I’m back from Austin and am fighting off a jet lag-induced cold. I’ve been meaning to finish several posts that I have in the works but haven’t been able to get together the motivation to lift myself off of the couch towards a cold, dead notebook. It is definitely still summer in South Africa but the transatlantic flip from summer to winter and back has left my immune system dented. So in lieu of actual content I’ll hand over to Frank O’Hara[1]

July is over and there’s very little trace
of it, though the Bastille fell on its face–

and August’s gotten orange, it will drop on
the edge of the world like a worm-eaten sun.

The trees are taking off their leaves. So
the purity of the streets is coming, low

in white waves. In summer I got good and sunburnt,
winter, so I wouldn’t miss the wet brunt

of your storms. Then it was sand from the surf
in my bathing trunks; now snow fills up my scarf.

Frank O’Hara

[1]The image he was most enamored of was his own – sound familiar?