Whew… 100 degrees. It’s October. A normal October for a change. We here in our corner of the world don’t believe in sticking to the established order of seasons. We like our summers served up with a generous side of fog. Our winter sprinkled with days of record-breaking heat spells. Our rains, torrential. Our floods, flashing with all the might of a moment. And our heat … ah, that we like served up in excess as a generous afterthought to summer.
I’ve been flopping from one couch to another today in the heat. In between, I’ve spent a little time obsessing over the spreading rings of fire on my arm in the wake of what the doctor’s assistant thinks is a spider bite. I hope she’s right. I hope it’s not leftover baggage from a tick. I wouldn’t know the aches and pains of Lyme disease, given how I’ve had aches an pains galore from other conditions over the years.
Driving through San Anselmo tonight I flashed back to very old memories. A cornfield by the Black Sea But is it really a memory? Are there cornfields by the sea? Or has the time and distance erased miles and years between a field and a shore? Does it even matter? After all, memories are constructions, and this one, the cornfield in the moonlight by the shores of the Black Sea, fits nicely in the over-heated space of this October night. That it also calls to mind Ovid, perhaps despondent as he paces along that same shore, though without the cornfields, where he was exiled, exiles the memory to, in a way, into the hinterlands of the imagination.