Yaga

Just stumbled over a fascinating site, or rather a suite of sites, because SiteMeter told me the site had directed some traffic my way.

Yaga (if it's appropriate so to identify him; I can't really tell) writes achingly of the heat, and the words ring with my sense of this summer (but for the gin, which is about the last of the clear liquors you'll find me drinking)).

So warm this year. The air is still. The curtains hang flat. There is no wind in the trees. There are no trees. At night the sheets are thick from the humid haze left draped over everything and everyone.

(snip)

When the sun rises the sun is constant through my bedroom window. There is nothing to do but lie in the middle of the floor. I drink small glasses of gin straight from the freezer; in this heat it grows tepid in a moment. The heats works into me as well. I irk at the slightest provocation. The slightest touch feels like a brand on my skin.

I listen to the hum of the fan. I watch the TV with the sound turned low. The pages of old, familiar books are some comfort, their rasp as they rub together under my fingers. And so I read. On the floor, in bed, at breakfast, for dinner. I barely eat. I can't cook in this heat.

(snip)

When the rains do come, when there is the slightest breeze in the deep of the night, I crawl out onto the fire escape with my cigarettes and my gin. If you need to find me, look there; if you do not find me there do not look further.

From a quick perusal, it appears he's quite the writer, and I intend to spend more time poking around his writing, his photography, etc. And in the meantime, I'm flattered to have found my way onto his blogroll. He'll make it onto mine next time I have a few minutes.