Skipper

I can feel my mood for daily blogging ebbing away.
I can sense the pile of fabric on the bedroom floor will not be attractive at all in the morning.
I am irritated by the rapid, rabid click from the tinny little speakers from Casa da Chîne.
I am grateful for the chiller, cooling this Portuguese, July night.
So lucky to have lemons for my evening tea. “Remember to eat more lemons.” The Boom girl advised the flaky old bird; pale and wobbly after too much sun, too much weed and too little water. “One little bottle every half an hour.”
So pleased with my sour dough, bubbling with life, even in the fridge. Sour Dough Bread, integral; the depth of taste; the very height of taste.
On the bread, the fresh and crunchy, chewy, flavoursome bread; on the slices I spread Hummous, Patê de Grão; azeite, sésamo e mais limões…made today, made by me.

I can only speak for myself. About how my heart hardened one year ago. I became a whole bunch more cynical, more care-worn, paranoid, edgy, bored, past it. Too past it to buy a Boom ticket for the first time in 10 years.
Full Moon, luminous tonight – the last one before Boom. The volunteers and builders, the painters and sculptors, the sewers, gardeners and electricians – they’ll be dancing under the Hay Moon tonight, I guarantee.
This year Reverence bows out the summer. Bowing out with reverence seems appropriate, fair enough indeed.

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