Sadly, another heat wave is expected through the middle of the coming week. My brain will be barely recovered from its previous frying, and now is bound to fry again. Since I survived the last one, I suppose I can survive this one, though I expect that each one will get more difficult a the summer proceeds. It's like getting punched. You're okay until you're not, and then you're unconscious. I wonder if I'll see little birds flying around my head, the way cartoon characters do? Probably not.
It was nice to take a shower and not get sweaty again in half an hour or less. It was also nice to mostly ignore most of the wretched news I barely glanced at on the Internets today. I do believe Americans have gone into full self-destruct mode. I'm reminded again of former Mexican dictator Diaz's observation back in far more placid times: "Poor Mexico. So far from God, so near the United States." Poor everybody on a planet where the leading power has not only slipped into incompetence, but has also decided to go batshit crazy.
For the last couple of hours each time I've gone into my back yard I'v heard a couple having a conversation on the other side of the fence. If my hearing was still any good I could eavesdrop and know what they are talking about, but since the tone has been moderate, with occasional chuckles, I'm guessing it's pleasant. I figure they are probably homeless, since I can't see any other reason for them to be hinging out on a deserted bike trail in the middle of the night, but at least they seem to be having a good time. I'm glad somebody is.
Sunday Verse
Lazybones
by Pablo Neruda
They will continue wandering,
these things of steel among the stars,
and weary men will still go up
to brutalize the placid moon.
There, they will found their pharmacies.
In this time of the swollen grape,
the wine begins to come to life
between the sea and the mountain ranges.
In Chile now, cherries are dancing,
the dark mysterious girls are singing,
and in guitars, water is shining.
The sun is touching every door
and making wonder of the wheat.
The first wine is pink in colour,
is sweet with the sweetness of a child,
the second wine is able-bodied,
strong like the voice of a sailor,
the third wine is a topaz, is
a poppy and fire in one.
My house has both the sea and the earth,
my woman has great eyes
the colour of wild hazelnut,
when night comes down, the sea
puts on a dress of white and green,
and later the moon in the spindrift foam
dreams like a sea-green girl.
I have no wish to change my planet.
