All I want to do is sit out on the back porch with the finches and breezes and swinging chimes, snacking on hummus and reading escapist novelsâ€“ but I’m chased indoors by the broiling sun.
To work. Preserved byÂ air conditioning and sucking down jars of cold water.
Just now a voracious gust attempted to yank the propped screen door offÂ its hinges. ThenÂ suddenly everything is still, heart-shaped moonflower leaves swaying as if spent.
I’m worrying my tomatoes may never ripen this year. It’s been unseasonably cool.
Another year and I long for the abundance of garden tomatoes in the Augusts of my childhoodâ€“fat slices sluiced with balsamic vinegar and olive olive and scattered with black pepper and scissor-cut basil.
Hell, as that single searing jaunt through the Mojave Desert in the middle of July in a Renault Le Car sans AC attested, would be hot.
Under general heat advisory, Floyd and I hunker down inside next to the single chuggingÂ window unit. We maintain a cooler distance than usual, minimizing unnecessary activity.Â Larger mass of water consumption is notable on both our parts.
Lesson of the day: when the hot, grim, viral apocalypse descends, warlord kings will command access to clean, fresh water.
Which only makes the entire sold-out state of Michigan’s surrounding lakesÂ so doom-drenched. Our largest Great Lake, so deeply voluminous and stormy clearâ€“ expendable in the name of commerce and industry.
I have American History X out from Netflix. I’ve ordered itÂ for some reason (Ed Norton), having recalled it (Ed Norton) as brilliant (Ed Norton) if nigh-unbearably grim, which today I think perhaps I should forego, for all the (sigh) Ed Norton.
I have that squeaky-sinus thing, summer cold, yadda yadda, and it’s making me cranky. The spouse grows weary of my standard litany of plaint.
The aging, freon-scented window unit keeps things bearable in darkenedÂ rooms. Cicadas revs up for August.
I have decided to stop giving away good work for free. Let’s call it cranky and angry and be done with it.
I flop down on the unmade bed and lie texting confessional Facebook posts and then deleting them. It bugsÂ me that Facebook makes it a fucking labyrinthine puzzle to figure out how to set my privacy settings so that certain people can see absolutely nothing about me or my life, motherfuckers.
Any minute now my nostril’s gonna squeak again.
Also I’ve wept about four times already today. Woo.
sunny warmer late spring days mean basking, face up, eyes closed out on the back porch.
container garden in the works…
sitting in the sundazzle and painting toenails with ridiculous sparkly colors is requisite…
as is lots of tasty grilling…