I'm overwhelmed by the response to "Heat Wave," the poem I linked to in yesterday's post. I was a little uneasy about submitting it, not sure if I'd figured out the balance among comedy, complaint, and longing, but apparently lots of readers are liking it a lot, which is a joy but also makes me feel like I should put my head in a bag. O, the myriad ways in which we stab ourselves . . .
Life here at Alcott House and her environs has suddenly become unsettled and cranky. Last week our neighborhood received notice that we were about to undergo water-main replacement, and yesterday a pack of irrigation and excavating guys showed up to lay the temporary pipes that will be our water source till November. The noise was incredible: jackhammers, dump trucks, generators, plus the carpenters next door working on my neighbor's porch, plus a chainsaw on an adjoining street, plus a strange Monday-afternoon party involving loud electronic-piano versions of singalong Sinatra songs. You could package up yesterday and sell it as a weaponized headache. And this is supposed to last for two months.
On top of everything else, a neighbor overhead that the city is going to cut down sidewalk trees on our block--some or all, we're not sure, but everyone is horrified, and we've been hurrying out to gossip in the evening calm about it.
In other news: I saw an old '70s-era Corvette with the license plate "BALZC4." Feel free to leave your speculations in the comments.