lizarding.

and other coping mechanisms.

I’ve been reading my horoscope lately—trying to divine from various celestial bodies where to focus my energies and devote my time. Last week I was advised to plant seeds and so I obliged. I chose cosmos because I love them and because, well, cosmos. The school-sowed Mother’s Day beans my kids gave me are growing tall, transplanted from bedazzled pots into cracked terracotta. Whether they’ll fruit, I’m not sure, but they haven’t been burnt to a crisp or wind-whipped so far and so everyone’s happy.

This time of year, when I’m at home by myself and working during the day, I sneak onto the roof at every available opportunity. No matter that it’s scorching or that the sun makes it impossible to see the computer screen that I lug with me to justify the indulgence. No matter that the lease says no or that rooftop lounging is not at all conducive to efficient work. My laptop heats up too quickly and burns my bare thighs, so I rest it next to me and type one-handed, shading the sun from my eyes with one hand, computer, and me, both slowly getting cooked by the sun.

Next door, a neighbor is mowing a postage-stamp-sized yard and spending enough time doing it to mow several football fields, at least. Another neighbor’s yard is a construction site and there’s a generator—of noise, if not electricity—humming mightily. They are building a bunker, or probably a basement. From the sound of it, someone else is using a hose to spray out an over-wintered cooler. Curled up spider carcasses, no doubt spinning in pools water. Someone is smoking a joint—the skunky smell of is cannabis wafts over climbing rose bushes and through black locust trees. If I’m brave and stick my head directly over the roof’s edge I can see the neighbor’s coral honeysuckle and how the Virginia creeper is racing its way up the back of the building, nearly tall enough to breech the roof. I am very brave.