Tomorrow. Sunday and another hot one. The forth or fifth. You lose count after a while. Like a mirage they shimmer and shift before you. Days of super saturated hours. Bloated. The heat does it, you know. Yep. I reckon it’s the heat that does it. You could fry an egg on the tarmac waiting for a plane to land. Took off in Sydney winter sun on a Tuesday afternoon and landed, smack in the middle of summer of the same day in San Francisco. Then the bird brings you to Boston.
Silver glimmer of morning heat and here i am waiting for the cars to file into the parking lot at Walden Pond. The constant haze of humanity needing relief from the heat. The parking capacity. Closed. One, two times a day. They tweet it, and the reopen time too, you know…
Just to stand knee deep. Imagine. Or wade in. Swim even. The center of the pond. About as far away from Australia as you can be. Rottnest Island. Off Perth, Western Australia. I swam in the crystal clear ocean there. Last time I took a “dip.” Exactly opposite Boston on the globe. As far away from me sitting in my car four-cars-back when the gates close, cause the park has reached capacity at nine am on a “stinking” hot Saturday, as I am from home right here and now.
It feels like that sometimes. This yearning. This wanting to be home among my own people. This wanting to glide along the watery slip slide divide between heaven and our crusty cave. This sitting in the heat with the park at capacity.