Illusive Yellow Blob

As you might surmise, the title of this post refers to a shy creature. The sun. It has finally put in an appearance and people seem to be slightly more relaxed and less wet.

The garden; a public park maintained by ants 

There is a way of writing which is sometimes described as a stream of consciousness, issued from a disembodied soul. The love song of j Alfred Prufrock might have been one such poem. I am disembodied, metaphorically but conscious; this makes no sense. Who cares, life is a bit dadaistic too. All you want to see are the pictures, I get that. Here are three.

Choosing flowers and peppers and tomatoes and stuff for the porch, Oh yea

As far as what has been happening in my life, all remains like the recent bull-run in Pamplona. Everybody got stuck in the main gate-way to the bullring. Including the bull who was floating amid a swathe of human bodies. His expression seemed to say; life is a river of incomprehensible violence, mitigated by our misunderstanding of everything. But of course, mitigated is not the right word. 

  

Red handed; it´s a fair cop guvna

Incidentally the red part of the red handed is cement dye. It´s very difficult to remove from anything and everything. So my house contents and biological appendages are all red like the town in "pale rider" in which Clint made everybody paint the town red. Good joke.

The art of sleep; part 6

Man with a mission

What technique!!! Starting to manage with the left foot too, with the help of expert supervision. His trainer is looking on admiringly in the background

Stadium of flowers

Had a party subsequent to taking these pictures. I was too busy being polite to take any more photos at the time though. Pity. Still, the party was a big success, lots of people from the school, somebody from the university, Jacky's godparents and families, neighbours....and more.

San Juan, Spanish bonfire night

Today's poem:

The Geography of the House

(for Christopher Isherwood)

Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.

Sex is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.

Lifted off the potty,
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.

Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.

All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.

Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.

Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.

Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.

(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)

Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be. 

WH Auden