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.

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If You Know Me By Now Then You Don’t Know Me At All

If I crash my bag of incontinence and it flourishes beyond my reach would that make it O.K. for my defendants to do as they very well please?

I ask earnestly and would appreciate an answer pithily lest this caffeinated cup of tear-drops loses all character.
I’ll have you know my tongue only appreciates painstakingly cultivated character,
in all hot beverages be they tall, thin, and wide or not at all in between either way from here to there.
In a matter of speaking.

So if you will without much further undue digress afford me singularly a response
Do not mind my feelings, truth is of the most – the utmost, I beg your pardon – validity.

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!

¿What’s the Equation for Digression?

Mathematics is an exact Science….

Tell that to my Fibonacci No.5 shoes which had to be tumble dried after several recently born kittens decided to have a party in the beautifully hand crafted work of wearable art.

… And there is only one correct solution to a correctly set question or puzzle.

Quite jubilent, considering.

Money on a park bench, what good fortune.

Baby in a stroller smiles at me,
what serenity,
and all packed so sweetly,
into such a tiny little body!

Kind old ladies sharing tales of the good times,
when they fell in love,
when they watched their kids, grow,

All delivered in a stream of nostalgia so infectious my own heart swells
like the clouds above,
raining down a shower of glorious emotions.

I cry with a smile on my face.

It’s moments like these when the pure value of life truly shines bright.

I say aah! to be the humming bird flying round and round a plump humming bird.

Such a transcending vision

I cry with my arms open.
Welcoming the world.

[And she built a bonfire to burn her Liar-Liar collection of 1970’s panties, they caught on fire rather quickly, adieu – she said – While dancing to a tape recording of Bach’s ironic harmonica concerto: Die Toten Honig Himmel]

But The Truth is Something Altogether Different

She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.

The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.

Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.

The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.

The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.

She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.

Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.

The Virus of life.

Be Happy.

I’ll See You In The Stars

Begin faded recountings of the fallen

Recollect most recent, or far beyond, the truth in breasted pocket

Think like a spider web trapped in a forest

Breathe fallen winter leaves where snow stares into the bosom of foggy mornings and grows blind under the nightly trickle of starlight

Bring with you a dozen teeth for the burial

Leave with you a hand severed from its marred arm

We cut to appease an ethereal enemy

We cry in bouts of triggernometry

Hammer by hammer until the bed sheet floats reachingly across the pool of this cinema nouveau

The hisspers begin:
“Exit here. Come out. Fear not. Come here.”