Anxious to talk to you

The nerves fire off warning shots, listen. Yes?
Oh, well, in mine eyes the camera jitters quite violently, blurring the spectacle of life.

If you miss much I miss it all, or most, not to curse this momentary lull with interjections of mine suffering but; no one’s listening.

Samuel Beckett says the essence is beneath and behind you, I, the unfortunate inessential, cannot see his meaning. Perhaps..?
Oh, well, all is a-float on strings of space and time, drifting far and wide.

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Under Solitude of Night From The Sun’s Light

There’s been a drought;
I suppose that isn’t news, but around half-past nine PM every night, after hours of staring at still branches and immobile curtains, the most lovely breeze blows as if from the stars

Sleeping with the windows open, living next to a busy road, is impossible. All the more so with my hyper-sensitive ears

But one has no choice when the stifling heat rings your neck in bed and turns nap time into drowning in sweat time

But that is not what I wish to blog about:
What strikes me about summer (more so than winter) and especially with the extravagant heat is how the mundane is turned into magical delights:
• Take the breeze for instance, cool and delicate, almost shy under these conditions. Yet when it brushes against my flesh I shiver with glee.
• Iced water tastes like the liquor of eternal vitality
• Rain fall, that precious hum of a thunder shower swoons me into a trance of reverie, (giddy).

Where in winter the sun is a dear friend, in these conditions the glorious night becomes a realm of reprieve from the iron-clad rays of sunlight which bombard every particle in sight
I do not know of too many texts which have seen a drought in such flattering terms.
But this will do.

I am terribly impatient

(Shhh! nevermind my ramblings onses!)

I find Victorian literature drags on for two chapters and truly begins on the third

Books written for children in those days seem rather heavy indeed, compared to more contemporary fiction, but I find the content most suitable for my endlessly gyrating mind.

Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie (a very funny book!)
*Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery (should have been shorter but positively heart-warming!)
Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter (if this book were a cake it would be a red velvet cake comfortably tucked in a toffee boat drifting on a sea of honey.)

The victorian voice of that era grabs my attention like no other time (present included)

Other than Dracula, The Time Machine, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, and Carmilla I find the rest of the “grown up” literature of those days incredibly cumbersome.

I skipped several chapters of ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’

The first chapter of Octave Mirbeau’s Calvary was the most engrossingly psychedelic read and then, quite tragically, the book falls apart beyond that

Émile Zola’s two short stories Captain Burle and The Death of Olivier Becaille will forever warm my heart, concise tales and if only most stories could pack such vivacity in a few pages how much richer the literary canons would be.

As far as repeatability is concerned; Alice in Wonderland is never beyond my reach. Laughter is an invaluable quality in a book. And nothing tickles my ribs like a good load of nonsense!

I ought to finish some of the classics I have mentioned (and there are more uncompleted books I have not mentioned) but it’s terribly difficult to read when a wave of lethargy threatens to drown you in a pool of boredom as the narrator describes quite superflously every particle in a setting!

Perhaps some day, should still be alive, science would have created an APP which allows one to maintain their concentration for long periods of time.
That would truly be living!