in the electric dusk

Here, have a small frog. The pond at Sherlock's school is full of them, in varying sizes from about half the size of this one to two or three times his size. Or her size. I have no idea how to tell male frogs from female frogs.




L gave me a lesson on bike repair today. He may have to go over some of the finer points again, because mainly what I learned was that he looks very good covered in grease and grinning ear to ear. Which is also useful information to have. And possibly relevant, since we might manage our honeymoon next week

And have another poem:

Heat
by Denis Johnson

Here in the electric dusk your naked lover

 tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth. 

It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin, 

Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,

streaming with hatred in the heat 

as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin 

to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones, 

and such a last light—full of spheres and zones. 

August, you're just an erotic hallucination, 

just so much feverishly produced kazoo music, 

are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night, 

this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion, 

the bogus moon of tenderness and magic 

you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?

--

If I'd read this a few months ago, every post would've been titled 'this large oven impersonating night'. Although, no, it was really too wet for that. This large steam room impersonating night doesn't sound nearly as good. The heat seems so far off now with autumn winding around the trees and a genuine chill in the air at night and everything tilting toward winter. I like the heat better than most, I think, but this is my favourite time.