I am exhausted. Hot, too. Thankfully today is much cooler, but a few days back it was the hottest day ever recorded in Minnesota. Of course, there are certain factors regarding the weather station calling the official numbers into question, but here’s what we’ve got:
The dew point sensor at Moorhead spiked to
88 degrees at 7pm Tuesday evening. That’s the highest dew
point ever recorded in Minnesota. (Previous record was/is 86
degrees).
When you combine the air temperature of 93 at that hour,
the heat index calculates out to a Persian Gulf level of
130 degrees! That would also be the highest heat index
ever recorded in Minnesota. (Previously 124 degrees
at Moorhead in 1966)
HERE IS A LISTING OF THE MAXIMUM
HEAT INDEX VALUES CALCULATED FROM
THE TEMPERATURE AND DEW POINT
REPORTED BY AUTOMATED SENSORS
ACROSS CENTRAL AND SOUTHERN
MINNESOTA AND WEST CENTRAL
WISCONSIN.
MINNEAPOLIS ASOS (836 FT)(ASOS) 353 PM JUL 19 119 F
Anyhow, it has been HOT. Mykala and I both took turns going a little bit crazy on different days — the heat went to our heads.
So, here I sit at our office desk, with the fan blowing directly at me, trying to cram some information into my head for my last standard exam of school.
This is us during our 2-day-prior to our 2-year-anniversary celebratory dinner out. It was an absolute blast. We savored and shared our way through a delicious 4 course vegetarian flavor fest at a tremendous Minneapolis restaurant called Restaurant Alma.
I’ve been thinking about the movie Tree of Life, and I haven’t really gotten anywhere. A nice, attempted partial explication of the themes was written by Matt Zoller Seitz, but take a look at this quote:
Why is there a creation sequence? What does it mean?
It’s probably in there because Malick has been imagining
the creation of the universe since he was a boy, and
always wanted to see it depicted on a big screen.
This bothers me a little bit. Basically, Malick gets to produce this entire rambling piece that Seitz describes as a puzzle with no box art. Malick doesn’t do interviews. We don’t know what Malick truly intended. So, we have to place an enormous amount of trust in Malick, that he actually does have an overarching artistic vision.
What if he doesn’t?
If there’s no strict vision, then Malick gets to just toss in scenes of whatever he wants, whenever he wants to. The viewers and critics are forced to do intellectual backflips to connect dots that might not have even been meant to be connected.
I think I trust Malick, but I don’t really have any reason to do so. I’m not sure if all the dots are worth connecting.
My 84-year-old patient was nearing the end of another denture fitting appointment, and he had just accidentally spilled all of his water on the operatory floor. “No no,” I said, “you’re doing just fine.” Trying to reassure him, I couldn’t think of anything better to say.
At the time, I didn’t realize that I was not going to see my patient again. Shortly after that appointment, I was informed that he had to be transferred to hospice and would be unable to make any future appointments at the school. Still, a few months later, his words come to me every few days, reminding me of something important.
Biking along the Greenway today, my wife and I were happy: we will soon celebrate two years of marriage, we have years of happiness ahead, and are excited about the unpredictable nature of life. Like a path strewn with riches I don’t yet know of, my life winds away in front of me.
I’m just old enough to know I should enjoy what youth I still have.
I’m young enough to be able to execute.
But there’s still this poison that creeps in: as we biked along, I’m getting upset about something at school, or upset that there’s something in my eye, or angry that I didn’t pack sunscreen. The point is: loss of perspective is poison. It yanks you out of the experiential and into the narrative. And it happens to me with shameful frequency. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, my patient’s words crash through my shortsightedness: “I’m not doing so well.”
Alex, here you are, doing great. But you think there’s something wrong. You’ve got years ahead, but you’re stuck dwelling on short-term minutiae. You’ve got your health, but obsess over the jog you didn’t take. Inevitably, when I recall my patient’s words, I feel a sense of guilt. Somewhere, in a quiet room, my patient is sitting. He can’t do the things I can. His best years are behind him. He has family, but more often than not they’re elsewhere. He told me getting married was the best thing he ever did, but now his wife is gone.
Yet, I have the audacity to get upset over something in my eye.
We biked the Midtown Greenway today: headed over to Lake Calhoun and enjoyed the shops and biking. On the southwest side of the lake, there was a group of college kids that had set up a giant slip ‘n slide. We stopped and joined the spectators. One lady: “I couldn’t figure out why that girl was covered in soap!”
On our way back, we stopped at the connection between Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles, which turns 100 in two days. The plaque on the path there said that 100,000 people celebrated the joining of the two lakes, that celebrations last for a week, that the lakes were filled with whimsical floats, and that a symphony from New York came in to perform a march written expressly for the occasion.
