‘Chick-lit’ vs ‘farm-lit’. Look or behave?


    I’m not a ‘chick-lit girl‘, I’ve never pretended to be one, at all, as much as I did-not-try, I do not have humour enough to enjoy that creation, which it’s said to be dying, something hard to believe. 
Nevertheless, maybe, only maybe, I am in a mood to be a ‘farm-lit lady’.
Well, I guess my stilettos will remain as close as possible and, I promise, I won’t practise my knitting. Although here you find a pretty cool and joyeus outfit to wear a pair of Sorel or Timberland boots in its proper field.
Even thouh,or however, the idea of a slower life seems as interesting as hard-to-get-to-myself and what these heroins have on the base are the same desires as their predecessors (and, at least, they went clubbing).
    The thing is life in its stupid, cyclic, behave is nowadays turning me into a ‘slowmo‘ addict, with all the meaning you feel like giving to that!
Let’s display an example then,
    With January’s full moon the stork arrived to the church’s bell wall.  
In Spain it was used to said ‘Por San Blas, la cigüeña verás. Y si no la vieres, año de nieves‘. In case of any doubt, let me ilustrate you, S.Blas comes in February, so that the not so little animal came a bit earlier than usual. In fact, it was San Marcelo’s day, and knowing no rima – owed to my extremely limitated culture, of course- my mind comes out with ‘tócame el cello‘, I mean ‘por S.Marcelo‘, which, by the way, if it is Bach Cello Suite no.1, OoOr the ‘Add it up’ from Violent Femmes, by Richard Cheese, would be something really cool as well!
From that moment it is doing nothing but snowing. There you have the frozen stork at its not dressed in yet nest. The feathers stand on end because of that so icy wind.
With the white dawn she is already in the middle of the meadow dressed on snow, alone, one hour after another, feeding herself whereas it makes the most of it to put in home a part that fixed.
    My cat was excited, me myself was happy since what it represents are longer days, light, and a closer spring. 
But its cold makes my stomach smaller. It is quite ridicoulous, isn’t it?

I say, a matter of survival , let’s learn from that, I say.

       “When that slow-motion, silent explosion of love takes place in me, unfolding its melting fringes and overwhelming me with the sense of something much vaster, much more enduring and powerful than the accumulation of matter or energy in any imaginable cosmos, then my mind cannot but pinch itself to see if it is really awake.
    I have to make a rapid inventory of the universe, just as a man in a dream tries to condone the absurdity of his position by making sure he is dreaming. 
    I have to have all space and all time participate in my emotion, in my mortal love, so that the edge of its mortality is taken off, thus helping me to fight the utter degradation, ridicule, and horror of having developed an infinity of sensation and thought within a finite existence.”
                                                                                     Vladimir Nabokov. Poetry.


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