The rude in rudimentary

So this is August. It's a shame the accent isn't on the second syllable. I might be dining with a Swedish Princess.

Spiritual Lethargy

The sky is restless again. Will it rain, will it thunder, will it fall on our heads. The World Health Organisation knows. Who knows?

Theoretically, this should be a nice relaxing month for me. And indeed it's not been too bad so far. I have been catching up on my translation work, trying to finish off varnishing the windows, making sure the entire house isn't eaten by termites, ants and mice and tending my flowers. The lovely neighbours have also removed about 5, 000 square kilometres of tropical rain forest and and blackberries from the garden which had almost been subsumed under a canopy of tendrils.

The Jungle Without

 This picture looks much nicer on my phone. There are lots of screaming colours. If you look in the background outside the porch, you will see the Amazon. This is prior to the napalm.

Flower Power

These, as I'm sure you know, are petunias. They are very pretty.

I have been painting dirty walls today. I have given a couple of classes, I have had a siesta, varnished again. I went to bed with Sonia, Roskolnikov and some very colourful people. My book, which I have to confess is taking me ages to finish; Crime and Punishment by JK Rowling. Just testing.

The Wages of Sin

Here is a synopsis for people who have never read a book or read the daily mail (Same socio-demographic-only joking again). Upper class pompous self-righteous individual has an existential crisis and decides to kill somebody. He does so and feels remorse. He becomes even more mentally ill. His doting mother and sister come to see him in his garret. There are bad people trying to marry his sister. But they have a lot of money. He has a faithful friend. There is a policeman who is probably very astute.

This is a resume of the first two thirds of the book.

Epidermal Macabre

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost. 

Theodore Roethke