This and that and rain . . . and a lot of it.

I don’t understand the significance of this still-life either. Perhaps it came about as a subconscious symbol of the month of July.

As some of you know, I’m reading Ulysses by James Joyce. It’s going slowly because life around here has sped up lately. James Joyce often writes in stream-of-consciousness style. This means he tries to put into words all the impressions that flit through the human mind as he walks through the day. It’s challenging to read this style of writing, so most people never make it past page 3 or 4. (In Joyce fiction, a 24-hour period equals 789 pages.)

Stuff happened while I was absent from this blog. Since I use this as my personal record of what’s going on in my life, I thought I’d give Joyce’s style a go as I mentally review the past month. Rather than 24 hours equaling 789 pages, though, my formula will be: 30 days = 150 words.

Visitors: Sister Elaine; hot, humid, original art hung. Great food at Sena, but pricey. Greg’s Katy with summer cold in hot, humid, rainy weather. Brother Lee building cabin, Sheboygan art show. Rain, hot, humid. Josh and Brenda get-away; farmer’s market iced coffee. Humid, hot. Sun!

Hasty hailstorm. New roof. Dented cars. Standing water for mosquitoes. Broken stems. Humid. Hot.

Albany-WI: Jake’s new dog. Ripping up carpet (unrelated to dog). Fence for running. Rain, humid, hot. Scraping glue. Hands numb. Apple green fence, sassy.

Em and Ben move; Minneapolis to St. Paul upper. Hot. Humid. Raining.

Pulled muscle. Bottled relaxants. Humid, hot, raining. Sleep wet and fan-windy. Psychologist dismisses. Well?

No camping. Greg’s days off hot, humid, raining. Cycle rides between storms. Dreading August 1st work in PA.

Work on photos, memoir. Silence at Susan’s. Earl the cat. Sheet cake spells birtday.

Hospice today. Clock says move. Rabbits and woodchucks grazing outside window. Wish I were one. Humid, hot, raining.