There are little explosions outside my window right now. At first I thought it was a quick hit thunderstorm, but the rat-a-tat repetition makes me think now its fireworks. Don’t know what for, but that has to be it. Or bombs. But the news would let usknow that.
And the heat is coming. The news says tomorrow is supposed to get up into the 90s, and I hate New York in the summer. Of all the seasons here, this is the one I cannot stand. Spring and fall are ideal, winter can be gorgeous. There is no city in the world like New York after a snow. Nowhere. But the heat, the silky, sweat, liquid, street haze, throat burning heat in New York is miserable. You wake up in your air-conditioned apartment—summer is unlivable without the AC—shower and dress and walk to the subway. You sweat in the first 5 steps. Under your arms, your back, your torso, fucking hell you sweat all over. The subway platforms are usually 10 degrees hotter than the outside. Subways are air-conditioned, but can be crammed to the point that it doesn’t matter. If you’ve managed to cool off on the ride, you sweat again from your station to your office. And need another shower. It’s just a different type of heat, the buildings and windows are probably like lake water, heat reflects off, bounces onto you. Mini greenhouse bastards. And tomorrow morning I’m going to go for a run, which means I’ll be spouting water for about an hour after.
Today was one of those days you’d rather not have. It’s just all wrong. It didn’t help that I thought my depression period was over, but last night looks like it was just a “time out.” It’s at its down slope, but I didn’t need it on top of today. Whatever you do, drink a few, burn one down, watch TV, call your mom, beat your cat, whatever your escape is, it’s the kind of day to do it.
I called Mel, just to hear her voice. We’re not really connecting right now, well, we are, but I think we are both aware of so much time away. Or maybe it’s just me. But I wanted to hear her voice; I love the sound of her voice, the little downshift at the end of “hello.” I melt. And I can feel my little depression receding, the waters rolling back.
My dad is in Oklahoma with my grandmother right now, helping her along. But the Finals are on, which means constant phone calls, every 5 or 10 minutes. Did you see Kobe, Dad? Have you seen that Lance Armstrong commercial, the one where he's pedaling, guitar behind him, going from a bridge at night, to a city, passing people along the way, riding past a hospital, arm up to the kids. Did you see that ad? I love that ad. The Lakers better win, because tomorrow it’s hot as hell.