It was not very cold today, and it is supposed to start getting warmer tomorrow, but there is something truly terrible in the long range forecast which I hope turns out to be very, very wrong. Next Saturday is predicted to be 76 degrees here. That's next Saturday. January 24. Now a 76 degree January 24 would not be a big deal in Los Angeles. One expects a January day or two to hit at least 70 there. But here it is just terribly disturbing. I don't even care that I'll be able to open my windows and air out the house, or that I'll save the cost of heating for a few days (Sunday and Monday are expected to be in the 70s as well.) It's just so wrong.
This untoward heat wouldn't bother me if it came in the middle of a normal winter— in fact it would be a nice break from it— but in the third year of a drought this is like coming home and finding out you've been burgled. Who is stealing our winter?
But aside from the fact that Hell has opened up and is about to invade us, things are going reasonably well. I've got lots of tasty Greek yogurt that was on sale when I went shopping Friday. I've long liked the taste of yogurt— well, liked may be too strong a word; let's say I find it interesting— but I could never take much of the texture. I like liquids and I like solids, but anything that can't quite make up its mind as to which it is is not appealing to me. But Greek yogurt turns out to be firmly ensconced at the creamy end of the solid camp, and I like it very much. The only problem is that it's usually a bit on the expensive side, but as long as I can get a decent sale price on it I'll probably be eating a lot more of it. The fact that it requires no preparation at all is, of course, a big bonus. Plus I now have something to look forward to when I've lost all my teeth. I was definitely not looking forward to tapioca.
Tonight I'm going outside for a while to enjoy the coolness while I can. I expect that by the middle of February the pine trees will be spontaneously combusting from the heat. Maybe I don't have to worry about ending up being fed tapioca after all. I'll probably be nothing but scattered traces of ash being wafted on the torrid breezes of the Michigan Desert by September, or settling onto the steaming waters of the Great Swamps.
Sunday At McDonald's
by A. R. Ammons
In the bleak land of foreverness no
one lives but only, crushed and buffeted,
now: now, now, now every star glints
perishing while now slides under and
away, slippery as light, time-vapor:
what can butterflies do or clear-eyed
babies gumming french fries—nature
is holding them, somehow, veering them
off into growth holdings, forms
brought to peaks of splendor, sharp
energies burring into each other to
set off new progressions through the
rustle and mix, rot and slush: is
this the way it is: sometimes a man
will stand up, clear and settled as
a bright day, and seem to look through
the longest times and roilings to
the still, star-bending, fixed ahead.