But. This is where Laura Ingalls Wilder and I diverge. I like lights, and listening to music, and I like air conditioning…how spoiled I have become. I could sing for entertainment (and have to S) but without accompaniment it is too LHP minus the jug. I am okay without music for awhile (it lives in my head anyway.) All of this is fine.
But. It’s the heat. The heat is killer. It’s the part that I can’t get over. You can keep the lights if I can have some refuge from the heat. The inescapable, hot, hot heat—soaking, saturating into my whole body, bones, muscles, soul. I resign to the heat and try to appreciated it—so hot, so dry, so blanketing, I fall asleep only to be awoken by pools of sweat, stuck to the sheet, disoriented, dehydrated, my body searching for an inch of cool, for relief. There is no cooler inch or room or blade of grass. No ice. No ice water. No fan. No movement. The hot stillness like a gag. I can’t hear bugs or birds or wind or motors. The world has slowed to stand still. Maybe this is why people in the South move so slowly—why people in the Dominican are on a different pace. It’s too fucking hot to move any faster than molasses.
So, while this heat works slowly through my body and mind, forgive the myopic focus on this singular topic. I can’t think of much else. I wonder what month Laura Ingalls wrote Little House on the Prairie? I bet it wasn’t July.