It rains here. In fact it has been raining most of the summer. kinda reminds one of the first time I heard something about this weather. The weather is a gí¼ero thing. Though I veer off. “Welcome to the Swedish summer” was the greeting that carried a couple of whiskey glasses and a few beer cans up in the air. I suspected it said more than it meant. Some sayings take years to understand and now, 5 years later, I understand. This summer has been drenched and cool and cloudy, grey, breeze, wet, full of moist everywhere. Just the way I like it. I live in the Swedish Highlands. The trees, the grass, the leafs anything green thrives here. It looks fresh, verde, el verde mojado me gusta un harto, me encanta, es por eso que ver todo lo verde verde mojado es alentador, maybe its the irish in me. Who knows. Pero me gusta. I wasn’t ever much of a sun lover, in fact suntanning wasn’t my major thing in Aztlán. Though I saw it millions of times and stood still while the hordes stampeded in craze at the in thing I just sort of stared in wonder.
So yeah, my summer has had many a good day with fog as a greeter in the morn. Banks of clouds I saw a many time through my window in my house that has a view, if I may inventory the landscape, a field where some kind of farming undergoes. I know because every now and then a stench of porcine piss manages to jolt my olfactory senses. The horizon is covered with pine trees, birch trees and what not, loads of forest around here. So the banks of clouds roll eerily by patches that can be seen through my window. The Highlands, it sparks the imagination and yeah, those Beowulf tales seem to draw the source of its unfoldings.