I wish I were a Malagasy fat-tailed dwarf lemur.
Another thing to add to my list entitled Why Haven’t I Ever heard of This Before? Æstivation. The word sounds exotic, but the concept is, if you ask me, brilliant.
Æstivation is kind of like hibernation, only in the hot months, rather than in the winter. According to Wikipedia, many snails do it, as do some insects, tortoises, crocodiles, salamanders, toads and frogs, lung fish, the Australian crab, the African hedgehog, and the Malagasy fat-tailed dwarf lemur. They do this to retain water and conserve their energy.
Man, oh, man, do I wish I were a Malagasy fat-tailed dwarf lemur! I’d love to just be able to sleep through the oppressive heat. The best I seem to be able to manage is a daily torpor. I can’t be bothered. I find it all but impossible to move through air that feels as thick as chocolate pudding. The most I can do is push the seat back in my recliner and do an excellent imitation of someone who has fallen from a great height.
Just another little item for your next trivia contest.
Stay cool, everyone.
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I wished he would just go away and leave me alone.
I wrote this recently while in the throes of a cold. In retrospect, I find it funny that I chose to place myself back in Florida to describe my misery. I guess the unrelenting heat helped the fever imagery. But it also speaks to my state of mind when I lived there. Anyway, rest assured, I’m feeling much better now.
I was sitting on my front porch, baking in the heat, desperately clutching a glass of lemonade as if it were a life raft. The sweat from the glass did nothing to assuage the perspiration on my forehead. My light cotton shirt was determined to cling to the small of my back. I felt lifeless and hopeless.
I closed my eyes, trying to resist the urge to start screaming in frustration, knowing that if I did it would be a feeble effort that would come out as a weak moan. And afterwards I’d still feel unheard. I felt like ten kinds of crap, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The occasional gust of wind provided no comfort either. It merely kicked up the dust from the dirt road out front. I felt coated with a layer of grime. I felt heavier, somehow, as if I could easily be buried alive if I didn’t move.
If I could only muster the strength to turn on the garden hose and rinse the clay off my bare feet, I’d feel so much better. Such a nice idea. Just out of reach.
When I opened my eyes, I realized he was there. An old man, standing on the crumbling sidewalk, looking at me, smiling. It made me jump. I felt a little chill. But only for a second. Then the bone-frying heat set in again, seeming to pour out of my eye sockets.
We’d met before. He was a tall man, and so thin you could see his tendons. Weathered is how I would describe him, as if he had been left lying in a ditch like a cast-off doll, in the wind and rain, for his entire life. He looked like he might just blow away like a tumbleweed. This man was made of cracked clay.
He wore a white t-shirt, and dark grey pants held up by suspenders. His leather shoes looked like they were on the verge of disintegration. And he had a fedora. Who wears fedoras anymore? Somehow that fedora irritated me.
He asked if he could come out of the sun for a time. I indicated the rocking chair. I didn’t really feel like I had to say much of anything. He was there. Where else would he have gone?
He settled in and I offered him a glass of lemonade, as you do. He nodded his thanks, and poured it himself. He rocked for a time, as the heat shimmered on the kudzu on the other side of the road. Even the rattlesnakes had taken cover, but the cicadas seemed to be buzzing inside my head. I felt dizzy.
He, on the other hand, seemed just fine. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him slowly rock. It was almost as if he were intent on some goal. The chair creaked, making my nerves jangle. That’s why I had chosen to sit on the steps. Creak. Creak. I wished he would just go away and leave me alone.
I began to realize that he wasn’t as fragile as I first thought. He wouldn’t blow away. No. He was more like tanned leather, or beef jerky. He would endure, quietly, yet stubbornly, for all eternity. He could easily be a thousand years old. He wasn’t going anywhere.
I began to feel desiccated, like a lizard that had been trapped in place until death came to shrivel it up. No amount of lemonade could quench my thirst. My tongue felt as if it were swelling and cracking, and I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.
The buzzing inside my head got louder as the pressure began to build. I felt a dull ache, and a suffocating sensation. I felt like I was drowning in hot, bubbling mud, and would soon sink below the surface, with no one there to rescue me, as the old man quietly watched.
He tried to hand me a dirty handkerchief, a grudging gesture at best, but I couldn’t have raised a hand to take it if I had wanted to. He thanked me for the lemonade, and said it was time for him to move on. But he’d see me again sometime.
I slumped on the porch, feeling like Appomattox the day after the battle, long before all the bloody, bloated corpses had been removed. I wondered what would be visited upon me next, as the cicadas continued to buzz and the unrelenting sun shimmered all around me, depriving me of focus and making recovery seem all but impossible.
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Where else can you say you’ve walked through a rattlesnake?
Recently I got to spend five days in Tucson, Arizona. I’ve written about the food, the desert, Biosphere 2 and Kartchner Caverns, but it occurs to me that I haven’t really written much about the city itself.
After hearing so many horror stories about this red state, I was really kind of braced not to like this city, but from what I can tell from a lazy Google search, Tucson runs about 50/50 in its politics. I only saw one Joe Arpaio for Senate sign. (That still made me sick, but he did wind up losing in the primary, so yay for AZ!)
My first impression of the city was extremely favorable. Any city with an abundance of public art, in my opinion, is one in which the local government really cares about making the place livable. And there is art everywhere in Tucson. Even the overpasses are decorative. Where else can you say you’ve walked through a rattlesnake?
And I really loved this sculpture of a horse and its colt. Made in flat layers, at some angles it completely disappears.
And of course, I have a weakness for Kokopelli, and you see him absolutely everywhere. Even in the airport.
And then there’s the funky historic Fourth Avenue district, with its eclectic shops and restaurants and murals. I absolutely love the vibe there.
Between that and the fact that there’s hardly any traffic (compared to Seattle), and the amazing landscape that takes your breath away at every turn, I’d be tempted to move to this place.
Except for the blistering heat. Yeah. You can’t forget the heat.
The reality of summer never fit with my fantasies.
Holy moly, it got up to 88 degrees here the other day. If I were back in Florida, I’d be thanking my lucky stars for that nice, cool respite. Here in Seattle, the land of no air conditioners, 88 degrees is pure, unadulterated hell. It’s really hard to sleep when it’s that hot. People start getting cranky and acting crazy. Welcome to summer.
When I was a kid, I used to long for summer. I’d daydream about summer vacation while sitting at my school desk. (I daydreamed quite a bit. I was usually about a dozen lessons ahead of my classmates.) School was tedious for me. I could have moved much faster along my academic path if I didn’t have to drag all that dead weight behind me.
So summer vacation, for me, meant freedom. It was a time of lightening my load. It was my idea of Shangri-la.
I have absolutely no idea why I felt that way. The reality of summer never fit with my fantasies. I came from a hard working, very poor family. It’s not like we summered in the Hamptons or something. My mother had to work. If we went anywhere, we rarely went far, and we didn’t stay for long.
The reality of summer for me was lots and lots and lots of horrible daytime television, interspersed with the escape of library books, and naps. Blessed naps to break up the suffocating boredom. Often by the end of summer I was sleeping all day and watching TV all night.
It’s a wonder I didn’t lose my mind. Maybe I did. Because as soon as school started back up again, I would revert back to counting the days until the next summer vacation. It took me years to stop looking forward with miserable longing. Now is where it’s at, baby.