Matt Hill
Dear folks back home,
Second week of July, and it’s hotter than a stepped on hornets nest here. Geronimo Pedemonte, aged 3, remains at rest in the cemetery down the street. Not much fruit on the backyard trees this summer due to the drought. Heat paralysis is a very real possibility without a fan going. We are in nearest proximity to the Dog Star right about now. Interpersonal consternation abounds in the mid-summer heat. Winter is just around the corner in six months. Smoke from the wildfires up north will be returning tomorrow. She just told me to Help myself to the frozen tamales. Previously, there have been others who wrote letters like this. The fifth wave of contagion is now upon us. The weather outlook: thundershowers this afternoon into evening. The neighborhood remains cohesively divisive. Somehow the checks never arrive in the mail. By living on the cusp of uncertainty, we develop ourselves inexplicably. Carving out a living sure is a wearisome thing. Science continues to reveal wonders of the apriori world. Mixed messages rule the day. The checkbook could be balanced, but just staring out the windows seems more important. Breakfast doesn’t have to be some big project. Patience results by living stoically. At the “end of the day”, there is so much more than just the end of the day. There is monsoonal weather now arriving from the southeast. The wells here are going dry, the people are having to move on. Feeling peevish is one thing; but stifling that thing is the more dangerous of the two. Every night a pair of Great Horned Owls do their hunting hoots, which echo out across the chestnut orchard. And the massive wildfires keep chewing through the dry terrains. It seems that metaphoric potential is what delivers the literary punch in writing. The bass lines are there to uphold everything else. The wild turkeys here have been crapping up a storm in the front yard. The Big Guy said Let there be light, and it became so. Our minds taunt us with such inappropriate suggestions. The sunflowers in the garden tend to embellish the summer evenings. We are in drought status here; the trees and shrubs are stressed. Economically, we are feeling in peril, even as the household power stays on. The wild bunnies here are having yet another population boom. The way up and down are the same Heraclitus said. Clock time is just a shadow of real time according to the time experts. Midsummer has a texture of complex simplicity. Laundry is always in process. Some jobs require a dump truck, and this might be one of them. The blackberries along the roadside are ready for picking. The humid muggy dog days rule the torpid hours. Many thousands of fire refugees are now fleeing the raging infernos that consume all in their fiery path. The smoke is pervasive upon the driven winds. Regardless of circumstance, the letters must still be written and mailed off. Individual survival daily spans the generations. So it is best to have a civil attitude towards the hostile and ignorant ones. World weariness is augmented by summer’s lassitude. Every evening, the little bats streak through the gloaming. Best to figure in a delay for road work. Yesterday, we had to bury Toby the dog. Running out of reasons to live may result in death.
All the best wishes, your ever loving son,
Wilmer …
Residing in the southern part of Northern California, Matt Hill is a sculptor, poet, and fiction writer. His poetry, prose, fiction and reviews can be found in print and on many Internet venues, including BlazeVox Books, Gradient Books, Moria Press, Big Bridge, Chiron Review, Rain Taxi Review and Talisman. Yet Another Blunted Ascent and Tertium Quid are his latest books (Moria Press, 2017).