It's that time of the year again - summer.
Whenever it's not summer, I long for it, but when it actually arrives it's horrible. I sweat. I toss and turn in my sleep. I take my socks off in a final attempt to cool down, windows already open, batches of fresh water continually consumed in a never-ending thirst that doesn't seize until I sleep, a need and great greed of a breeze that'll ease me. I long for a heavy summer rain that'll sweep the heat and dust the streets and smell like freshly-mowed grass and damp asphalt rather than bad bath salts.
The concrete is concrete. It's hot. Hot hot hot. Sun's a blazing all over the place, from dawn till days end, painting my face red like the neighbors fence. And this is present tense.
My next door neighbor knocked on the door this morning. She held a jingle of keys in her hand - the keys to her house, told me she was going into emergency care - but she wouldn't be there long, and handed me the keys. Like a fool I said OK, and when she said bye I said bye, and she was off. I guess I could start each morning with some song practice, maybe that'd make me a bit more verbal in my spoken approach, not suddenly mute in incredulous surprise when conversations I am not expecting to partake in are suddenly initiated...
Have you ever watched the patterns of water falling into a frying pan, like when you wash it off under a faucet? It's pretty interesting. Not interesting with your average frying pan maybe, I don't know about their surface matter, but a frying pan in cast iron (I'd wish it was the average pan for everyone - everything weighs in it's favor- even the weight). The uneven surface texture causes the water to spread in intricate patterns, seeming to weave equally in all directions, choosing almost symmetrical paths - like a snowflake. It's beautiful.
I wonder how often the normal person, statistically, washes their clothes. Do they wait until they have very little clothes before they wash? Do they wash as soon as there is a sufficiant amount of dirty laundry to fill the machine? Do they gather together clothes that might not really need to be washed to fill a not-quite-full machine after having thought there'd be enough to fill it and realizing there was room left? Or maybe, most people don't really bother filling their machines all the way full. I wonder.
Those are some things I've been thinking about today. Now I think I'm going to go shower my head in less than optimally ice cold H20. It's a draw of words, a drought of worlds, a trot under burning embers and molten small things mauled in. Thirst.
