Yoga requires a lot of focus.

[hat-tip to elnigma for the link]

Moonlight

The moonlight is a pool of silver on the linoleum floor. It glints on the enamel washbasin and slop pail. I can almost see the moon reflected in the slop pail. Everything in the cubicle in luminous. My clothes hanging on the pegs, my white aprons and rubber boots, my typewriter and tin box of biscuits, the big sharp scissors on the table - all these familiar things are touched with magic and make me uneasy. Through the open door of the hut comes the sweet sicklish scent of new-mown hay, mingling with the smell of disinfectants, of Eau de Javel and iodoform, and wet mud and blood. There is wet mud on my boots and my apron. I don't mind. It is the scent of new-mown hay that makes me uneasy. The little whimpering voice of a man who is going to die in an hour or two comes across the whispering grass from the hut next door. That little sound I understand. It is like the mew of a wounded cat. Soon it will stop. It will stop soon after midnight. I know. I can tell. I go on duty at midnight, and he will die and go to Heaven soon after, lulled to sleep by the lullaby of the guns.

-- exerpted from The Forbidden Zone by Mary Borden (1929)

Available as part of "Nurses at the Front: Writing the Wounds of the Great War" on Amazon here, previewable via Google Books here. A chilling piece of prose, effective in its simplicity.

I found this when a piece of skonen_blades' excellent writing reminded me of a sci-fi/horror book from 1958 called A Scent of New-Mown Hay [Amazon]. I can't help but think John Blackburn's title is referring to this piece.

In other news, while still suffering badly from the lack of a social life at the moment, at least my head-fog has finally lifted to the point where I can read (and research) for longer than minutes at a time. Which means work gets done, hopefully bills get paid, etc. The balance of things in life is still generally positive :-)