zaziel
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I'tr�m breit vula�oz�o ye spalla ei�tlin nel�ffnes pieqi aummit su berwegr'ra'ao.

Warm and Fuzzy, Part 2

Monday, Sept. 2, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

It's too darn hot.

Because of the local topography and the influence of the sea, we're not as hot as most of southern California, but we're still too darn hot. We're lounging on the veranda (Jer, the Fiend, and I) in the "cool spot", which is a corner of the veranda situated, by either accident or cleverness, at the perfect place to maximize the eddies of air that flow through and around this house. My grandfather built a house that beats the heat. The ground-level walls are adobe and shaded by two deep verandas, and a portico shades the upper bedrooms. The house was built on a series of split-levels, as a solution to the natural slope of the site, and as a result, the upper levels don't become heat-traps for rising warm air from the lower floors.

I am writing this entry (or at least, the first draft of this entry) in an old Boorum & Pease account book, style no. 667, which I bought at a garage sale for fifteen cents. It's a thin hardback book covered in faded green cloth, with leatherette corners, with the word "Journal" inscribed in old-fashioned letters on the front cover. Written in the first few pages are the sales accounts of Richard Lupinetti, from the middle of July to the beginning of August, 1976. He sold tape. Red litho tape, duct tape, "perscription" tape, and rolls and rolls of clear cello.

Jer is asleep on a futon, a Music Institute catalog resting on his bare tummy. (He's thinking of taking guitar and percussion classes at MI, in the spring. He's trying to decide if he wants to graduate from high school at mid-year, as some of his friends are doing, or continue through the last semester for the sake of the school band, the swim team, and the Frisbee club.) Physically, he is thinner than he was when I last saw him--the excruciating humidity of the Missourian summer robbed him of his appetite--yet he is less lanky than he was three months ago. Baby fat has melted away, and muscle has grown. When asleep, people usually look younger than their age, but Jer's unaware body shows not even a trace of adolescent gawkiness, and appears utterly confident and comfortable with its natural state of grace.

The Fiend is ensconced in a rocking chair he picked up at the same garage sale where I bought my B&P journal. He intended to use the chair for one of his pieces, but it has proved to be such a comfortable old thing, he is loathe to sacrifice it for his art. He's wearing his glasses and reading An Introduction to Confucianism by Xinzhong Yao. (Outbound by William Storandt and the Gary Snyder Reader are on the table between us, if our current occupations fail to amuse us.) The Fiend manages to look scholarly even though he's dressed only in a pair of old boxers and flip-flops. We are all dressed minimally, with cold wet rags draped around our heads, and easy access to cold wet beers. I have loads of beer in the refrigerator. People contributed an unprecedented quantity of beer to our 3rd Annual Goodbye-to-Summer Gala Swar-Ray & Blowout Bash, but they didn't drink even half of it. I would suspect that we're getting more sober as we get older, but the Bash has always been a child-centric celebration, and I've noticed that my friends don't let themselves get bombed, or even charmingly squiffy, in the presence of their children. Which is, admittedly, kinda nice. Another nice thing about being a grown-up, and having grown-up friends, is that I always have plenty of help with the clean-up. Five or six years ago, if I hosted a party, it was understood that I was issuing invitations to a horde of locusts that would leave a wide swath of debris and dross in their wake (and believe me, that metaphor maligns the locusts). But now, except for the tent, the pony-trampled grass, the scorched earth (from the fireworks), and the odd errant Fresca can, you would never guess that there had been a minor frolicsome riot here yesterday.

The Moondoggie was sprawled beside us, under a wet towel, but now he has gone in search of fresh, cool dirt. I'm too lethargic to follow him, to keep him from digging up the roses, but I'm pretty sure he'll go for the spot he's gouging under one of the cypress trees. Samoyeds suffer in this heat, but no more than we do. For animals that can only sweat through their tongues and their paw pads, it's surprising how well they can handle the high temperatures. Just give them plenty of fresh water and keep them well-brushed. You cannot neglect the grooming of a Samoyed. In warm climates, they shed hair all year long. They have a soft, wooly undercoat which, periodically, comes out in fistfuls, and you've got to rake it all out, or it gets horribly matted. Didja know that when Samoyeds are wet, they smell like wet wool? And you can make yarn and felt out of their hair.

The Moondoggie is now officially my dog, by my brother's decree. My brother has been back in town for more than a week. He came home bearing gifts (a Chanel coat and a Chihuly book for the mater, Japanese woodcuts and Domori chocolate for me), sporting an array of fading bruises (the bro said he slid into a ditch while cycling--he's a fanatical cyclist, so this is always a good excuse), and telling a droll story about how he stupidly cut his hand while trying to filet a golf ball (cutting open a balata ball is a traditional amusement among the males in my family). I don't believe his excuse or his story, and I told him as much. If he wants to tell me the truth about how and from whom he received his damages, he will. And if he won't, it'll be just one more secret in his impenetrable cache of classified information. I don't usually pry, because he has made it very clear that his business is his own, and not mine. But he has scared me this time, and I've been pissy to him, and I think that's why he finally conceded the Moondoggie to me, hoping to mollify me.

But I ain't ready to say good golly, Miss Molly.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

last eleven:

Resurrection - Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Arts and Letters -
Friday, June 17, 2005
Domestic Obsessions -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
The Kindness of Strangers -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
Gone -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Coming Back, Little By Little -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Effing Around -
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Explicably Yours -
Wednesday, February 9, 2005
Things Too Innumerable To Mention -
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Mr. Armstrong -
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
The Pope in Our Kitchen -
Saturday, October 2, 2004



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Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
Copyright � 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by gcs

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