28 January, 2009
Curtains drawn to keep out every electromagnetic wave I can and windows closed to the smallest gap so that the warm breaths of air stays as far away from the cool of of darkened rooms. Without air-conditioning, a comfortable living temperature can only be achieved by great effort. I take solace in knowing that I am doing my part in keeping it cool. And by 'it' I mean the Earth. Yeah. Rock on.
In reality, though, our AC is an historic remnant of the previous owners of our house and smells distinctly of Urine of Possum when turned on. Not something we would hazard--the heat being uncomfortable enough as it is. [I would like to take this moment to note that everything that smells funny around these parts is usually due to some sort of dubious possum activity--I shall postulate on this in greater detail when I am not feeling so slothlike.]
Fans, on the other hand, do little but stir the warm air up a bit and spreads it around. The last thing I would probably want is for all that heat to be moving. Best to stay where it is, languishing with the rest of us.
I have my laptop on and am soothed and caressed by the dulcet voices of Samuel West, Ian McKellen, Bryan Dick, Linus Roache and Michael Sheen. I languish prettily to Keats and Shakespeare and thank all gods for Michael Tavener; my heart ached for the Angel of Covent Garden and poor, vengeful Wayland; and I lay back and let the Pity of War sweep over me in its sad grandeur and lost nostalgia.
Oh, audio plays. Oh, radio.
I can forget--for an hour or more--that the sun is beating down hard on the garden outside; drying the bark of the eucalyptus so that it curls and crinkles and hangs off the trees in strips like hair, drying the ground so that when it rains it floods for the clay has been baked hard, bleaching the wood so that everything not living becomes as brittle and dry as the land. The cicadas call and the magpies have laid off their warbling for the shadier, cooler time of evening.
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