The humidity has me wondering. If I was to sit in one place for an extended period would I put out roots like a cast off seed and sink into the landscape? The moisture carried in the air is rich enough and fecund with that potential. The orchid garden on my balcony needs no soil, what do I need to grow? I sit here writing, in a sarong and a sticky layer of sweat. I can’t help thinking that I may be affected more by nature than my imagination is allowing me to process. It has come to mind that my every movement is being guided by the weather.
I had to ask myself yesterday if I was prepared to invest a clean shirt on a bus ride to another neighborhood for a dish of Pad Thai? I knew that by making that commitment I would be moving one day closer to doing laundry . I decided against it, the humidity is so high that nothing would dry if I were to hang it out on the balcony. Everything stays damp and gets dank smelling long before it can be hung back in my closet.
Of course you know that no one has an electric or gas clothes dryer here, the electricity to run the machine would be cost prohibitive for the average person, artists included. I made the decision to eat next door in the air conditioned cafeteria so that I wouldn’t have to expose myself to the outside long enough to sweat up my precious clean cotton.
My imagination is swirling somewhere in the mist today. Clothing is optional and imagination is the key to sweating out another humid day. Just as I don’t read fiction so I don’t accidentally plagiarize the idea’s and impressions of other writers I am thinking that one day I may look back on my writings here and discover that I have been induced to include weather related analogies and metaphors that have been imposed on me by the act of living under these conditions. An example is the work of DH Lawrence who went from Lady Chatterley’s Lover to Mornings in Mexico and dying of amoebic dysentery by immersing himself in an antipodal environment and allowing it to consume him. If I get overly ‘Tropo’ I want you guys to give me a call. Having said that, ‘Mornings in Mexico’ is brilliant and could never have been written from an armchair in Chelsea.