Hairy’s quite hefty on my mind today, not in a good or even naughty kind of way, I wouldn’t ever dare to elaborate that line of thinking out loud here, but hairy as in the gruesome creature that started to gnaw and nibble on the roof insulation above our heads, just about when we were both drifting of in a world where things don’t break down by itself just because we now own them fully, seeing that even landowners need to sleep, but in this case not seeing nor respecting would be a far more accurate description of the scenes that followed, involving young Mec waking up and adding more stress to the proceedings, that were complicated enough as is, balancing with a broom while frantically trying to erase the image of that behemoth leg we both saw clawing its way through a crack.
Besides any cliche I’m sure can be stuck on this new episode, I loath this continuing saga of biblical plagues that are hitting our p’tit domaine like never before, the discomfort of sleeping on the floor downstairs, with lucky young Mec cosy and warm on the couch we giants wouldn’t fit on if we tried, so we were designated to use his multiple dog beds as to at least somewhat protect our tired old bones on this Long Day’s Journey into Night, the title spinning through my head to an extend of actually having to look up the summary for O’neill’s play, in search of the parallels that in nights like these are not only numerous but surprisingly easy to find by simply quoting Wikipedia: ‘The pain of this family is made worse by their depth of self-understanding and self-analysis, combined with a brutal honesty, as they see it, and an ability to boldly express themselves.’
Ivory’s ability to boldly express himself demanded a shower he had to take elsewhere, and who could blame him after days of only pta’s, as an American friend referred to it using the washing facilities in the chateau we stayed at when she visited, always critically lacking hot water in the showers. Pits, tits and ass, ladies and gentlemen, when forced to live the spartan way.
My oldest ruse to find comfort and reference in beauty outside, led my eyes to the amazingly almost blooming Borage, about as hairy as hairy gets.
