Grateful for the air conditioner roaring there from the window,
(I've gotten used to my papers blowing in the breeze.)
I've also been in a bit of cloister mode. No meetings with friends, no outings, no movies, no happy hours. Just work, home, write, brave the heat and humidity to go for a run, take a bath, write some more. I get that way, all solitary and reclusive and determined, when I'm working on a big project, and this writing project is a big one.
But then a friend broke through my cloister walls with a series of text messages. They went something like this...
Him: Moondogs game tomorrow? (The Moondogs are our local baseball team.)
Me: Can't. Writing day.
Him: Good for you. Drinks after?
Me: Writing. Not drinking.
Him: Lunch before then?
Me (feeling a little bored with what I had in the fridge): Um...
Him: Great. Noon. Mexican place uphill.
Undone by food again. I'm so easy. It was, however, nice to actually talk to somebody, nice to eat something I didn't cook (if you can call the salads and hummus and cottage cheese and fresh fruit I've been dining on lately "cooking"), nice to be in a place that's not my house.
Then came the second breach of the cloister: after lunch, my friend said that since the humidity and heat had broken he was heading out to Westwood Marina for an few hours of writing and sipping lemonade by the lake. Did I want to go? Did I want to go???? Yes, I said. But just for two hours. And he couldn't talk to me. No chit-chat. Serious stuff. Agreed.
Deck. Lake. Fresh air. Lemonade. Ahhh...
I worked on my book, he worked on song lyrics.
We only talked about stuff like a song title
that rhymes with keys ("Please Mr. Please")
and if accelerate has two "l"s. (It doesn't.)
Now that summer has become bearable again,
I think this may not be the last time I claim
the deck at Westwood as my alternate writing office.
(Plus there's really good free popcorn.)