Chet Baker and Heat.

That has been my day today. Sitting in a swelter worthy of matter, almost hanging like a heavy veil full of every type of subtext, while I lie on my bed, rendered helpless to its weight. I do have my computer, though. I have a half-read set of books scattered on my bare mattress: a weathered dud avocado, a half open on beauty, a sketchbook, a scrawled-in moleskin, a towel, my black comfortner, and a Busby Berkley DVD---yes, it's a wonderland of literate curio. Prior to succumbing to this mandmade-island-of-a-bare-mattress, I walked today in the unrelenting sunshine that hovers over the southern part of California. Though it wasn't ironically garish and bright while being actually temperate--which is usually the case; this time, the sunshine was armed with real heat. From a stroll, I came back to my studio drenched in sweat.

During my brief afternoon excursion, I took solace in the AC in a the three dollar movie theater. I saw a film called Rocket Science that was well written but unfortunately, it stylistically borrowed too heavily from Rushmore. Though, to the movie's credit, it did take me back to a more miserable time in my adolescence when I participated on the debate team. I similarly struggled to understand the point of all this hurried banter with policies nobody really cared about. I changed to oratory and enjoyed more success with that. At least I could write and say whatever introspective mumbo-jumbo I wanted at whatever speed I preferred.

After the film, I went and drank some dissapointing watermelon juice.

And now I sit here listening to Chet Baker and thinking of a pastiche of 1950s cool: beatniks, bongos and a twilit saxophone, children playing by a fire hydrant gone amok, Rear Window , the drizzle from the array of ACs while walking a manhattan block, sleeping on the roof, the silhouette of laundry hung on a yadrside jungle gym. I'm currently half-dressed, feeling my body gradually melt, seeking some focal solace in my little fans. I do enjoy fans. A breeze with a buzz that warps your exhausted whispers in a chopped blur of syllables. It's quite the invention.

Anyhow, while walking amidst the overabundant floral boughs found on an LA driveway, I found the summery scent of cut grass and blossoms overpowered by the heat-endorsed stench of urine and shit, which confirmed my suspcion that it's a universal truth. Refuse trumps all. It gives you a lot to think about on your way home.