Feeling rather unenterprising under these Saturnine pressures. I find myself moving slow, needing to rest, but unable to rest. So I keep moving.
Cincinatti friends use words like "mass" the way I use "mad" which might be New York slang, but I'm not sure. My friend Hilary pedals the sewing table, Dana draws in a sketchbook. It's chilly and I can't sleep. The daytimes are hot, still. Dry, hot, autumn heat. It disconcerts me in Connecticut, but here the grass is dead and the trees are merely withering away. There is no evidence of the oppressive, humid summer I came from. Dry weather always feels cold to me and the sun on these hot days is like a baking element. I want to baste with oil and water.
I don't miss Boston.