On the (Minor) Occasion of My One Hundredth Clerihew

Evidently, the only way to actually study the human brain properly is to have it out and then weigh, measure and pick at the thing, immediately postmortem. Seems a rather crude necessity, but for the time being, such is the state of science. As one might imagine, this seems to daunt most potential volunteers for study. I for one would be happy to know that my rather neglected skull-meat could at last be put to some worthy purpose, but even the logistics of such a donation make the likelihood that anyone will have much use for whatever is left up there after Elvis has left the building... slim. Many an organ, once "harvested" -- delightfully gruesome and apt verb, that -- can simply be pitched into an ice-bucket and then be all but mailed off in a shoe-box to new owners. But brains, at least in a fresh, uncooked and unpickled state, don't seem to travel at all well. (Thus perhaps the urgency with which zombies pursue a good meal, no?) So to really make a proper study of the damned things, --brains I mean, not zombies -- scientists require a stable population of willing donors, near to hand. Lucky for the rest of us, the good School Sisters of Notre Dame, bless 'em, in Ankato, Minnesota, a few years back, agreed to leave their brains to science, with the result that some genuinely important studies could finally be done. This research has been specially helpful in the study of Alzheimer's and aging generally, and while some of the preliminary conclusions would seem obvious, the Sisters are owed a novena or two for providing the raw material, for want of a less fun way to put it, for the serious study of the subject.

One such conclusion drawn from this research was, indeed, doing even such seemingly simple forms of mental exercise as the crossword helps to stave off senility. In fact, the more actively one stays engaged with language and the like, the likelier one is see out this life with more good brain than otherwise.

I bring this ghoulishness up because just today, I wrote my one hundredth clerihew here, an accomplishment so minor in the great scheme of things as to be well beneath the notice of even my dearest friends and supporters, were I not to point it out. I do so then simply as an example to others of how I hope even the most useless intellectual amusement, if practiced with happy regularity, may prove a benefit to the author, if nothing to speak of to literature. I was a great fan of the form, and of doggerel generally, well before I thought to attempt such a thing myself. Once in long-ago college, I wrote a limerick for each of the cast-members in a show that I worked on as the most humble, and useless of techs. Just my little tribute for opening night, as I could not then afford a single rose. Since then, I have now and again committed other offenses to the muse, to no higher purpose, though for poetry proper, I would be the first to admit, I have no gift. I took the clerihew up again, back in April, having quoted one or two by Auden, among others, with no thought but that it might be fun to try my hand. Rather like doing a crossword, I found the composition of these twee things addictive, and again without much forethought or any idea of doing good, I quickly found a genuine pleasure in the exercise before I quite realized that that was what it was.

As any regularly reader of my little squibs will recognize, the results have been uneven, largely forgettable, but at least occasionally, one hopes, amusing. Any road, I have amused myself with the doing. And that may well prove to be the only point, I realize now that I've reminded myself about the crossword-working-Sisters. (How else to justify the clerihew-habit, as it were?) Should I live then to what will be a surprising, and otherwise unearned ripeness of days, if I do not spend them vacantly fascinated by the motes in the middle distance, I may well have nuns and nonsense to thank for whatever mental acuity I manage to acquire or retain between now and the dark.

So you see? I am not so much wasting my time -- and yours if you've nothing better to read than this -- as extending the quality of at least my own life, and by the least taxing means imaginable! I've always been rather hopeless at crossword puzzles as I can not spell worth a tinker's damn, so it's a good thing I hit on writing pointless little poems, yes?

And let me close by suggesting that if I actually do hold off the all too probable ravages of dementia with a few scribbled rhymes, just imagine what a disciplined mind might do! Imagine a revival, to which I may have contributed here some small encouragement, of the dilettante tradition, stretching back even so far as the Roman Empire, populated as it was with poetasters even among its Emperors and least distinguished generals, and as far as the ancient samurai, of minor verse-making as a ladylike and gentlemanly hobby! (Bearing always in mind that the humble amateur, for such I am destined to always be no better than, should spare the world any but the simplest, and hopefully, forgivably light verse. No sagas please, or verse tragedies, or rap. History is already littered enough with such shavings and warped half-timbers from too many a hobbyist's work-bench. Better ships in a bottle, for this kind of thing, than something of noble intention that can only clutter the garage.)

As I've said, exercise, at least of the kind one can do without putting down one's cigarette or changing into embarrassingly brief costume, seems just the thing. Works for the nuns. Do try.