No, I really did not imagine good old
Michail Gorbatchev as being an Idiot. It just so happened that I wanted to take
a photo of my little pap maché model, one of those Russian babushka type dolls
where they all fit into each other, that he was positioned in front of that
book. The smallest in this series was Lenin and the top man was Gorbatchev. It
was a gift from Russia from one of my colleagues in my Russian language class
given to me some time in the nineties, when he was the boss. With my artistic
creative spirit I posed him in front of my German edition of The Idiot by
Dostoewsky, although perhaps a better choice would have been Crime and
Punishment. To compensate we have the German edition of Get Even by Woody Allen
next to this book, which I have never read, have no intention to read and Mr.
Swiss even asked me “Where did we get that book?” Woody Allen is not No. 1 in
our authors.
Book covers no longer exist in my world of literature. Most of the books enclosed in their artistic designs are in the hobby room in the cellar, some paperbacks in bright colours and graphic designs and others more hard covers, slowly yellowing with age covered with a few coffee stains, or – oh horror - perhaps something resembling a nicotine mark (from my earlier smoking days). A Kindle entered my literary world a couple of years ago, and my books now look alike, encased in a plastic flat pack with pages to flip by a lever at the side. My Kindle is an older version, but I did not bother to modernise it. A Kindle app exists on my iPad, illuminated from a mysterious background light, and handy to hold. Many are the evenings I relax in my stressless chair, or outside on the porch, reading my Kindle. Books are cumbersome. I have to use energy to turn pages and use an old fashioned invention called “bookmark” to find where I stopped the evening before. All I do now is open my Kindle and I am where I left it, no problem. In this case there is no longer judging a book by its cover, as they all have the same cover known as Kindle.
If we go into the metaphorical state of affairs, that is too high for my weakened golden oldie brain. If you coincidentally saw me walking along the street, you would be impressed, fascinated by my aura, youwould might
judge me as being super-intelligent, interesting and definitely having a
radiation of good vibes. You only have to see my perfect photo on my WordPress
page. Just imagine this week I was even cloned on Facebook, I was deemed worthy
of a second identical page. Unfortunately this caused quite a sensation, my son
calling me from Montenegro (where?) and I immediately thought it was a
Montenegroen that was guilty. My son was on a business visit, one of those work
things that some people do, but deemed it important enough to tell his mum that
her Facebook page was doing strange things. I was telling everyone to re-adopt
me, that they would become rich, and all sorts of interesting facts. My son
reported this to Facebook, called me and after a day of excitement, confused
friends and friends of friends, everything was settled and Facebook cancelled
my cloned page. I bathed in the light of fame for half a day. My Facebook
contacts realised I was there, although it was not me. Needless to say I had
only one wish for the person that caused this dilemma “may the fleas of a thousand camels infest the crotch of the person
that screwed up my day and may their arms be too short to scratch” and guess what, I found that in Facebook as
well.
I do not judge a book by its cover, literally or metaphorically. I choose books generally by reading the critics and keeping in touch with the latest titles and new authors. You can never judge a person by the appearance, for me they have to have a certain attraction which I cannot even put into words.
This morning I had a problem of judging things by how they look. Actually it began yesterday when I noticed a sore part on my left ring finger, next to the nail. With bravery I pressed my lips together to ward off the pain and saw that indeed on the right side of the nail there was an inflammation. I remained cool and found some sort of ointment to linder the problem. During the evening the swelling moved to below the nail. Needless to say, I did not have a relaxing sleep, I was worried, had visions of a finger amputation and blood poisoning. The decision whether to have a burial or cremation was becoming a realistic choice.
This morning I discovered that my finger was still glowing in red and it was still sore. Today is Sunday and the doctors are resting. I remained calm. I cleaned the apartment, took a shower and called my doctor where there was a telephone number for emergencies. I decided this was an emergency. I only have one ring finger on the right hand. The emergency number led to the ER in the local hospital, what fun. Mr. Swiss said he would accompany me and he drove me to the hospital. I eventually found myself in a waiting room with a few suspected broken and injured feet, an annoying cough which might have been swamp fever, and me with my sore and throbbing finger nail. I decided this would need patience, so Mr. Swiss departed for a coffee and I began to search for one of those George Clooney lookalike doctors. There were none, but after an hour it was my turn.
Coincidentally Mr. Swiss appeared on the scene and sat with me at the consultation. The doctor examined my finger, it was an infection. He described what could happen if it was neglected – abscess, blood poisoning, the whole enchilada, but he decided it was not so bad and gave me a special ointment to pull out the poison, resemblng motor oil, brown and drippy. I was also told to bathe the finger twice a day in kamillosan, which is an extract from the Camomile flowers, quite well known in our country. I remembered we had a bottle somewhere in a cupboard at home. I believe the last time I used it was for one of my felines where she had a scratch from a colleague feline: the result of a territorial fight.
