Earlier this week we celebrated National Poetry Week, and while I missed out, here, belatedly, is my contribution: Dame Edith Sitwell intoning her hypnotic "Through Gilded Trellises" against Sir William Waton's evocative, spare music from Facade.
To me this evokes the languor of hot weather (and believe me, after that many years in the Sandlands, around here we know from hot weather) better than almost anything I know. Reading this poem without knowing Dame Edith's own particular rhythm and diction (DO-lo-rees, particularly) strips it of much of its impact, but once heard, it's almost impossible to think of in any other terms.
I feel like it's been a while since I mentioned the once-vexing question of my health, and I'm happy to say that on that front, all is very well indeed. I'm now down nearly seventy (!) pounds and still enjoying - to an extent I would once have found inconceivable - my new way of eating and living. I see Kevin-My-Trainer weekly every Sunday morning, and every day I walk to the station* (a brisk mile and a half) and somedays even home, too. Some lingering discomfort and a tendency to tire quickly aside, I can say I've not felt better in a very long time. So that's something to celebrate this holiday weekend, whatever we think of that pesky Genoan.
It's been a busy few days - hence the radio silence hereabouts - but I can't say toward any particular purpose; even so, I'm luxuriating in a thoroughly lazy three-day weekend, although whether in honor of Sig. Colombo or his indigenous
Any big doings in your part of the world?
* Never without the phrase "with her suitcase / In her ha-a-a-a-nd" popping to mind, thereby ensuring that particular ear worm sticks with me, often until I've reached my desk downtown.