There’s a smell in the study, it’s making me nervous. A hamster escaped, you know, but that was months ago. Would it take this long to smell? There’s also a bruise on my leg that’s unaccounted for. I’m sleeping, right now, with two dogs, I think they batter me in the night.

The heat is all I can think about. So let’s talk about it, the heat. The pool is 90 degrees so it offers scant relief, yesterday I poured in ice. We’re grumpy the three of us. G. sleeps in her swimsuit, the house is in disrepair, we need for C. to come back, we need a cool breeze.

Today G. has a thing, I’ll drive her there, and then small A. and I will go to lunch. And maybe a movie. Or maybe we’ll sit and eat ice cream at the mall.

The heat is the thing, that’s all. The heat and arthritis. I’m helping a friend cure arthritis, but not until things cool off.

The AC doesn’t work. The filter, it says, must be changed. Yesterday a man said, “let me do it,” and I said “no,” out of pride but now I want the man back to do it.

Because we’re hot. And it’s not cool enough in the house and the pool is at 90 degrees.

Heat is ridiculous; so is weather, in general, I think. My Shift key is sticking, my iPhone won’t sEnd, and every email since December is for some reason gone. You might be one of those organized people who throws magazines out and keeps the nightstand books stacked square, but I’m not and I keep material in emails, I can’t lose them. C.’s, mine, yours — yes, yours! I steal words shamelessly. Now six months of them, gone.

But aye, the heat, that’s the thing. It’s hot and the AC barely works and if you sit in one small corner of the study and squeeze up small you can feel some cold air and maybe possibly live. But R. is in there, fixing the house up nice, and I’m out here. With no air.

The pool is too hot, it burns my feet. The lemonade, in the refrigeration device, doesn’t seem to be cold. The air is oppressive.

There’s a movie at 4 so I’m going, I’m taking G. and (small) A. The dogs have asked to go, too, they’re languid.

My laptop is burning up. Sigh. The heat. I should have gone to the beach with L.

Call me.

A number of odd things have happened, I’m taking them in stride. I’ll tell you some of them, in no particular order, though. There was a spider on my bed, I took a picture. It was the jumping kind, it’s unwise to get close. Though I did to get the picture. There was a man pedaling something yesterday, it looked like a soap box car (is that what they’re called?). It had a number on it and it appeared that so did his shirt. Something I planted didn’t die, it’s growing like crazy. I planted basil in the sideyard and Jose fixed my sprinklers so now the basil gets water whether it likes it or not. There are flowers there alive, too, and last year I planted those. Also, the fish came back. I had declared the fish dead, but we found them, they’re back. And there were three raccoons in the tree. (I might have already told you about that, the fish made me think of them again.)

I’ve been sporadic because I’m at the end of the book. The end of finishing the book. And the end is long and exhausting, you have to read … the whole thing. Not once, or even twice, but sometimes more. And I’m bored to death with this book, I want to never have to read it again.

It takes, you might say, discipline. Discipline and focus and shameless flattery.

The ants are winning again, but I’ll be okay.

The cherries are a day away from overripe.

I’ll be running in the garage if you need me.

My “A” isn’t working, I’m sure it’s something beneath the key; it’s annoying. I’m a proper typer so my pinkie is trained to quickly tap “A”, but my pinky’s not muscled, and “A” resists. I’m forced to cross over with my right-hand middle finger at times, to strike the “A” violently, it’s thrown everything off. What the hell’s with the “A”? I’m a pianist, you know, too, so this percussive thing goes way back. I have a standard for percusiveness, I won’t have it, this thing with my keyboard “A”. Were it a lower “C” and I was striking it on a piano key that didn’t depress, I’d be equally upset.

Sigh.

Because of the heat I find everything strange. It’s a treat, of course, I like strange. I found the man pedaling the soap box car on 2nd street strange, I’ve found cucumber gazpacho strange, I find dogs incredibly strange. I find living at the end of a desolate street strange and also strange when callers come by. (All of it delightfully strange!)

I find the internet strange, the pool I find strange — why don’t the insects know not to jump in it! I find the raccoons who sit in my cherry tree strange; so, too, the possum someone killed on the street. The days are odd, I live at the end of a road, it seems a journey (in metaphorical ways) to even venture out to buy milk. The movies we watch at night are strange. The sun beats down. Both dogs are nursing the same paw on their hind feet, the butterflies are coming in droves. (Lepidoptera).

