Let’s have some more Cavafy, shall we? His words come across so excellently in English, one must wonder how beautiful they must be in their native Greek! It’s enough to make a gardener want to learn another language.
You’ll often find this as “Body, Remember” or “Remember, Body” depending on the translation, but I’m pretty sure the correct title is this one:
Sweden is home to many lovely people and many deranged ideas. The Swedish town of Övertorneå, located near the Finnish border and meaning “Upper Torneå” rather than referring to an eye injury as your host still strongly suspects, includes less than 5000 people, one of whom brought attention to his home with an odd proposal.
Or proposition, perhaps.
Councilman Per-Erik Muskos introduced an idea to the town council for a new perk for all 550 city employees: they would be allowed 1 hour per week to go home and have sex. Naturally it got a lot of attention all over the country, and generated all sorts of commentary – for, against, and straight-up humorous.
The first thing to occur to your humble host, after easily predicting the various reactions, was that Sweden already has a startlingly large collection of time-not-working benefits, and this is another. Also that the number of people working for the town is about 1/8 of the people actually in the town.
The links above are to Swedish-language newspapers, so for the benefit of all here (one hopes for Swedish readership but does not necessarily have it yet), here is the New York Times article on the subject. I tried mightily to excerpt properly the most entertaining bits of the thing, but it’s too scattered. You’ll need to go read it yourself.
We recently had a quote from relatively new poet Sanober Khan. Influenced by Rumi, Gibran, Cummings, she is clearly a poet your host will love to read.
Here’s an example. Her books should grace the Villa’s shelves shortly, I think.
It was not neglect (exactly) that kept your humble host from making some post on Valentine’s Day, though his distaste for what it has become has been well-documented, but rather a collection of duties and necessities that have not a thing to do with love, romance, or any such pleasantness.
You have my apologies for the terrible timing. I’ll stay more on top of things, from now on.
Or that’s the plan, anyway.
She comes not when Noon is on the roses–
Too bright is Day.
She comes not to the Soul till it reposes
From work and play.
But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices
Roll in from Sea,
By starlight and candle-light and dreamlight
She comes to me.
Perhaps you can; your humble host finds one of its variations hard to resist.