Journal

August

The sun pounds the earth into a dustbowl. The grass turns to straw. In a town known for its brutal summers, it’s now the hottest, driest August on record.

A friend called today, asked if he could stop by and chat. I’ve known him since we were teenagers. Pulls up a chair and says, “my mom died this weekend”. It was a rattly, emotional conversation.

Drove around briefly. The heat turned me around. The house seems unable to cool properly despite valiant efforts from the massive compressors outside. So now the cats have sagged, waiting for night to strike. And a perpetual headache behind my eye.

Music for today: John Adams “The Death Of Klinghoffer

Today’s color: Sepia, in honor of the smog and the dying grass.

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