There’s no breeze here. There’s never a breeze. The thunder offers an auditory distraction from the weight of the heat but I need the fan for the breeze. A manmade breeze. A womanmade breeze. A FanMade breeze. Who was it that came up with the idea for a contraption that moved air around?
I’m led back to the oppressive heat of the Buffalo summers where I grew up. “It ain’t the heat”, everyone used to say. “It’s the humidity.” But it was the heat. And it was the humidity, too.
The countdown to sundown in Atlanta reminds me of all the nights of my youth when I slept with a fan just inches from my face. No air conditioning in houses back then. No remotes, no 1000 channels, no cell phones, no drive-thrus, no ATMs, no tattoos on women or men (unless you had been incarcerated or in the navy), nothing on demand.
Those simpler times beckon me now as I realize that the only things I care about are my writing, nature, and meditation. Three peas in my pod. I jump in and that makes four.
Distractions of the post-modern age are the same old distractions, only updated. There have been and always will be distractions. To develop spiritually involves the choice to do so. Solitude and quiet are tantamount. Limited time spent with humans and the quest for material goods comes next. After that, good food and daily exercise.
All of this work just so that I can hear and know
The Ticking Clock