Hot in the Colonies

And how! Sweatstains mark my shirt and pantlegs -- moaning mouths of ghosts. It is too hot to move, to think, to write. Yet one writes. The heat of the laptop, and already-hot palms recoil.

Torrid. I told C. that I was going to fly to Arizona to cool off; at least one can find air-conditioning there. Here, in the apartment, inside is as outside, and one feels himself a character from a Conrad novel, one fanned by a coolie as he watches the water lap the shore and knows that in its bloodwarm flow, no relief.

In this swelter one feels as if he is being tried, his blubber rendered into lamp oil too adulterated by water to ignite.

Come, Autumn. Come quickly.

A sidenote: Your Abjectus has found work at The University of Rhode Island. He will be teaching literature.