I’m sitting on the recliner; it’s green, musty, and someone’s donation to the goodwill. I have sat on this recliner few times since its inception into the living room. But today, the summer heat is swelling the walls with desert like death rays and delegating me to depend on the fan blowing breezes across my face on this green musty chair.

I feel the hamstring on the left tighten; an old sport’s inquiry wrenches my stomach like the sight on of an old foe. The sweat drizzles in the fissure of my chest towards the base of my rib cage. Central air is down. America and its luxuries are down. First world temperature control is out of my hands and sitting somewhere on a spreadsheet labeled “work orders.”

After dropping off two fruit tart cakes on the east side of the Sf valley, I nestle back into this ancient fabric, feeling like an evaporating haze in the street’s horizon, suspended in time and distorted.

I sit here and turnover the last few days as if they were greasy eggs on a frying pan. I flip over the idea of being in Texas for six scolding summer weeks for training. This eggy idea is premature and slips away into the heat. I scrap the corners of the new townhouse I’m moving into with my partner, Henry, on June and this idea is ripe, almost ready to join the plate of finished products but not quite yet there. I must place it in the corner of the mind to marinate for a few more weeks. I fumble around the edges of the design of our new town home, tapping against the furnishings that need to be assembled like Henry’s robotic lamp arm, his soldering station, the table for watercolor painting, and the space for the big black writing desk. The glass of water is pouring sweat through its glass flesh; the relief of the Virgin Mary unmoved by this heat.

I wander around the palette of herbs and fish for ideas to paint a centerpiece for the new place, to hang above a gray sectional couch that will sit below this water colored painting that has yet to shape in the rising heat.

I straddle the laptop mouse and navigate the change of living space using the images online as blueprints for our own living room; dissatisfied I move on to reading about lucid dreaming, playing with old toys again.

I sit in the heat, beside Henry and his lion like posture, waiting for the yearning’s cessation to settle inside the veins of this mania. Knowing myself too well, I shift my gears into the expanse of the blank canvas and spill Sunday’s psychobabble into the keyboard of an iPhone; all the while hoping there are no elderly people being strangled by this desert heat; all the while wondering how my mother felt when she saw fruit mounting over the custard pie; all the while wondering when I will hold, in the cusps of my hands, the 3-D print Alain sculpted for me as a gift; all the while the universe calls me a hypocrite through the slurred consonants of Zizek as I flip through what is not yet ready to be eaten.