the weather is a deadly whore with many masks

In chicago, like anywhere, those who complain will complain about heat or cold, rain or draught, cloudy days and days too sunny; complaining is a state of mind. But there are some things in life that require complaining. Like the wretched heat that bakes the city, killing off the elderly and homeless and the others forgotten and sweating their lives out in dim unseen pockets of the poorer neighborhoods. And the cold that blows in on winds that tunnel between buildings and become a force that knocks down the weak and elderly. Two of the dark masks of that whore, weather. There must be more MASKS THAT MEET THE OH SO MINIMAL REQUIREMENTS of this heap of word-mush; whore masks THAT ARE INTERESTING TO LIST AND NOT LISTED FOR THE SAKE OF HAVING ANOTHER GODDAMN LIST IN A WORLD OF LISTS THAT REPLACE NOVELS AND PLAYS AND THE ENTIRE WILD WORLD OF THOUGHT.

I think of the horrors of heat as I stumble out into my morning. There is no weed and the pain pills hit my stomach and make me nauseous. These are the days when I know I am not an addict, because there is no way in hell I would go through the bullshit to be on pills without a damn good reason. I mean, who wants to ingest what has already made them sick feeling all day? You can imagine how the heat helped my mood.

I was deceived at first by the cool breeze coming in from Lake Michigan, blue and shimmering down on the corner where my street ends in a flower garden and a beach. I actually think, "Oh, cool. I thought it was going to be really hot. And still, crazy ass I am, had to fucking wear black... but it turned out all right... I think?"

My folly became apparent about one block from the lake, as I felt myself longing to cross the street and get out of the sun, which I of course promptly did. Sweat was already flowing down my head and filling up my pony tail, giving me something to flip sweat on people with at any time; which seems like it would be funny to me, though I can¢t find out because M. has given me a death threat on the matter, and the look in her eyes when I almost flicked her on the train the other day as I loudly made clear what I was about to do, was enough to convince me she means it as much this time as she did all those other damn times when?

Well, this doesn¢t seem to be about the heat at all any more? But more about using sweat as a weapon, which is much more interesting and useful than merely cleverly rephrasing the obvious, as is my way.


Ruby Ann the Blue Eyed Near Wolf and I just came back from the lake. It¢s around 9:30 at night. Now the city is cool and nice and while I was at the beach the sun was setting all red and brushed with purple clouds . . . one of those sights that make all manmade art seem frivolous. Ruby Ann pulled me back and forth down the sand, and then finally down and into the water, listening to no commands from me to, ¡quit trying to pull my arm off,¢ with her strong little husky muscles. Dogs were running around all over. My favorite for the hour is one I¢ve seen over and over, a miniature greyhound, perfectly marked with white and grey, standing all skittish and tiny around the towering Ruby, who is easily five times the other dogs size, even though she is a mid sized dog.


The sight of a dog like that triggers all kinds of good head candy treats from the stingy little euphoria hormones in our heads. Like babies? and unlike the heat. That deadly whore.

I always used to make fun of people who only talked about the weather, and here I am, complaining about the weather. I¢m going to go cut myself on the ankle, just deep enough to hurt some and make me feel like I have repented for this sin.