Kage Baker told me, “Write every day. If you can’t write, read and store up information. If you can’t read – well, if you can’t read, you’re probably dead. But on the chance you just don’t feel well, try to sleep and dream. There are stories there.”
The heat is said to be breaking – but the weather people have been saying that for a week, and the heat has sailed serenely on with no discernible change. So the heat’s not breaking, but I am getting close. There have been winds and thunderstorms all around the LA Basin – hail, flash floods, lightning and its thug offspring, brush fires; tarmac is melting, kitchen gardens are turning into vegetable leather right and left. It peaked at 90 degrees or so today; it’s only 82 now and there is an actual breeze: but the humidity is up to 60%.
In Los Angeles, when humidity reaches 60%, it’s supposed to freaking rain. But all we have now is boiling fog on the edges of the sky, slowly simmering pearl reducing us all to a miserable stock …
Air pressure is making my joints ache. Heat is making my head ache. Humidity is making my skin itch. My feet are swelling like loaves of Bridgeford bread, which has to be the most repulsive thing so far about getting old. And I am a right bitch in all of this, and incapable of anything useful. But next week I’ll be in Seattle – which will at least be different – and I ought to maybe start packing; getting enough clothes and vital supplies for a week through the TSA takes careful thought and much three-dimensional experimentation in suitcase volumes. Such a pity, then, that my brain has been boiled down and rendered into orange grease for taco frying …
I would looove to sleep. Of course, now that I actually want a nap, there is no hope for one. My mind is full of senseless static, but the sparking and gibbering is still too loud and constant for me to drift off and dream. Reading is taking almost too much effort – thank goodness for the Kindle, since anything much larger would snap off my poor little wrists like cheap peppermint candy cigarettes. Which would be kind of tasty right now, but no one seems to make them anymore – candy cigarettes having succumbed to Political Correctness – and really, is there anything at all neat left from my youth in the world?
It hardly seems worth it to have survived this far.
But … within the week I will be in Seattle, happily replacing my cerebral spinal fluid with good coffee. I can tap-dance out messages to Those Who Sleep Beneath in the chthonic halls below the streets. (Kage used to do that when we visited …) I can snuggle and spoil my semi-demi-hemi grandbabies, until their parents are sorry they told me I could visit. I can contribute more to my patient agent’s grey hairs; and spoil her charming little dog, too.
I’ll start packing tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sit as close as I can to a fan, and wind yarn. Gotta have yarn if I mean to travel away from home. I’m not fit for human company, so yarn is just about my speed.
And I can dream while I wind it.