L'aura del Campo

August Aught. Looking for an Angel

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███████          L'aura del campo           ███████

SUMMER: 19 Kalimát (0 August)

'é a lua,  é a lua,  na quintana dos mortos'
♣    Federico García Lorca    ♣

So no one is reading my blog anymore? Or too speechless to leave a comment! Probably the August doldrums, those hotdog days we are all nostalgic about. Not!

I've decided to call today, August Aught. Afterall, centuries begin (or end) with a double aught. Why not August? Actually, I'm also peeved because for the 30 days of July, I blogged on 21 days and that makes my BER (Blog Efficiency Rating) a perfect 70%! Today would mess that up. So I'm giving today away to the month of August.

Which is no great loss. It's hot and sweltering and we are under a heat advisory. August is my least favorite month (along with December). It's dry, it's hot, it's miserable. As Paul Simon sang in April come she will ... 'August, die she must'.

████████ Sizzling? Think cool !
████████ Weather where I am: 90º and sunny hot this morning.
████████ Weather where The Shrub vacations: 84º in Crawford, Texas.
████████ Weather where I'd rather see The Shrub reside: 65º in Saint Helena Island.

So why mention The Shrub? My mother actually was calm when she mentioned him yesterday. She'd just got done writing a letter to him about stem cell research, asking whether he would change his vote if his two daughters were ill and needed medicine that research could discover. I should've told her to write a letter to Barbara. That way he could get properly spanked by his own mother and my dear saintly mom wouldn't have to crawl on her knees on pilgimage to DC to administer his punishment. Ah, it's August Aught. Fitting weather to be thinking about The Shrub, imagining a brush fire raging across Texas ...

So here's a short prosaic sketch for the dog days I sketched last night:

August Aught

from the Chronicles of August-die-she-must

Yeah. August ought to be a month of counting blessings. It’s not. Too hot, too dry, too hot. Yeah. Hot. As in hotdog days. As in hot-dogs-they-are-a-dying-daze. Heatstroke should be August’s motto. I can see it on a poster now: the waving horizon, a big blaring ball of fire, with the slogan “YOU too could look like a chili pepper, have skin like a prune”. Hope it shows up in your supermarket soon.

By August all work that can’t wait until September ought to be done. No one should ever have to lift a finger unless it’s to order ice tea, sweet and light, on a beach in the Carolinas. Any big body of water will do, as long as the ice chest is at arm's reach, no further. And the only swinging allowed should require a hammock, preferably without the handcuffs.

Yeah. There’s something forgettable about August. Ticks, mosquitoes, poison ivy … who wants to wax nostalgic about that? Or catching your aunt and uncle skinny dipping in the pond after dark? That’ll learn you, you horny old hoot of a night owl!

And what about those August nights? They would be cool if they were cool, but they’re NOT. And then there’s school. Always the threat that school will start up. August is a parent’s nightmare of shopping for clothes and supplies, while the kids just disappear into some neighbor’s pool, begging to be adopted and move to a foreign land without school.

Yeah. August ought to be a blast. But, frankly, it can kiss my …

~ 255 words. Catalogue number: [163.279]

It's 102º out there now. I did some weeding in the pepper patch, so I'm drowning them. With this heat the surface will be dry tomorrow. Cut 4 yellow squash (marrow) which is only the beginning of the deluge. It looks like its going to be 'Year of the Squash'. The pumpkin and melons are setting on fine too. Cut some corn and peppers and three measely tomatoes. Soon and very soon, Lord ...

IMAGES

5 p.m., reminescing under the pine tree in Teresa's chair:

Sound of traffic at the corner; water splashing; the squish of mud; the roughness of dry dirt; a nice breeze in the shade; the seer of heat.

Ouside Aimée's, 6 p.m.:

Clack, clack, clack of a skateboard, reminding me of the railroad tracks, 1960 along the Broadway in Penn, Pennsylvania.

Inside Aimée's, 7 p.m.

A gentle whiff of fan; NPR; quiet; bare green walls (the month-long exhibit had come down); yellow tinted lights (not blue, not pink); one salt shaker alone on the table (glasses off); the pepper peeping behind it (glasses on); Travis shuffling past in sandals; emptiness; the radio announces the temp: 101º.


ANGELS needed:

Are there any Angels out there that can be called upon to give SSTheWriter a contination of his membership? He has a 3 month and 1 year upgrade mentioned in his wish list. He's a college freshman this coming fall and having financial issues ... He would like to keep his blog.

I would be facing the same issue if it weren't for Barbs who graciously gave me a yearly upgrade. Today would've been crunch time.