The Heat of Things

I don't remember when I did not dislike July in Northern California. High-pressure systems press in, the air goes still, and even the dust stops moving. I'd hoped to be somewhere cooler this weekend, but poor communication and ongoing work-related tasks dictated otherwise. Having been to neither mountains nor ocean for over six months is creating its own high-pressure system as I get squeezed tighter between two ranges of mountains that roughly run parallel the Sacramento Valley. Chicago and Portland for a couple of days each were nice respites, but those trips seems too long ago to make sense. Perhaps a scheduled quick jaunt to Portland next week for a wedding will draw a bit of steam out of the kettle.

Nobody, though, has made the various beds I lie in; responsibility for mattress and bedding is my own and there is little reason for complaint. And a recent lunch with a writer friend and an email from a different writer friend that same day helped me re-evaluate a bed I would choose over the others. Sleeping in it full-time is neither possible nor practical, but like in a Motel 6 someone has left the light on there.

Yes, that is a couple paragraphs of poor writing; I can admit that. If I want to blame anything, though, I'll blame the heat.