I’m going to eat peanuts for dinner and pretend I’m at a ballgame, I know that sounds strange but I think it’s fine.

While you were reading this I fixed the “A.”

It feels less strange.

A man killed his wife on a cruise and in the article they printed her driver’s license photo, which left me unsettled. I had to renew my license in March (because I forgot to last June) and I smiled for the picture three times and three times it didn’t take. The camera said I wasn’t me, I didn’t match the last photo they had, they needed to override. So while I sat waiting for override and having smiled already three times, my sunny demeanor slipped and on the fourth time I glared. The fourth time, of course, took, so now you see my consternation. If I am murdered I do not want them using that picture! This is something I hadn’t considered. I’ll leave a note and an envelope in the study, on the counter right on top. In it will be the picture to be used. One of you please be in charge.

I spilled my coffee this morning and that bothered me, now I look like my license. And someone’s hammering outside (Ned or Ty, they can’t just sit still) and that’s bothering me, too. I’ve paid little attention to the world, or to our country — this thing Sotomayor, for instance; what’s all that? — I’ve been submerged in a fake town called Pine Glenn. Where still no one’s talking enough. They’ve talked a little more since I last worried about it, but Ellen and Howard, to each other say practically nothing.

Today I’ve got to make them talk, there’s nothing else to do. Time’s running out, and they’ve got to start saying things to each other. Work’s cut out for me.

L. is having a party and I think I’ll be in New York — why do people have parties while I’m in New York, where’s the ordinance banning that?

Bring me pretzels. And something to drink with them, thanks.

Dear Darlings,

I went to court today and none of you seems to care. I’m given one blog post from jail and this is it, I hope you’re happy. Court, I have to say, is not the worst place to be on Wednesday morning. First, everyone has a story and I like those. I came late and so was up almost last. I heard all of them except the guy in the brown shirt who went after me. I had the sense, though, that his would be complicated.

There was a sweet white-haired woman named Sharon who had sped and I liked her a lot. She wore a sharp matching yellow ensemble — a shirt and short pants — and she had some spunk. She said this, for instance, “I don’t see how I could have been going 44 when I was turning off of a one-way street. I just don’t see how that is even possible.” It seemed hard for the rest of us to believe, too; I don’t think Sharon drives 44 on the freeway.

Then there was a sweet girl who looked no older than 12 but was actually 17 and she sped, too. She sped and she had her sister in the front seat and her sister was not belted in. Her name might have been Lisa, let’s say it was. Lisa was small and very nervous and she started crying and I almost cried with her. Our judge asked her to write an essay, it’s due in a week, and then she’ll just have a warning. He didn’t say what about but probably something on belts and speed.

Lisa reminded me of B., though B. and I didn’t cry. B. and I went to court together in our small town, once; we were 19, I think. Well B. was younger. The rite of passage in our small town was to get a ticket called “MIP” — minor in posession. They were $119 at the time, and then a lot of people got grounded. B.’s and mine was funny because we’d driven to the oddest remote street for our possession. We’d got our beer, we’d found the most out of the way street to drink it on — do you think the policeman had a girl on that street B.? Or were we not as clever as we thought, maybe everyone used that street. Anyway, B. and I were drinking our beer and throwing our cans out the window (I’m sure that part was strictly B.!) and then our plan was to go to the street dance downtown. I remember it was all fairly routine. The police car pulled up, he wrote that we littered and also minorly drank and then, oddly, we still went to the dance. Did we drive there, B.? I think we did.

I don’t tell stories well, though, because the one I wanted to tell was about court. B. and I went together, it was our first time, and it was actually sort of fun. When it was our turn to get up, Judge Valentine asked “did you pick up the cans?” (i.e., our litter) and we said, “No, the guy wouldn’t let us.” It was true, for some reason he wouldn’t. Judge V. chuckled at that, shook his head and then said, sotto voce, “those guys will do anything for a nickel.” He threw the littering part out.

I still got in trouble. It was still a fun summer. And today I pled guilty. One charge was dismissed, though, and one was reduced. And if you want to know what my horrible crimes were, you’ll have to bring gum to my house, I want spearmint.

