I finally got to see South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut last night. Uncensored, with all the language intact! There was even a scene in which Saddam Hussein whips out a huge, very (cartoon) lifelike dildo and waves it at Satan. Funny stuff. If you've never seen it, they are showing it again tonight (well, Monday morning, actually, at 1:00 A.M.) on Comedy Central. They kill Kenny!
Sluggo wants to sleep, now. I overworked him yesterday evening when I had the air conditioner on. It's made him quite cranky, and even more blue-screen prone than usual. And I have to go out and see if any cats are visiting today. They like to wish me pleasant dreams.
After the first few weeks of summer heat, I grow a bit more accustomed to it. For brief periods, it is almost enjoyable. Settled in the late afternoon shade of the mulberry tree, I can compare the feeling of the hot air around me to the pleasant sensation of being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night. It's certainly better than freezing. When a slight breeze arises to make the white daisies sway on their long, green stalks, the cooling of my skin is like a caress. I let my gaze rest in the deepest shade within view, sinking into the greens of shrubs and trees, dark but for a few bright flecks where sunlight penetrates and sets a few leaves glowing. When shaken by the breeze, they glint like candle flames flickering in a dusky bower. From the sky, I hear the drowse-inducing drone of a small plane.
This time of day, I can depend on my neighbor across the street to turn on his lawn sprinklers, while the sun is yet slanting down over his roof, and the arching drops of water catch the light, flinging it in changing patterns against the green backdrop of bushes lining his fence. One plant among them now sports flowers of a deep blue, shading toward purple. When wet, they begin to glow. The sprinkler sprays collide now and then, forming small clouds of mist which drift in the bright air, briefly flashing bits of rainbow color. A faint scent of damp lawn and brush drifts to my shady corner.
We are enjoying almost the last of the cherries. Of the few remaining on the tree, many are withering now, but those which are still plump and smooth are at their darkest and sweetest. They are like small nuggets of stored sunshine and rain, perfect for savoring in the long evenings spent watching the waxing moon emerge as the sky turns dark. The jasmine scent is now gone, replaced by the overly-sweet smell of gardenias. The small, white flowers are the essence falsity, their virginal paleness belied by their wanton perfume. They are the perfect flowers for the nights of July, the heat of their cloying fragrance hanging in the air, as persistent as a seductive, shameful thought.