see, losing my blog, even for that short while, caused me to go all Leary… Edward Leary. If Edward Lear were alive today he’d understand how losing my blog, even for that short, short time might cause me to grin with a runcible smile, and a quivering quavering groo, made me snort with buffoon, by the light of the moon, with a wispet of harrowing guile… or some such nonsense.

Edward Lear if alive today would have been the blogger of all bloggers. Just imagine what his Blog would have been like, the wonderful nonsense it would have contained, the variety, the fun, the lunacy, the poetry and pictures. Even the word Blog sounds like something he'd have made up and secreted in one of his wonderful nonsensical verses. For sure, anybody who can invent words as interesting, silly, and at the same time perfectly believable as Pobble, Jumblie, and Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò would have no problem inventing a Blog to blog about.

I wonder what Lear's Blog would have been like?

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The Blog and the Dimpley Do

Around the corner and through the thrump,
To the land where the Carricles dimp their dump,
Sat the Bongley, the Bingley, and the Blog,
All sat quite still upon a log,
Watching the Oysters sing and play
On viola, cello and guitars gay,
And all so that those three could say
That shellfish are fine fiddlers,
That shellfish are fine fiddlers.

And for that time as the Oysters croon,
The Blog stared quietly at the moon,
And pondered some vast blue lagoon,
Where he would seek his Dimpley,
Where he would find his Dimpley.

‘It is no use!’ exclaimed the Blog,
I can sit no longer on this log,
For I must away to the Borrible Bog,
Off to the land of the Dirigible Dog,
For I must find my Dimpley,
For I must seek my Dimpley.

So past the corner and around the thrump,
Where the last of Carricles dimp their dump,
Goodbye to the Bongley, the Bingley and log,
With gelatinous tears from the eyes of the Blog.
No more for Oysters to sing and play,
For they could wait till another day,
The Blog thrumped off along his way.
In search of his fair Dimpley
To look for his fair Dimpley.

He seeked and searched, he searched and seeked,
For many a day and many a week,
But not one sniffle did he find,
Nor a single snatch of Dimpley rind,
And after a while did lose his mind.
A searching for his Dimpley,
A seeking out his Dimpley.

And remembering the time of the Oysters croon,
The Blog stared quietly at the moon,
A dreaming dreams of his blue lagoon,
And longing for his Dimpley,
A dreaming of his Dimpley.

So day on day poor broken Blog,
Searched high and low with unflappable flog,
Searched low and high with face agog,
But never to find his Dimpley,
To pine and die for Dimpley.

My Blog is broke, my Blog is broke!
His words all eaten by the Runnaby Goat!
And I swear by the trives of the words I wrote,
My Blog is unquestionably wangle poked!

And all for the love of a Dimpley Do!
And a Dimpley Do's love is NEVER true.

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What was it that Aunt Jobiska said to the Pobble?

'No harm can come to his toes if his nose is warm; and it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes are safe, -- provided he minds his nose.'

Good advice methinks – mind your nose and your toes will look after themselves. Mad? Not quite.