I eventually arrived home with Mr. Swiss and cooked lunch. Needless to say I spent more than a happy hour relaxing afterwards. So, there you have it, it was not so bad after all. The finger is still red, a little swollen, but as you can see I can type with it. The doc did say if it turns worse, then to visit tomorrow and he will dose me up with antibiotics, but I am still alive. He was not the George Clooney lookalike I hoped for, so I probably will be on the way to the ER tomorrow. Tomorrow is a national holiday, Whit Monday, and I do not intend to spend it in the ER at the local hospital.
So it was not so bad after all, red and swollen on the surface, but below one of the healthiest fingers alive - I hope.
Book covers no longer exist in my world of literature. Most of the books enclosed in their artistic designs are in the hobby room in the cellar, some paperbacks in bright colours and graphic designs and others more hard covers, slowly yellowing with age covered with a few coffee stains, or – oh horror - perhaps something resembling a nicotine mark (from my earlier smoking days). A Kindle entered my literary world a couple of years ago, and my books now look alike, encased in a plastic flat pack with pages to flip by a lever at the side. My Kindle is an older version, but I did not bother to modernise it. A Kindle app exists on my iPad, illuminated from a mysterious background light, and handy to hold. Many are the evenings I relax in my stressless chair, or outside on the porch, reading my Kindle. Books are cumbersome. I have to use energy to turn pages and use an old fashioned invention called “bookmark” to find where I stopped the evening before. All I do now is open my Kindle and I am where I left it, no problem. In this case there is no longer judging a book by its cover, as they all have the same cover known as Kindle.
If we go into the metaphorical state of affairs, that is too high for my weakened golden oldie brain. If you coincidentally saw me walking along the street, you would be impressed, fascinated by my aura, you
I do not judge a book by its cover, literally or metaphorically. I choose books generally by reading the critics and keeping in touch with the latest titles and new authors. You can never judge a person by the appearance, for me they have to have a certain attraction which I cannot even put into words.
This morning I had a problem of judging things by how they look. Actually it began yesterday when I noticed a sore part on my left ring finger, next to the nail. With bravery I pressed my lips together to ward off the pain and saw that indeed on the right side of the nail there was an inflammation. I remained cool and found some sort of ointment to linder the problem. During the evening the swelling moved to below the nail. Needless to say, I did not have a relaxing sleep, I was worried, had visions of a finger amputation and blood poisoning. The decision whether to have a burial or cremation was becoming a realistic choice.
This morning I discovered that my finger was still glowing in red and it was still sore. Today is Sunday and the doctors are resting. I remained calm. I cleaned the apartment, took a shower and called my doctor where there was a telephone number for emergencies. I decided this was an emergency. I only have one ring finger on the right hand. The emergency number led to the ER in the local hospital, what fun. Mr. Swiss said he would accompany me and he drove me to the hospital. I eventually found myself in a waiting room with a few suspected broken and injured feet, an annoying cough which might have been swamp fever, and me with my sore and throbbing finger nail. I decided this would need patience, so Mr. Swiss departed for a coffee and I began to search for one of those George Clooney lookalike doctors. There were none, but after an hour it was my turn.
Coincidentally Mr. Swiss appeared on the scene and sat with me at the consultation. The doctor examined my finger, it was an infection. He described what could happen if it was neglected – abscess, blood poisoning, the whole enchilada, but he decided it was not so bad and gave me a special ointment to pull out the poison, resemblng motor oil, brown and drippy. I was also told to bathe the finger twice a day in kamillosan, which is an extract from the Camomile flowers, quite well known in our country. I remembered we had a bottle somewhere in a cupboard at home. I believe the last time I used it was for one of my felines where she had a scratch from a colleague feline: the result of a territorial fight.
I eventually arrived home with Mr. Swiss and cooked lunch. Needless to say I spent more than a happy hour relaxing afterwards. So, there you have it, it was not so bad after all. The finger is still red, a little swollen, but as you can see I can type with it. The doc did say if it turns worse, then to visit tomorrow and he will dose me up with antibiotics, but I am still alive. He was not the George Clooney lookalike I hoped for, so I probably will be on the way to the ER tomorrow. Tomorrow is a national holiday, Whit Monday, and I do not intend to spend it in the ER at the local hospital.
So it was not so bad after all, red and swollen on the surface, but below one of the healthiest fingers alive - I hope.
I used to read a lot, but rarely find the time these days. I have to say that on the odd occasions I do find time I still prefer the feel of a real book.
ReplyDeleteSorry to hear about your finger. I hope Monday finds it feeling a lot better.