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Jun. 22nd, 2012 07:26 pm"And now", he says (who? Who's to know?) "The Summer." And the summer comes. Right between your eyes.
Everyone knows I'm a partisan of Spring, everyone knows that. I was reading my Ovid the other day, the golden age of mankind, when everything was idyllic and perfect- Ovid says that then there was the permanent springtime, the beatific age. I'm one to agree with Ovid.
But it's Summer now, which is a different beast, not winter, not horrid, draining winter, all teeth and shivers, and not the autumn, gloomy in its chair, a grey-faced man, dying. It's the Summer which is the furious one, the lightning one, the wide eyed crazy one. Today and lately has been fury. That's the idea. That there is or are moments between moments where undetected things happen, the main things - and these accumulate in the system, like pollen made to honey, or arterial plaque made to heart failure. There's a thing. The nighttime pressure, the incentive - Go and Do - they're the summoners to the church of living, you're being tasked and asked - Go and Do. It's been a long and seameless year - since the end of last summer. There've been barely snows, barely colds, barely draughts and barely the misery, but today the sun starts dying again and remember with me, if you like, remember how it was all year of the sun's dying, a cold but not frigid a gloomy but not dark year? It was, I assure you, watchful of weather, mindful of skies. It was a long grey cloth lacking any stitch or pleat, just one great piece. But, you know, not all that great, and now it goes. A startling animation in the hands and behind the eyes, you feel it too - twitch and that anxiety - "What am I missing!" You don't wonder, you worry, the world is occurring. Restless and anxious to be in it, in it.
Everyone knows I'm a partisan of Spring, everyone knows that. I was reading my Ovid the other day, the golden age of mankind, when everything was idyllic and perfect- Ovid says that then there was the permanent springtime, the beatific age. I'm one to agree with Ovid.
But it's Summer now, which is a different beast, not winter, not horrid, draining winter, all teeth and shivers, and not the autumn, gloomy in its chair, a grey-faced man, dying. It's the Summer which is the furious one, the lightning one, the wide eyed crazy one. Today and lately has been fury. That's the idea. That there is or are moments between moments where undetected things happen, the main things - and these accumulate in the system, like pollen made to honey, or arterial plaque made to heart failure. There's a thing. The nighttime pressure, the incentive - Go and Do - they're the summoners to the church of living, you're being tasked and asked - Go and Do. It's been a long and seameless year - since the end of last summer. There've been barely snows, barely colds, barely draughts and barely the misery, but today the sun starts dying again and remember with me, if you like, remember how it was all year of the sun's dying, a cold but not frigid a gloomy but not dark year? It was, I assure you, watchful of weather, mindful of skies. It was a long grey cloth lacking any stitch or pleat, just one great piece. But, you know, not all that great, and now it goes. A startling animation in the hands and behind the eyes, you feel it too - twitch and that anxiety - "What am I missing!" You don't wonder, you worry, the world is occurring. Restless and anxious to be in it, in it.
