Inevitably a mind waiting for the warm weather becomes a little obsessed by something like, "He sitteth in the lurking places of the villages." A reaffirmation that Psalms is the place to go when a February begins to drag into one of the longest months of the year. Granted the King James Version is basically all about the words, which makes it one of the finer launch pads for imagination. And so much better than more recent translations, which are so prim and proper in their determination to dictate a precision to what might actually be meant by a gathering of words, rather than a glorious ramble across hills and mountains, down into valleys where there might even be streams. And I guess there is an argument which could suggest that the King James Version is a great deal more lasting than for example an electric train set, with stations and points and level crossings and the hours and hours of play, followed by a deep and enduring need to acquire more track and new locomotives.
"He sitteth" of course has it's own glory. A wholesale of wonder that puts a
couch or a rocking chair to shame. "Sitteth" in my mind is a
contemplation, and nothing to do with breakfast or watching the television or
looking at the almost complete lack of emails this side of those which tell me I
am almost to late to part with money. In the early hours I prefer to think
of myself as engaged in some form of "sitteth" rather than just staring at the
wall and wondering when it might be possible to count my toes. But last
night, drained and exhausted from having made it past the eight o'clock hour, I
came to the conclusion about the "lurking places of the village." I think
our correspondent from all those years ago was describing what today might be
called a "back alley" and I think he or she was referring to the more sinister
association a back alley has in the minds of the better adjusted. And it's in
the back alley that the better adjusted do un-nice things, lest anyone see them
and cause them shame. Otherwise, why "sitteth there."