Strange, these long summer days...
...which seem without end in this lush deviled paradise called the Deep South. Oh, I love it, this pretty hell on Earth, this savage garden, this humid green swamp that can steal your soul and swallow you whole. It doesn't matter, the danger, the seduction, the paint-peeling heat - what matters is what the whispers promise you, the long-coming offer of autumn, the renewal late in the year (fall don't come 'til October anyway), the rumors of autumn. Sitting inside all day, it's sometimes easy to forget the brain-boiling heat, the frothing, sun-winked slow death of Louisiana summer.
Sitting in the driver's seat yesterday afternoon on the way to the gym, I felt the many miles fattening my car, but more keenly I felt the ghost of my sister's unhappiness, who is so far away, where autumn comes at its appointed time, and comes with fanfare, not stealthiness. I sat in the car a short moment, missing her, missing her voice, her smile, her little-sister trusting; but I could not drive away her sorrow, or mine from missing her, or knowing her sorrow.
Coming to work is an abomination, like going to an amusement park on the day of a dear friend's funeral. Usually work is a balm, a soothing influence for my restlessness, for the hunger that wracks me, the desire that demands I drive to New York and rescue my sister from her misery. But now work seems full of people missing the point, or frantic because of ill-used time, or blind to need, seeing only desire. Work seems full of failure, too, and frustration. How can satisfaction be derived from such an environment? It can't be, so you just strap your boots a little tighter, set your pack a little higher, and hope and pray for the best: to make it through the day with your dignity, with your sanity, to finally climb the stairs to your apartment, where the cats are curled on the cool couch, and have a little dinner, water your plants (which are wilting in this earthly inferno), do a few chores (which are a balm to the hurting heart), and then take a little pleasure in the dim evening. And then to wait for your lover's step on the stairs, and welcome him home, arms open, before sliding between cool, dark blue sheets, for a little peace, before the whole frenzied process starts over again with the voice in the belltower.
It'll be this way for weeks, but somewhere in there, this ennui, this madness, will melt away - perhaps the sanctity of your brother's wedding will right your wrongs - and it'll all be okay. You'll get over the people, get over the frustrations, get over the frenzy; your anniversary is in a few months and, gods of economy willing, you'll be able to celebrate in some nice, meaningful way. Autumn will stop talkin' the talk and actually walk the walk, and this temporary hell will disappear. And then? Well, then, winter can't be far behind, with deep dark nights that ease the world to sleep...
Sitting in the driver's seat yesterday afternoon on the way to the gym, I felt the many miles fattening my car, but more keenly I felt the ghost of my sister's unhappiness, who is so far away, where autumn comes at its appointed time, and comes with fanfare, not stealthiness. I sat in the car a short moment, missing her, missing her voice, her smile, her little-sister trusting; but I could not drive away her sorrow, or mine from missing her, or knowing her sorrow.
Coming to work is an abomination, like going to an amusement park on the day of a dear friend's funeral. Usually work is a balm, a soothing influence for my restlessness, for the hunger that wracks me, the desire that demands I drive to New York and rescue my sister from her misery. But now work seems full of people missing the point, or frantic because of ill-used time, or blind to need, seeing only desire. Work seems full of failure, too, and frustration. How can satisfaction be derived from such an environment? It can't be, so you just strap your boots a little tighter, set your pack a little higher, and hope and pray for the best: to make it through the day with your dignity, with your sanity, to finally climb the stairs to your apartment, where the cats are curled on the cool couch, and have a little dinner, water your plants (which are wilting in this earthly inferno), do a few chores (which are a balm to the hurting heart), and then take a little pleasure in the dim evening. And then to wait for your lover's step on the stairs, and welcome him home, arms open, before sliding between cool, dark blue sheets, for a little peace, before the whole frenzied process starts over again with the voice in the belltower.
It'll be this way for weeks, but somewhere in there, this ennui, this madness, will melt away - perhaps the sanctity of your brother's wedding will right your wrongs - and it'll all be okay. You'll get over the people, get over the frustrations, get over the frenzy; your anniversary is in a few months and, gods of economy willing, you'll be able to celebrate in some nice, meaningful way. Autumn will stop talkin' the talk and actually walk the walk, and this temporary hell will disappear. And then? Well, then, winter can't be far behind, with deep dark nights that ease the world to sleep...