Storytellers, storysingers, only spin their tales while the snow falls. That’s the way it’s done. The Indians of North America are very careful about this matter of stories. They say that while stories are being told, plants don’t pay attention to growing and birds forget to feed their young… Eduardo Galeano
Without so much as even a whisper summer arrived today completely unannounced. It was as if all of the wet and moist and the rain and the weeks of clouds and the cold were swept away in a single backhand of Marduk.
Today we awoke to the first day of summer, emphatically stated by a blazing blue sky and 25C temperatures. And like iron filings to a magnet we found ourselves compelled to sip iced lemonade and caesars off the back roof. Reading to each other passages of Nin, and Galeano.
Like a bad reproduction of a classic painting we sit under parasol hats and baseball caps – listening as pods of unmufflered motorcycles parade by on the street out front.
In the Guarani language, ne’e means both “word” and “soul”.
The Guarani Indians believe that those who lie or squander words betray the soul.” Eduardo Galeano
I’m old enough to remember when the sun never nipped like this before the beginning of August; old enough to remember when my mother remarked that as a little girl, the sun never nipped at all.
Her father, my grandfather, by then an old Mohawk Indian that I had never really known, once proclaimed (while we stacked hay at the farm) that bad times were coming.
And sure enough his words came true.
For not long after my grandfather left us, the poisoned rains came, and all the lakes began to die, and the soil started to blow away.