Summer melts the mind and slides like a Dali clock right off the table. Soon we’ll be freezing. We’re caught in the climate crossfire between teens and triple digits here in the time of Global Warning. The whole country is becoming a case of drought or drown, shiver or schvitz. Our children’s children aren’t going to like this, or us for that matter.
But enough about any place but here, anytime but now.
Sittin’ Sunday at an outdoor table on a Brooklyn street, in a strange between land that’s half past Clinton Hill, a quarter to Bed Stuy; not quite the No-White-Man’s-Land of yesterday, not quite the trendy neighborhood of tomorrow, at a sidewalk “Café/Wine Bar”, across the street from “Saint’s Temple Church of God in Christ” (make up your mind!) and “Majestic Heights“ warehouse of some sort, right beside a spanking new balconied co-op. This hood’s got the disappearing past-is-being-railroaded-outta-here blues.
And while I’m sipping my large glass of wine, I’m feeling how, along with the arc of the high, my life span is starting to follow the bent of the track slowly down the mountain, a/k/a over the hill, just like summer as well, here at the beginning of August — summer’s apex — the year’s ball batted high into a hot sky, overlooking for a moment the annual stadium, the city, and horizon beyond, glimpsing infinity, the sunset to come, the inevitable end of everything and Glory Herself, before descending back to earth, where autumn, much like my wine (and our summer) buzz, falls to its wintry demise.
And ex-hippie freak me, now time-lurched into becoming yet another Other: Now I’m too old, sitting here among the Young Tribe, like a lone Arab camping at the outskirts of ancient Judea, about as tolerated, about as ignored.
Waking up aged. When did this happen? When I wasn’t looking, and when I was busy running my life as if I were still 30 or 40, that’s when. Now I’m limping along, suddenly somehow more irritable, due to AWOL synapses apparently, and what did I come in here for? And where did I put my friggin’ — oh here it is! Right in front of my face! And why am I also actually limping? (“Your right leg is longer”. But it’s always been longer!)
Standing on this Brooklyn inbound highway with my Man At Work sign, I need a break. But whenever I try to talk to my boss about it, he’s like, “Not now! Can’t you see I’m busy?!” He’s a fuckin’ tyrant. Most workers would have gone on strike long ago, or have gotten a flu or something. But nooooo, I have to be healthy day after day after day! Maybe the next time I drink I’ll sneak a few extra shots past him and wind up drunk and break a leg. Then he’ll have to listen.
Meantime, there’s still time — a full month — until the Day of Labor inserts a period at the end of the pregnant summer pause.
Maybe I can still save this sweaty baby.
And now, a Shelley Update: Stabilized; happily home and healing; stirring up decorating mischief; she’s up for the downtime. Thanks from us both for your heartfelt wishes.