There will come a time, some months from now, when a sunny seventy-degree day is a distant memory to ache for.

This is that memory day. An hour ago we topped out at 77. The extended ten-day forecast says it might hit 69 if we’re lucky a week from now. But tomorrow night will brush up against the teens, and that will become more and more like the rule.

I did my best to take the blessing seriously. The screen door has been open to the air since 9 AM, and thus the indoor temperature is sitting at a fuel-free 71. The catboxes are clean. The trash is at the curb. I did some deep springlike cleaning in my office, dusting while the fresh air was warm enough to be let in, and I got a very respectable amount of organizing done at the same time.

My life is very very small and I don’t mind that so much any more.

***

I heard a thing today, that part of me did mind. It seems that a lot of the vanguard artists that succeeded in the Sixties and Seventies got to the top in part because they were funded to succeed by three letter agencies. Gloria Steinem says that Jackson Pollock, the drippy paint guy, and she herself, got plugged and promoted and got told that they were on her side, and that they loved that JFK just as much as she did.

But we know they killed him, too.

This makes perfect sense to me. They pump up businesses–that’s their job, ultimately. “Looking out for ‘our’ interests overseas”. Why not the better class of artistic ventures as well?

It makes my own failures a little easier to take, of course, so I shall choose to believe it fiercely.