It's Not the Heat

Heat in Iowa is oppressive. Heat in Maryland is demoralizing. Heat in moister regions of the country is a sticky, wet violation, like the frotteur on a crowded bus. In Arizona, yes, it's really, really freaking hot, and yes, it's a dry heat. Arizona heat is more like an overbearing co-worker who stands a little too close and talks a little too loud. One can easily escape.

It's not the heat, it's the light. The light is unforgiving. Every flaw is on display. It's surgery lighting, dentist chair lighting. It's just too much. In the public restroom is a sunscreen dispenser next to the soap dispenser. Sunglasses, floppy hats, golf umbrellas, permanent shade structures all attempt to provide respite from the unrelenting brightness.

The Wisconsin part of my brain still thinks that, when it's summer vacation, children should be outside.  There are no children outside. Neighborhoods are deserted. Remember the opening scenes of The Andromeda Strain? 

Cabin fever sets in and I am homesick for forests. Not only for the coolness and the green. For softer light. Gentler filtered light.

After sundown, parents take children to the park. Dogs get walked at night. Joggers emerge. It hasn't cooled off at all, but at least the brightness is gone. Sleeping all day. Watch TV all night. They, we are gradually turning into vampires.

I have a different understanding of the concept of the siesta. Who can sleep through the heat of the day? It's the bright of the day I want to escape.

Bright enough for you?