Hot.

Too hot. I haven't been here because it's been too hot. The romantic notion of living in an attic and writing is charming--but not when the temperature is screaming past 85 degrees with no signs of slowing down and the humidity is being ladled through every open window. Confession: not only am I an insufferable snob, I'm a temperature wuss. I become like a one-celled animal with a four word basic need: Find. Bearable. Temperature. Now. It's the oddest thing--one can take a shower, turn off the water, dry and dry and dry; use towel after towel after towel, nothing happens! You are as wet outside the shower as you were in! Why bother?

Sometime next week I'll be on the road though, air-conditioner full blast, and listening primarily to Scandanavian composers to drop the temperature even lower. I'm looking forward to Colorado (maybe a side-trip to New Mexico) where they complain if the humidity is over 10%. I can take the heat (altogether now!), it's the humidity, the humidity, the humidity, the unbearable, ubiquitous, cruel, suffocating, heartless humidity that takes you down. Instead of Hell being hot, or as Dante portrayed it, cold; Hell must be humid, and the more damned you are the more the humidity.

Reduced to talking about the weather. That's how low my creativity has sunk. This mad planet and its mad inhabitants are going about unspeakable wickedness, and I'm sitting here stewing about (and in) humidity. Says something, doesn't it?

HOT. HUMID.

Sometimes I Wonder.