Summertime in a climate privileged location doesn't mean krayt spit when your house is a godless two-in-one solar convection oven / shack. It’s been consistently about 80(f) and over during the day inside.
I try to pretend I am in Miami again. That doesn't help much. Miami is even more godless than this place.
And have I been showing signs of the heat stress? Oh, you bet!
All the things loose their meaning when the body must focus extensively on maintaining homeostasis.
Even grief turns into a distant ooze.
I was going to write about the sudden death of beloved Sir Not-Calling-Himself-Nigel, Sam Neill– the New Zealand actor. He was such a good egg, and a wealth of inspiration. He didn't know me, I didn't know him, but I am grateful for the work he left behind. His Merlin is the bestest Merlin, his several psychotic characters live in my happy place along with Hannibal Lecter because he made them just as memorable. He was always a cozy presence to me; even when proving his acting range extended to utterly deranged.
Then more parts of my brain melted and were carried away by ants so that was as far as I got with that.
It's not like I can just leave the house and visit every air conditioned OXXO up and down the boulevard either, you know. I have an elder person to mind. An elder person who touches everything and doesn't wash their hands. An elder person constantly refuses to drink in the oppressive heat. And I have to convince them to stop closing the windows and doors. They would rather make everyone swelter than leave windows open because somehow the cats are going to get out of screened windows. Everything must be closed! Or the cats will get out! The cats can, in no way, get out through these screens.
I can imagine how upset and obstinate they would be if an air conditioning unit was installed. The complaints about being too cold would be constant. It would be a endless fight to keep it turned on.
I don’t want to be accused of criminal negligence, but– wow. It’s a challenge.
I, myself feel criminally neglected here...
It's like am living in a Sam Beckett play. I understand Russian literature, deeply. The Hundred Years of Solitude is fully comprehended. Butoh is not difficult grasp. The House of Leaves– no, I never got to read that one but–
My lot is such a clown show of suffering. I cosplay Artaud and Kafka without chest binding and/or tailored suits. But if I could dress those parts, in this heat, that would add so much quality suffering to my efforts at being taken as seriously as other men are. Gods know how much I need more suffering to compound my current suffering to prove that I am suffering enough to merit anyone's graces. Am I being facetious loud enough?
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