When I woke this morning and lay for a while in the dawn-dim room I found a name running loose in my mind: Greywolf. I think it names a character in a book I read in childhood but, search as I may in my memories, and on Google, I can find nothing more on it.
This will bother me until I find an explanation. Or I forget it again.
Reading strange facts today I came across:
Any fine dust mixed with air is capable of causing an explosion. In 1989 a Los Angeles warehouse was burned to the ground in a spontaneous combustion of chilli powder dust, destroying $70,000 of stock.
It says not a lot about me but I found that to be mildly amusing. Like: how much chilli powder would you get for $70,000? I always knew there was something evil about chilli.
A couple of lines have been nagging at me, possibly wanting to become a poem:
The improbable loneliness of a solitary penguin.
And, associated:
The loneliness of a long-distance poet.
Not feeling much like work I record them, and hope they’ll go away.
Then again, this morning, I was standing outside looking up as a ragged flight of seagulls flew overhead, on their way to the estuary no doubt. I wonder if they look down at me and if they wonder about me. I feel no poetry in this situation, merely gratitude that they don’t defecate on me in passing.
