Heat, lack of sleep and swarms of mosquitos = deep impairment of equanimity. The body, that good old workhorse, gets cranky. The slightest frustration added to the mix and a melt-down threatens, down to the inchoate levels of a small child trying to express a need to which no one responds.
The mosquitos don’t even express their gratitude, damn it. Generations will live because of me. You’d think that would deserve something other than burning, itchy welts all over.
Consolation of the negative kind. As in: come on, the swarms weren’t as bad as in that accursed hotel in Kalamata where what I’d taken for a wall pattern turned out to be traces from nightly battles against the swarms.
It’s the little things that get to you. I look at the pinkish clouds with a baleful eye, and long for a pool of cool water devoid of mosquitos, black flies and all other stinging life forms.
Imaginary, of course – the bit about the Sargasso Sea. The sun, rising. The air, still. The mosquitos, happy, if such an emotion is available to them. Me, clammy with sweat and trying to escape a night chorus of Erinyes howling why why why. (The fact, as wikipedia reminds, that the Vengeful Three appeared as punishment for those who had sworn a false oath does nothing to lighten the comparison. Something like an existential knot in the fabric of time: what about true oaths no one wishes to acknowledge? How do you find release from those? Forfeit all claims? Wipe out the debt no one will pay? Yes. How.)
The wall, in other words.
The sky above is of a fearsome, cloudless blue. The wispy, pinkish clouds hang out in the eastern part of the scene. Cats fighting in mid-distance. The dog at the window, tongue lolling.
I look forward to human company of the daytime variety.
* but, in fact, a faint flutter of fresh air at precisely 6:44 am, local time.