Today is May Day.
I have not been dancing around the May pole (phallic symbol of ancient Roman origins, around which the young nubile maidens turn, holding firmly attached ribbons), which does not disappoint me much.
It has been unbearably hot here the last few days. In the eighties (which, were it August, wouldn't be too hot) every day, and stuffy and warm in my non - air - conditioned apartment.
Being naked has become the last possible way to sleep. Even then, the concern that someone will open the door before I can get up and put on some clothes keeps me tossing and turning.
I'll get used to it eventually. There is always this shy period at the beginning of the warm season.
Yesterday, I went for my first long mountain-bike ride. We sidled up the front half of Forest Park (the largest municipal city park in the country--sorry you New Yorkers, but Central Park is smaller), which can be entered within half a mile of my place.
I'm not in terrible shape, surprisingly enough. Commuting (10 minutes) every day to work helps a bit. My muscles at least have an idea what they are doing. And I think my lungs were pleased to be breathing the clear air of the thick forest instead of the carbon-monoxide nightmare air of the city. It was beautiful, to say the least.
Finished with the ride, I pulled myself a very tepid bath, poured a glass of red wine, grabbed my copy of The Brothers Karamozov, lit a candle, tore off my grimy clothes, and settled into the water.
And as the salt-coating dissolved off of my body, and as I read about the self-confessed foolishness of a Russian monestary's elder, I began to finally relax. A long day, a long ride, a long bath, and a long drink of an oxygen-mellowed merlot.
It is beginning to rain now. The heat and humidity promise thunder tonight. And naked, in my bed, I will listen to the power of air colliding with itself.
