(Photo from Salon.com. Deep Water Horizon burning.)

I have the air conditioning on. Outside, it's 91 degrees at 1:10 p.m. By late afternoon, especially down on the Commons, it could once again top 100 degrees. 

September 2nd is usually the beginning of autumn here. At night, it should be nippy enough that I would have added a blanket to the bed, and, if going out, have layered myself in a cardigan. Right now, Rob and I sleep, on top of the sheets, nude, and debate the efficacy of opening a window when the temperature has only dropped 20 degrees. 

I am sitting here in my second-floor apartment, grading a batch of papers by my new students. 

Or I was.

I went on the Internet to retrieve a late paper that was being sent via e-mail when I saw the headlines about the newest oil rig explosion, and I felt sick.

The hum of the air conditioner amplified my unease. 

We have had the hottest summer on record. Consecutive weeks of 90-degree plus weather, little rain, one brief respite of a few days of 60-degree days, and then the hot weather returned. Trees are shedding leaves like a Husky in spring, and already, I'm concerned that the beauty that keeps  me sane--namely, the iridescence of fall--as winter bears down upon us, will be lost to the drought and the heat. 

Reports say that the 13 members of the crew of the rig owned by Mariner Energy have been accounted for. That is fantastic news, given that we quickly forgot the men who perished on the Deep Water Horizon. (I take marine accidents personally, given that my brother fishes in the Bering Sea, the most dangerous profession in the country)

Of course, working on an oil rig is dangerous. As is coal mining, and this Labor Day, how many of us are going to remember the risks that we put others through to make sure we can drive our cars to our vacation destinations?

Which brings me back to my air conditioning.

My air conditioning is brought to me courtesy of coal miners. Just up the lake, you can see the enormous coal plant that burns, night and day, each and every day of the year, to keep us hot when we're cold and cool when we're hot, to power this computer upon which I type, to power the refrigerator that keeps my food fresh, and my rooms lit against the blackness of night.

Each evening, this entire town comes to a stop as the enormous coal train lumbers through, crossing major intersections at rush hour. Dozens of coal cars, packed to the rim, bringing up black gold from just over the Pennsylvania border. And we sit, our engines running, as we await the raising of the railroad-crossing barriers. 

At this moment, this region is involved in an enormous, neighbor-vs-neighbor fight over the natural gas companies who want to frack us. Sure, some of us will get rich from leasing our properties to the natural gas companies, but most of us will get screwed when our drinking water becomes contaminated. 

I've turned the air conditioning off. Already, the temperature in the room has risen a few degrees, and the air thickens and presses against my face, inviting the migraine to begin. 

I struggle. I ask myself if my air conditioning is contributing to the problem. Yes. Of course. Of that, there's no doubt. But does turning off the air conditioning, sitting in misery while I work, is that going to make a difference? 

If each and every one of us agreed to turn off our air conditioning for one day, to really feel how hot it's getting, how we're boiling in that big pot on the stove, would it be enough to make us stop and pay attention to what the hell we're doing to our earth? 

Would it make us think about what our thirst for energy costs others? The miners in Chile? The dead from the Deep Sea Horizon? The 13 crew members on board the oil rig that's currently burning? The millions of fish, fowl, and mammals that died in the gloopy mess of the Gulf? Of Prince William Sound in Alaska? Of the troops who died in Iraq? Of the troops who are dying in Afghanistan? 

My head spins. Maybe it's the heat. 

I have papers to grade. 

In five more minutes, I'm going to turn that air conditioner back on, and, if I'm lucky, obliviousness will return. 

It's too hot to think right now.