Monday or Tuesday

This is my first post after months (literally months) trying to write something substantial here. I had left my original blog URL and that has caused a sort of hard time for some readers to find me on the web. I've gone through a lot and that is pretty much what I can say about my days down here in Brazil. I'm way glad to have recovered my old posts. I'm pleased with my new template (Lori said good things about it too. "YAY!"). I'd rather publish daily posts from now on but I am still not able to do that because my teaching duties seem to never end. I've been working at a frantic pace, about 14 hours a day, and my head spins just like tops sometimes. I went through meds and I still take some food supplements just to cope with this crazy load of work. My responsibilities have doubled... no no no tripled now. The best thing is that I am NOT complaining. I'm just excusing myself since I have not written a word since two months ago. The excess of work does not bother me at all. It just leads me to a madness for not finding time to dedicate to my writings like I used to. Regardless, I always find time for some reading. I've copied and pasted one of my favorite on this very post. Here's a "short" by Virginia Wolf and I hope someone likes it. I'll be back folks... I'll post more... I'll say it all.

Monday or Tuesday
by Virginia Woolf (1882–1941)

LAZY and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever——

Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, for ever desiring—(a cry starts to the left, another to the right. Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses conglomerate in conflict)—for ever desiring—(the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that it is midday; light sheds gold scales; children swarm)—for ever desiring truth. Red is the dome; coins hang on the trees; smoke trails from the chimneys; bark, shout, cry “Iron for sale”—and truth?

Radiating to a point men’s feet and women’s feet, black or gold-encrusted—(This foggy weather—Sugar? No, thank you—The commonwealth of the future)—the firelight darting and making the room red, save for the black figures and their bright eyes, while outside a van discharges, Miss Thingummy drinks tea at her desk, and plate-glass preserves fur coats——

Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled—and truth?

Now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble. From ivory depths words rising shed their blackness, blossom and penetrate. Fallen the book; in the flame, in the smoke, in the momentary sparks—or now voyaging, the marble square pendant, minarets beneath and the Indian seas, while space rushes blue and stars glint—truth? content with closeness?

Lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.