Summer, and Other Heat Strokes

Summer in Nebraska is good for like a second.  Actually, now that I just wrote that sentence, I realize that summer is not officially here in Nebraska – we’re still in spring, and the temperature is 93 degrees, with a heat index of 102 (and 54% humidity).  Going outside to do anything is basically a punishment for having chosen this state in which to live. 

I love not having a job in the summer, and yet I’m constantly wandering around doing mundane shit when I don’t have to plan curriculum or grade papers or get up early.  I sleep until like 9am, then I make breakfast and take it back to bed with me, so I can watch Netflix and chill (no sex-pun intended).  I just don’t really want to do anything.  It’s a catch-22.  I’m bored, but I’d rather be bored than grade research papers and wade into a sea of hormonal tidal waves at 8:00 every morning. 

But the heat – oh, god – the heat.  With it comes gardening chores and lawn mowing and roughly one million carpenter ants and Japanese beetles eating my flowers and different teenagers marauding in and out of my house and … yeah, you get it.

I’m going to California next month, and I’m pretty sure (just like every other time I’ve been to beach) I’ll cry when the place takes off over the Pacific Ocean and then turns back inland to bring me back to the infinite acres of corn and conservatives. 

For now, I’m trying to improve my house, with all the (incredibly) limited ability (and funds) which I have.  New garage door opener, new dishwasher, newly refurnished study.  I also read a couple of books, and now I’m on to Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse.  Jesus, H. Virginia.  No wonder you walked into a river with rocks in your pocket.  Sentences that last for an entire paragraph, and themes that would make any sane person want to choke someone to death. 

I understand your pain, friend.  I wish we could have hung out while you were still alive, though I think I’d rather spend that time with other neurotic messes like Kurt Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway and Chuck Klosterman.  (It’s probably no coincidence that that list consists of only men, because women tend to freak me out with all their gender-specific feeling words.)

Next step:  mastering that fucking Stratocaster in the basement.  Or at least playing it functionally.  I have been lazy.  And what better time to play guitar, when it’s too hot to go outside and my brain is fried from reading fiction from the 1920s?

Thank you, summer, for providing a window in which to play, differently.