The large birds o' prey, they will carry me away

[avram]

March! The mud is cakin’ good about our trousies.
Front!—eyes front, an’ watch the Colour-casin’s drip.
Front! The faces of the women in the ’ouses
Ain’t the kind o’ things to take aboard the ship.

I’m up today at half-past eight, yes, eight in the morning, first time in months. That weekend seems to have reset my sleeping schedule, broken the back of that perverse cycle keeping me up till four each night and abed well past noon. My brain is spinning, full of people I hung out with over the weekend. (One in particular, but no more about that.)

Cheer! An’ we’ll never march to victory.
Cheer! An’ we’ll never live to ’ear the cannon roar!
    The Large Birds o’ Prey
    They will carry us away,
An’ you’ll never see your soldiers any more!

Kipling’s “‘Birds of Prey’ March” (tune by Leslie Fish) keeps going through my head, since yesterday on the bus back home. It’s an anti-depression measure, served up by my internal deejay. It’s a marching tune, one that mocks worry and angst, a powerful cure for moping.

March! The Devil’s none so black as ’e is painted!
Cheer! We’ll ’ave some fun before we’re put away.
’Alt, an’ ’and ’er out—a woman’s gone and fainted!
Cheer! Get on—Gawd ’elp the married men to-day!

I’m buzzing with fevered and undirected (or many-conflicting-directed) ambition, wanting to work, contemplating taking on some short-term nine-to-five drudgery (Chris has suggested working for UPS during their Xmas rush) to get some money in the bank. A month ago this was unthinkable — memories of my depression from working fulltime for six weeks in the spring made me want to shun fulltime work of any kind. Now a couple of months of having that kind of schedule, and decent pay (hm, have to check on that, I’m sure UPS won’t pay me the $30/hour that contract web-programming did) don’t look so bad. Chris will probably plotz from shock when she reads this.

Hoi! Come up, you ’ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
(’Ear them say they want their tea, an’ want it quick!)
You won’t have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow—
No; you’ll put the ’tween-decks stove out, bein’ sick!

Without paying any particular attention to what I eat (well, more attention than I paid, say, five years ago, but less than I did in August), I weigh in at half a pound under my lowest weight while I was working out, just before the holidays in September. I want this trend to continue, accelerated, and I once again seem to have the will to do it. Hoping it hasn’t all just been my body swapping out dense, heavy, hard-won muscle tissue for light, fluffy fat. I was thinking (again) of starting the Atkins diet, but I just don’t think I can cope with a food plan where I can’t just snack on the occasional apple without having to keep track of it. Better to keep on with the half-hearted compliance with the Hot Point food plan that’s served me so well so far. I just went out shopping and came back with (among other things) much green stuff: string beans, grapes, lettuce, bell pepper, sugar snap peas and I don’t care. Didn’t see any frozen edamame at the 7th Ave. Key Food or I’d have picked that up too.

’Alt! The married kit ’as all to go before us!
’Course it’s blocked the bloomin’ gangway up again!
Cheer, O cheer the ’Orse Guards watchin’ tender o’er us,
Keepin’ us since eight this mornin’ in the rain!

I’m also ready to go back to working out (which I haven’t done since September), but my gym membership expired on Friday. I neglected to renew, partly because of financial concerns (though I suspect I could get my parents to chip in on this), and partly because of my still-nebulous plans to move, which might take me inconveniently far from my current gym, and close to some other. I figured I’d just go out and do some serious walking around the neighborhood today, but it’s cold and drizzly out, so only jocular, insouciant walking was done.

Stuck in ’eavy marchin’-order, sopped and wringin’—
Sick, before our time to watch ’er ’eave an’ fall,
’Ere’s your ’appy ’ome at last, an’ stop your singin’.
’Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all!