It’s hot. And really, compared to where some of y’all live, it’s temperate. I’d guess it’s about 80 outside, maybe. But in my house, during this my first summer, it’s horrid and sticky. Okay, I’m horrid and sticky.
I’ve been doing this thing for about six months now, the Right to Write Poetry Project. On Monday nights, we go to the San Francisco County Jail and teach poetry (don’t laugh – you know I’m a fiction gal and I’m floundering in this poetry stuff) to the female inmates. We read a little bit, talk about the published poem, then we write a little bit and read our poetry to the class. At the end of an eight week cycle, we collect their poems into a book, which we then self-publish and distribute to the women.
Last night we did a Bukowski poem which was about heat. Then we wrote about heat. And while my mind is usually creative and makes personal connections when thinking about heat (if you know what I mean), all I could think about last night was how I live in the wrong climate and I do the wrong things. I should live in Alaska. I thought about Canada, but their cold winters turn to hot summers. Unacceptable. Alaska it is. Or the Antarctic.
Also: I spin yarn from wool. I knit heavy sweaters from wool. I prefer wool and alpaca to all other fibers. I can barely hold wool in my lap without sweating while sitting outside in November, but it’s all I really like. I’m almost done with Lara, a big ole piece of woolly knitting, done all in one piece so that the damn thing sits in my lap while I slick my way through it.
This house is muggy. I’m muggy. I’m also cleaning the house and sweating like a pig, so I’m dying here. Wait. I’m going to go kidnap my girl and go get iced coffee and watch little dogs trip people up with their cuteness. Yeah.
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