Since I last wrote, summer solstice has come and gone and a sultry heat has settled on this place. When it's so hot, everything slows and expands and perspires. It's heavy. I want to soak my feet in a bowl of ice cubes. But at the same time, I just want to sweat it out.
When it's so hot, sharp focus gets fogged by a swelling cerebrum. I'm only half-present and half-functional right now.
It's been a strange day for more than that.
Farrah Fawcett died this morning. Then Michael Jackson this afternoon. Ed McMahon passed earlier this week. It's strange when cultural icons pass. Their careers, sometimes their entire lives, are recorded in a medium that never dies. And in that respect they live on and on and on.
But I'm still sad. To those of us who've never known the person, the sadness comes from the idea that a source of such amazing artistry and inspiration is no more. And also the idea of a person leaving this world too young and too violently—an exit that breaks the idealism of celebrity yet at the same time explodes their status to celestial heights. They'll always be superstars in my mind.