The month is half-gone and I have yet to post a damned word. I find nothing of sufficient interest to merit my own notice, let alone yours.
It has been a very windy, dirty two weeks. Actual dunelets of windborne dust appear daily on the floors, along with leaves, dead insects, bougainvillea blossoms. Several times a day, I shake out my bed coverlet and sweep the bedroom floor. The dust is prodigious! The wind continues through the night, which finds me nose-deep in polvo when I wake up. The wind keeps both the heat and the mosquitoes at bay, so there is an upside to all the grit and dust that blankets everything.
Some of my time has been occupied with sorting out tax forms and retirement savings. I spent a whole morning in Diriamba walking from one "Fax Available" storefront to the next, only to find not one functioning machine.
Reading remains my salvation. The four Neapolitan novels of Elena Ferrante are packed with the denizens of a single neighborhood; their entanglements with good and ill fortune and each other are absorbing and shocking in equal measure. Now I am halfway through "The Door," by Magda Szabo, which has apparently become a Helen Mirren film. Yum.
This Sunday, I have a ticket to see "Turandot" in the Ruben Dario National Theatre in Managua. I think it is a local production with lead singers imported from Italy. Report to follow.
Word from Pennsylvania regarding my house sale is depressing beyond belief. Not only does no one want to buy it, but someone has helped himself to the copper piping. This definitely was not part of the plan. I begin to understand why so many houses fall into neglect. People work rather diligently to forget they ever existed.
Have a fine Turandot!
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