Happy Birthday

Belated birthday greetings to ghost_light.May you have had a good one.

Frankly Singing

Continuing the after midnight music theme here is one that i adore, to be Frank, it is from Sinatra and the song,is In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning.

Guten nacht.

Thunderous Jazz

Due to the thunderous lightning stormy night that is keeping me awake here is some not so thunderous but spiritual  jazz ,The Art Ensemble of Chicago and Toro -

Boom!

And Now After The Storm

Had a lie in due to the loud bangs last night. The dog next door was barking away merrily in the night whilst the storm was on. We had a short power cut too.


And now despite the storm it feels as though it has made no difference at all.I still feel sticky.

Dog Cycle

I just had to nab this from FB from my Northern Lights friends -

"Usually we aren't fans of the whole 'put a small dog into a container that is just about large enough to house the dog but small enough to make it practicable for a human to transport the dog at a pace more leisurely for the human, eliminating any delay that may be caused by the dog's shortness of leg' thing. But when it's the dog that works at Into You Tattoo Brighton, then we approve. Especially when he's rocking a hi-vis raincoat."



Ah so cute!

Auction and Derek Walcott

Done little today. I have had a bad headache this morning and hence decided to have some more sleep time. I also  restarted an E bay page to try to increase funds from the selling of  some items in an auction. Done twelve items so far starting at 99 p each which gives me free listing. Auction ends in 7 days ti me.

The auction is under the moniker jazzyd155.

This self promotion is not really my shtick, but if i don't do it, i will never find out if i have piqued some interest. .

. Almost finished reading the  Kurt Vonnegut SF novel "The Sirens Of Titan" , and that too may go to the auction.

Listening to the radio, a celebration of the Saint Lucian poet  Derek Walcott  who is now 84.

Here is one of his poems -

Sea Grapes
BY DEREK WALCOTT


That sail which leans on light,
tired of islands,
a schooner beating up the Caribbean

for home, could be Odysseus,
home-bound on the Aegean;
that father and husband's

longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is
like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name
in every gull's outcry.

This brings nobody peace. The ancient war
between obsession and responsibility
will never finish and has been the same

for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore
now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,
since Troy sighed its last flame,

and the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough
from whose groundswell the great hexameters come
to the conclusions of exhausted surf.

The classics can console. But not enough.