Siesta

There is a kind of drowsy that is born of a lack of breakfast, triple digets before eleven and the feeding of a gnawing hunger that consisted of a handful of cashews, a dozen or so chips that served as the vehicle for green mountain gringo hot salsa, a cheese sandwich and few olives.

The oppression of heat and a full belly cause a myriad of phantom sensations: restlessness and lethargy, a kind of soulful emptiness and a bloated belly, an unquenchable thirst for water and its disdain. The desire is to work, and to sleep, to dream and to make tangible the stretch of the second hand.

Here there is longing and pity, the rising feeling of inadequacy. Nothing seems possible when it is hot. “Give your appliances the afternoon off” quips J. She looks at my unresponsive features and says “don’t you remember those commercials?” My mind turns to images of women fanning themselves on the front porch with weathered copies of Life magazine. “Bring Mama another martini” I joke. “That paper mache isn’t going to make itself” she responds.

The one who floods the private sanctuary
I've built, who takes away sleep,
who drags and throws me under,
that presence is the joy I speak. -Rumi

I think about drinking another glass of water. A dull ache appears in my belly in protest. “It is going to be hot and dry,” said the weatherman. All I can think about is the clammy moister that relentlessly clings. “Why can’t we go home” whine the students. “Because you paid me to be here. It wouldn’t be right me asking you to leave now.” “But we don’t mind.”

A tinny blues recording whines from the stereo. The fan hums on the living room floor. The cats, stretched out on the carpet, remain motionless as the three year-old screams “but I don’t want to nap!” “Yeah?” I think. “And that paper mache isn’t going to make itself.”