The Heat of Candlefire

I had so many things I meant to catalog today. For instance, the scent list from my run this morning. It included:

fresh cut grass
dryer sheets
toasted onion
photo developing solution
hot asphalt
old lady
fertilizer
gardenias

I actually took my camera on my run this time. I'm tired of seeing things I want to photograph and pretending I will come back later and get them. But my 24-exposure roll stopped advancing at 12, and I was dismayed. My customer service frustrations reignited themselves. I sent strongly-worded emails to those who would bilk me of my gold. I tidied up. I tinkered. I envisioned what I will hang on certain walls once I get around to the framing I need to have done. I dropped off my film. I felt hot and nervous and then cool and at ease. I sided with the wait staff when hooligan youths made a nuisance of themselves at Canter's. And I will admit that I was tempted to take that matzoh ball they left on the table, untouched. Such a waste. Such a waste. I thought about writing poetry but didn't. Instead, I watched the clock. And I put a lot out of my mind for as long as I could. And I wasn't surprised when it all popped back in.

There were so many candles lit in my apartment, I longed for air conditioning. A flame, however small, always heats things up.