At least August temps have stayed in the 80s (~30+C), but the blasted humidity remained moderate to high.
As they say in the desert, it’s a dry heat. Right (BS), hot is hot no matter how wet or dry it is; but wet heat is the worst.
Sweat City, I like to think of it as how it’s been; and now the forecast calls for rain during the next several days, spiking up the humidity even more with temperatures going back into the 90s (32+C). Looks like a good time to stay indoors and work on some music to maybe add to a post at a future date.
A mini- heat wave for another hot blast takes over toward the end of this week with overnight lows dipping down to 80 (26.666C), a déjà vu from June and July. This has been the summer from Hell.
Regardless, I love the full sensation of an actual déjà vu, don’t you? For me it’s an overwhelming rush like I had just relived something over again. Certainly you’ve felt it.
Whenever the events occur in rapid succession is when I’ve found them to precede profound periods of change, one of the few things in life that’s a constant.
My déjà-vu experience with the forthcoming mini-inferno, however, is something like how Phil Connors felt in the movie, Groundhog Day: waking up each morning with feelings filled with dread.
Groundhogs have it made during heat waves. If it gets too hot, they scurry back down into their burrows and cool off in the naturally air-conditioned, underground digs.
The rodents live on leafy vegetation, as seen coming out of Sam’s mouth, a diet that’s plentiful for them to devour with the least expenditure of energy.
The plowed-under dwelling remained fully furnished with fifteen rooms of furniture and whatever else had survived the years of vandalism which occurred after Farley’s death, until finally being filled-in with dirt by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, whose Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) took over the property after Robert Logan died.
Kids set tires on fire in one of the rooms, put out by the fire department, which was the final straw for the Commonwealth to demolish a fascinating piece of local art and cultural history, inside which I would be willing to bet some of Blossom Farley’s creations remain buried, to be rediscovered only during an archeological dig sometime in the distant future, after we humans and the world as we knew it had been eradicated by something or another.
Getting back to Sam, I envision him lounging on one of Farley’s modeling couches once the sun sets. Divans are probably a leftover furnishing for when the artist painted reclining nudes. I’m stretching it there, fully and presumptuously; although, Richard Blossom Farley had painted naked woman, frolicking in the dunes, presumably again at Sarobia.
An ongoing fantasy of mine is to attach an infrared camera, like a GoPro, at the top of Sam’s head to see what may be left under there.
My thoughts are filled constantly with this silly notion when I pass by the location on my regular jaunts around the property.
Surely the rascal bore many tunnels throughout the underground domicile, exiting to the outside again at various spots. I’ve seen lots of holes coming out all from inside the perimeter of what had once been occupied during the heat waves of yesteryear by Farley. My thirst for mystery and adventure intensifies at every conclusion drawn as to what might still be laying beneath and covered over.
Oh well, that’s something we’ll never know, unless some wealthy, art-loving philanthropist makes an offer to the DCNR for restoring the underground dwelling to its former magnificence for art’s sake. Ha! That’s another cornball fantasy. Everything is in total ruin most likely.
Anyhow, that would knock Sam out of his home. Too bad, but he can build one easily enough. The varmint, otherwise known as a woodchuck, looks like a well-fed young one who can afford to burn off some calories by burrowing another hole or two elsewhere.
Incidentally, many groundhogs live all over Sarobia, now Neshaminy State Park in Eddington, Pa. To make it easy to identify them, I’ve named them all “Sam,” like George Foreman did with his sons, naming them all “George.”
Thanks for reading if you made it this far; and as always, thanks for your continued support.