There’s a deer in the yard, it’s not eating blueberries. It’s eating the brown grass at the edge, and not the blueberries, why won’t the deer eat blueberries?

Something must change today. Work’s not done, no summer camp’s being had, I’m not riding my bike here from Seattle, nothing’s moving forward. On the plus side, the “glass” sound for texts on my phone has brought me pure joy. You should text me all day so I can hear it; it will inspire me to change the world.

I don’t necessarily care about David Brooks, he seldom hits my radar and when he does, well — again I don’t care but four days ago he wrote about dignity and so from 10 to 11 today, because of David, I’m going to be dignified.

I’m going to have moral character and follow respectable social norms, which means I won’t play with my phone or DS Lite if you come over, we’ll sit and talk and I’ll look in your eyes. Also, if I’m sitting down when you walk in, I’ll stand up. If I hold a press conference, I won’t ramble; if I have a scandalous lover, I promise when you ask I’ll be coy. And when I resign from public office, I’ll have a strong speech.

I’ll also offer you something when you come in, I’ll take your coat. I might drop you a note after you leave to say your visit was pleasing.

I don’t know, I’ll do some other things, too — but again, just from 10 to 11, you’d best (if you want to see me dignified) act quick. After 11, I’m going to swim, and after that I’m drinking iced tea. If you don’t care about dignity, come by at 1, I’ll have lunch.

[David Brooks: In Search of Dignity]

Sigh, I’ve just lost a post. Stupid WordPress. It was a brilliant one, too. It was about lovers and bourbon. How can I possibly recreate it?

I’ll try.

What spurred it is that my Idina Sackville book arrived. It was reviewed in the Times and I snatched it up immediately because she’s scandalous — you know I love scandalous women. For months, maybe years, I was smitten with Nancy Cunard. So Idina is the subject of a book and she’s the cousin of Vita, and Vita was the infamous lover (one among others) of Virginia Woolf. And then today, tramping the grounds with my red bull, and clinking the ice in the glass (pretending there was gin), I thought — I have not enough lovers nor husbands, I want to marry an irresponsible and ridiculous amount of times. I want lovers who adore me, I want a large cadre of them (who adore me) and you can all mingle, of course, but when I die you must produce a good story. (I urge you to make it up.)

K. — in my post that got lost just now I said this to you: “Oh, K. — I didn’t email you, but I adore you right back, let’s lunch! Name you’re time and place!” Though this month’s bad.

Yes, well, the lost post was better. Come back, I’ll have more.

The December issue of Playboy is excerpting Nabakov’s last unfinished novel. Who knew there was still Playboy? That, I guess, is ungloomy. Also, Gawker referred to the Senator of South Carolina as a “folksy sex troll” which made me smile, though not quite laugh. And G. interrupted the page she was reading to say, “my pants feel wet but they’re not.” For whatever the reason, I did laugh at that.

Not much, I know, but I’ll take it.

The air is still gray, the milk’s almost out, the one dog is outside staring longingly in, the other one’s at my feet. Dialogue is coming surely but slow and today I might write letters, the real kind that go on paper.

(The rhubarb’s gone, Anna, but the cherries are all yours.)

Life is odd. Fairly. You knew that, though. People go back and forth, the dogs whine when they should play in the yard, we lose control of things we don’t expect to. Not big things, no, but sudden unexpected little things — situations. This has happened more than twice, recently. Where a person, let’s say me, for example, moves around in complete control of a life and then suddenly feels in control of nothing.

The dogs, for instance, who are barking now while I’m set up all positioned to work. I hate the barking, I want to shoot the small dog. Why aren’t I in control of the barking? I’m thrown off today.

It was the coffee this morning, that’s what this is about. One thing, one unpredictable thing and I’m thrown off for the day. And something as silly as coffee. Fine, and then not fine. It’s the air, maybe; it’s gray.

What I’ll do is run in the garage, and then maybe go to lunch. A proper lunch. Not a sandwich gulped down at my desk, but a long proper lingering lunch, perhaps at the bistro. That’s maybe what I will do. The coffee screwed everything up, now there’s gloom. (There are ways, though, to shake off gloom.)