The cats are racing about the house at 5AM. It's just kerflumpuh-kerflumpuh-kerflumpuh up and down the hardwood stairs in the dark, and then scritchety-scritchety-scritchety on the base of all the doors. What do they want? I don't speak cat. Approach one, and he runs in the opposite direction. He's meroarwing in the other room now, clawing the forbidden ottoman. I got up and gave him a kitty treat. Seemed to make things worse.

It was 85 degrees yesterday, with a warm Santa Ana wind that swept out the sky and left it a deep, San Diego blue. The leaves come off the trees and whip about, settling in house corners and streetside pockets. I had just gotten used to wearing a sweater on the chilly nights, and shutting the window before bedtime, but here now, pre-dawn, the air is dry and warm again. The summer refuses to die.

The cat has clawed the office rug and is now rolling himself up in it.

There must be catnip in the air, or some other energized dust. A static electricity, which is not really static at all, but more of a pervading electrical charge. An invisible, pulsating field of energy moving the trees, blowing old paper upwards in a spiral dance, and causing the cats to freak out.

Moby, our Himalayan-Siamese mix, has a soft thick coat that stands on end when you bring your hand to it. He's anxious, restless. His eyes dart back and forth like he's following some invisible flying insect. And then Moby leaps onto the high back of an office chair, grips the leather with his claws, and holds on as it spins in circles from the force of his landing.

Weather like this stirs something up from the bottom of the pot. An old memory. A forgotten joy. Or pain. It makes you smile at a stranger, and tip your hat at a lady, which no one does anymore, which is why you do it, and then follow it up with an impulsive off-color joke. Because you'll never see them again, you see. It's a time to take a chance, be a little different, accept a new idea. Laugh it all off when no one gets you. And hurry. Because this rush of mood will soon be gone with the wind, and then it's back to our old, tiresome ways. Winter is comning.

The sun's coming up. I have a slight headache, since I had wine for dinner last night. And here, we're all out of half and half, which I prefer in my coffee, and so it tastes different today. The sky is clear, from horizon to horizon, like a full glass of room temperature water, no ice. I may go for a run, before the kid's baseball game this morning. Try to get something done this Saturday. Or start a new project again.


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