august heat

A Rose Bowl run, summer heat, evening breeze–too crowded, kids on scooters, moms over strollers–but a darkening sky, night air and grass, buzzing street lamps, yellow against grey-blue. A full moon rising, against red-grey-blue and black hills silhouetted, and yellow street lamps that hum. It is the August heat of last year when the hills above our house burned, stifling and dry, and today I noticed, winding up the 2 freeway, that tuffs of green spread over the bald brown mountains. What a difference a year makes. And so I prepare to leave these hot hills and head to the beach. 26 blocks from the beach, if you’re excited and want to be precise (2.5 miles, to be even more so).

August is a good month (in my life) for this, for all of this—putting it on the line. I bought a new copy of William Zinsser’s classic On Writing Well this time last year, when I finally figured out that I wanted to do the former and thought I should figure out how to do it according to the later. And so this quote from the wise Zinsser sits above my desk, a desk I soon must unmantle and move.


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