Today is a work day, inside and out, though I don’t know what jobs I will be tackling. Well, painting the fence, I think and maybe the deck floor – the little one right outside the porch door to the back yard. It’s an old-fashioned deck, grey, dontcha know, and one I put together myself because I was tired of the mud.

I need to declutter this porch, get it down to the bare bone – my kind of bare bones . . . in other words the clutter is hidden away. I don’t know what else I will be doing, but I suspect it will be dirty stuff, so I am glad my shirt is already dirty.

Cameron has got me reading The Idiot; I think again. But the first time was so long ago, I just don’t remember. I am not a fan of Russian literature. I keep thinking, “Will you get on with it . . . ” I have no idea how much the factor of translation influences my opinion, but I suspect it is significant. Of course, I often confuse literature and writing, the latter being, in the end, the words, the words that first linked you to others and thoughts. I guess the literature is the story and the symbolism – and crap – I sure do hate symbolism. Why don’t these high level authors write their own Cliff Notes: this is what I meant in three sentences instead of 500 pages? Essay exams would be so much easier.

Ha! Maybe an honest one would say, oh, it was just a story and people are drawing conclusions or hey, I was free associating.

Got to go – here comes Frank for his morning cola and foldover.