The weather is thick with humidity. It is hot, a scorcher at 89°. According to the weatherman it feels like 107°. My friend said she felt logy, a perfect description. I just sit. Moving around takes too much energy. I was going to the dump, but I don’t feel like hauling trash. The dogs have finally settled. They spent the morning panting, drooling a bit. Nala is asleep in front of the fan while Henry is by the door. They’ll perk up near dinner time.

I have friends I’ve known since the 1950’s. We were either in school together or on the drill team or both. I remember we’d have drill practice then we’d walk to O’Grady’s diner for a brownie with fudge sauce and ice cream if we had the money. We’d finish then separate and walk home in different directions. I always walked through the square, pass the fire station, the town hall and four churches. Three of those churches face each other on corners. I usually walked alone as no one else went in my direction. I loved those walks. The sidewalks had circles of light from lamps shining through windows. Street lights lit the sides of the road. It was quiet. I could hear my footsteps on the sidewalk. I could see flickering lights from TV’s through some windows. Very few cars passed by me. I sort of owned the night.

When I was in Accra, the capital of Ghana, I had the same sense. Some nights I’d walk to the hostel after a movie or dinner. I never worried about walking alone. Men talking low sat in small groups on chairs on the sidewalk. We greeted each other. I could see smoke from their pipes and cigarettes. It was mostly dark. Few stores were open. Some taxis were still on the road but very few cars. I loved that walk.

I am a night owl. I go to bed in the wee hours. When the dogs go out, I often join them and stand on the deck. All the houses are dark. It is always quiet, not even a car goes by my street. I often wonder on an especially beautiful night if people know they are missing one of the best parts of the day. I’d tell them, but I’m not so sure I want to share.

The air is thick, dripping with humidity. The morning is dark, cloudy, but the sun is there behind the clouds, waiting a turn. It is already 81°. It is a day to sit, maybe watch a movie, read for a bit and take an afternoon nap. The dogs are exhausted from doing nothing. They are sleeping soundly.

I haven’t any lists. The week is quiet. I didn’t even have any uke events. Our uke director is ill so everything was cancelled. I haven’t gotten dressed in outside clothes all week. I am enjoying idleness. I have become adept at guiltless lethargy.

My muse is taking a hiatus. Nothing much is happening. I find myself talking out loud to the dogs more, reflecting about what I’ve read or what I’ve seen on TV. They don’t even pretend to listen unless I say treat. But despite the inactivity, I haven’t yet reached ennui. I have a jigsaw puzzle started, a book I’m reading and old movies to watch. I’m watching World War II movies and 50’s science fiction.

I watch videos of Ghana, of walks through streets and markets. It is as if I am there. I remember the mornings. They are clear with sharp sunlight. On market day, women walk on paths from their villages carrying goods on their heads to sell. The market quickly gets busy, noisy. In one section, tables are in a line, one beside each other. Aunties selling their goods sit behind each table usually under an umbrella or an overhang. The tables are filled with the same offerings, mostly tomatoes, garden eggs, okra, plantain and onions. The oddly shaped tomatoes are usually stacked in a pyramid. The prices hardly differ from table to table. I remember randomly choosing a table. The transaction is always the same. The seller takes the money, puts the tomatoes in a clear plastic bag and adds a few, a dash, a thank you. That bag goes into another bag, a black plastic bag with hand holes. Every transaction is the same. It always ends with the black plastic bag.