Thursday, July 17, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
JULY 18, 2002
More heat. People tell me I should be suffering. I soak into it, become one with it, let the heat be an extension of me, let me be an extension of the heat, the wavering shimmer of air.
The humidity - yes - it makes breathing a little more labored working that much water.
Our lawns - where they're laid out in the sun - are starting to turn crisp and brown. There is green in the deep shade.
Fairwater has a used look about it this morning - not used up, but worn like an old dime.
A heaviness, the haze, the smell of the canning factory's waste water - acrid like pig shit.
A field of peas - nearly burned brown. It will not be harvested, but will go to waste. North of Five Corners, another field of peas burning up. They have come on too fast.
Just south of the Union Street intersection, a field of rye or oats has been taken. Straw remains.
JULY 18, 2002
More heat. People tell me I should be suffering. I soak into it, become one with it, let the heat be an extension of me, let me be an extension of the heat, the wavering shimmer of air.
The humidity - yes - it makes breathing a little more labored working that much water.
Our lawns - where they're laid out in the sun - are starting to turn crisp and brown. There is green in the deep shade.
Fairwater has a used look about it this morning - not used up, but worn like an old dime.
A heaviness, the haze, the smell of the canning factory's waste water - acrid like pig shit.
A field of peas - nearly burned brown. It will not be harvested, but will go to waste. North of Five Corners, another field of peas burning up. They have come on too fast.
Just south of the Union Street intersection, a field of rye or oats has been taken. Straw remains.
