San Francisco is having what my mom would call, Whew, a scorcher! Windows open, fan going (a small, antique-looking, but not, it turns out, wholly decorative fan), pets stretched out all over the place for greatest surface area cooling possibilities. The whole apartment feels full of sun and fur. I like this weather. I like how bizarre weather gives you a sense of solidarity with neighbors and strangers on the street. How often do you have any idea at all of what other people are thinking or feeling? But today, everyone must feel at least one thing in common: hot.
Hot is good for reading and drowsing, crosswords and doodling, drinking but not eating. It’s not great for writing, either, at least not for me. Writing is something that has to happen fast. I don’t mean writing actual sentences (I am treacle-pace at writing actual sentences), but when I’m writing it’s usually with the feeling of chasing after an idea that’s blowing down the road ahead of me, and when you’re drowsy, you don’t chase.
It’ll be time soon to drink a cold drink and nap a long nap, but first I want to make a book recommendation. The book is called It’s Like This, Cat, by Emily Neville. It won the Newbery in 1964. It’s about a cat, yes indeed, but mostly about a kid (14, named Davey) and a city (New York). That kid races all around the boroughs on his bike and on the subway and on the ferry, sometimes with the cat in a wicker hamper, sometimes not. Not a whole lot happens that’s grand or tragic, but you can’t stop turning the pages. It’s great.
