It's ten after five. I've been awake since 4. Mosquitoes. The hole uncovered in the corner of the bedroom, beneath the cat pee saturated carpet, is a portal for all the blood denied mozzies who sing at the screen door every night. My body was safe beneath the fan but my hands, dangling over the edge of the bed in the heat sprawled posture of insomnia, are pebbled with bites. Damn them. The cat pee? Never a problem until we had the termite men clomping around looking for damage. Since then someone has lost their map to the three kitty boxes. Not always but enough that I've removed two squares of carpet. The culprit remains a mystery. I am pretty sure it's not Nairobi. That leaves Natalia or Matisse.

Today it's supposed to get to 39 degress (104 Fahreinheit). Even now a fine sheen of sweat slicks my upper lip and forehead. I can take the heat, don't like it but it's okay. But I worry about the animals, especially the verandah birds. It gets very hot even with screening the full length and two doors into the house for airflow. The saving grace is that storms and showers are a possibility, especially welcome as we've not had good rain in nearly a month. Only 2.5 mm. The grass is parched and yellow. Of course the danger with this heat and the long summer drought is that the storms can be severe, hail being the most dangerous. I've watched storms dance toward us on the radar only to skip around at the last moment. Today might be our day,

Yoga has unlooked for side effects. Twice now I've stood on one foot while removing a shoe to free it of a stone. Taken the shoe off, shook it and ut it back on, tying laces and everything without ever overbalancing. Two years ago I couldn't have done that. Then there is the awareness of posture. Standing at the sink, one legged, feeling it and planting my legs in a soapy handed mountain pose. Or feeling myself slide down the couch or chair into a teenage posture of supreme ennui only to pull myself erect. The mental or spiritual benefits are less obvious. Getting off dairy foods (except those found in chocolate and the milk powder I use to make bread) because I don't want to take advantage of cows and their orphan calves is one. I do feel better about myself for that. Less guilty. Am I better person? I don't know. My spiritual side gets flattened beneath the weight of ego. At least I'm aware of it, sometimes. I get cranky with Richard and try to let go of resentment sooner, not easy for me who mulls and steeps and simmers in quiet anger that I, ME! should be thwarted, ignored, or worst of all, not be seen to be right. The curse of needing to be right. For instance, we go on our afternoon walks wth the dogs. Fresh air, sunshine, country beauty and Richard is stariing down at the road a million miles away. How dare he not be in the moment, be there with me! So I simmer. Then of course, I am not there in the moment either. I'm stewing. I'm better now at stopping that train of thought to nowhere but not free of it yet.

Found a new blog from which I've asked to get newsletters. Goins, Writer. There's a photo of him. He looks like an Irish pixie. Red hair, round face, looks about 12. But he writes well with fervour and feeling. About being a writer. I'm a toe in the water writer. One book, another half a book, lots of notebooks with stuttering story starts that peter out as soon as the buzz of something new falters. And this blog and the trunkful of journals that I'll reread someday when I'm really old. So really, I've written my entire adult life. But am I a writer? Or an artist for that matter with the dozens of drawings and paintings either on the walls or collecting in the dark folds of an oversized notebook. Or just someone who needs to write or draw when the mood is upon me but that hasn't the spark or drive to do anything about my output. Or to try to be good enough to do something about it? Writing and painting are crafts. I use them as self-indulgences. The urge to write and paint are akin to needing to love. The times in my life when I was between love affairs were times when I felt this overwhelming urge not to be loved but to love. Like I was swelling up and would burst if I couldn't find someone upon whom I could focus that feeling. It's the same with creativity. I get restless. There's the feeling of having to do something, make something, create something. Whether it's good or commercially viable doesn't enter into it. I just have to do it, without judgement (at least at at the time).