The sky is breaking

Asked to guess, I'd say temperatures today were in the low nineties, which comes, believe it or not, as a big fucking relief. And there was a breeze too, which. . . you just can't imagine what it's been like here. But the stultifyingly static weather finally broke yesterday afternoon as Bedlam inched its way across a pressure front. It's still hot as fiery hell, but currently overcast, so for the moment we're no longer directly under the fat old eye of the sun.

I woke this morning at 06:00 exactly and, not for lack of trying, couldn't re-enter sleep. This is not unusual. The gods of sleeping late do not smile upon me, my friend. Their ways are mysterious and occult and I am afraid their dark logic confounds me.

I purchased a haircut at Salon Red this morning at 09:30 before engaging my Saturday usual at Gato's Sweltering Nuclear Furnace Oven Emporium. Of Hell. And the obligatory iced-coffee from Dr. Bombay's found me returning on foot to the Nunnery where I began the recording portion of my day.

I'm currently borrowing a Moog from makandwanda and finding it endlessly fascinating. I've always wanted one but couldn't afford, so I'm making this opportunity count. Oh, and Mark dropped off a cd I requested of reference recordings to aid me in my writing. We're learning how to work together.

Slice last night after hours with my boyz, Rashid and Jason, with Joe behind the bar. J. & J. had to leave, but R. and I stayed for a while, conversationalizing with the new barista and rocking to Shuggie and Sabbath on the jukebox. :()*

*Why do I not know the smiley-text symbol equivalent of death-metal devil horns? I imagine I would feel adrift in a world where such a symbol did not exist. Until I discover one, this will have to do.

And my god, what a fucking week this has been, work-wise. And there's no reason to expect next week will be any better. Fall semester begins Monday.

Take the leap and never waver.

Work (for Esme - with love and squalor)

My life these days occurs between meetings. Here's today:

* an hour and a half School of Music administrative meeting, which took place immediately following my
* one on one meeting to bring the new Graduate Director up to speed; then
* a Staff Development Committee meeting across campus to discuss, among other things, allocation of funds by the
* Scholarship Committee, for which I 'volunteered' today. As always, there were
* sundry impromptu meetings with troubled (yet ever charming) music students; and
* one more sit down later this evening with my financial advisor to discuss the pecuniary implications of my impending resignation.

And since I'm on about work, I'll mention that I sit on several new committees, viz.

* I was recently elected to the Staff Council;
* as mentioned above, I sit on both the Staff Development Committee and
* the Scholarship Committee; and also, for kicks, I'm on the
* Green Issues Committee. It's not easy being green . . .

This, in addition to my ongoing work within the School of Music itself, which was amped up to eleven when my boss went on sabbatical in Spring and wasn't made any easier when he resigned upon returning in Summer. I've been doing virtually all of his academic and administrative work since January. His replacement will take over in a few weeks and hopefully share the load, though he'll need some time to get up and running.

And it's hot here. It's a fucking heat wave. Almost unbearable. Looking back, I don't know how A. and I made it through our first summer here in the deep south without air-conditioning, migrating, as we were, from the middle of a deep, cold winter in Maine. We tried everything we could think of to stay cool, including sleeping on our apartment's porch, which would sometimes catch a cross-breeze through the bullet holes in the windows when the wind was right.

Niels Bohr said,

"How wonderful that we have met with a paradox. Now we have some hope of making progress."

It's real fucking hot here. There's a heat advisory for this area. This afternoon John from Slice told me temperatures are supposed to be in the upper nineties here through the end of the month.

I'm listening to Shuggie Otis, funk guitar cynosure. His voice conjures Michael Franks in a younger day; his guitar playing is, in some alternate universe, what Prince's guitar would have sounded like were he, Prince, to have taken psilocybin in, say, 1983. As it is, Shuggie was doing this in 1974. If there's not enough sweet beautiful funk in your life these days, you should download Inspiration Information immediately. It's Bill Withers channeling Dr. Seuss, swear to god. Thank me later.

And Saturday last was dear sister Karyn's birthday. She and I talked for over an hour on Friday, with me uploading news from the Nunnery. She and my sweet goddaughter are well. Karyn is two years older than me which must make her, let's see . . . thirty-three, I believe.

Rashid, I bought another, so keep the one you've got.

And welcome back, Team Amsterdam. Hope the trip was productive.