Today there was three homeless folks that I saw, met, and felt sorry for. I could not give the money because it was not Friday, which is my alms day. I gave a cigarette today, and a light, and realized that I need to stop smoking, except I do not want to think myself better than that.
It is the beginning of summer in this crowded and cluttered city. In this city in which you cannot even pick your nose in peace on the way home because there are eyes from every angle always watching you.
There is a Miller Light bottle cap in my pocket because I didn’t know where to put it. It is a badge of shame or honor depending on the crowd the you inhabit when you confess. I am so tired of confessions. I just want the truth to be real, to be something that we can all touch. My body is all swollen with the mess. The heat gets in my head. My body feels old.
To day was the longest day of the year. There was a party to go to at a recording studio. I thought of Gatsby. You should always have a party on this day of the year. I just wish we were all in linen and hats and that Dorothy Parker was telling jokes in corner.
I listened to This American Life today and the episode was about camp. Summer camps, places we made friends and lovers, maybe even got married, cried and wiped each other’s tears away. Places we were away from mom and dad in which for a brief period we could truly be confessional. There was so much innocence in those summers, in those bonds. Some of us (I am speaking of myself now), pissed that all away. To be so afraid of what it is that you are is to be in prison. I would love to hug each and all of the kids there again. The blonde twins, and the brunette that I kissed, without tongue, behind the boathouse, and the boys, Charlie, David, Ian.
I guess when I was a kid they were summer. They were something beautiful. Playboy magazines hidden under the spring bed frame. Flashlight pointing on glossy breast after lights out. “Coming of age” is what the critics call it.
There was swimming and canoeing and late night clandestine excursions.
Now I live in a city. There are kids everywhere but I know nothing of there lives. I retire into permanent bachelorhood.
There is so much summer here. Lovely summer. The AC prices are escalating, but the girls are all wearing strappy versions of less. Their shoulders are devine. Their tan lines do dirty talk. They bring back memories of camp, and places by the pool, and places by the pool even more recently.
Summer is desire. Summer is all that we ever wanted when we were kids, and maybe it could just be enough for our little, withered adult hearts.
Montana owns Winter. If you cannot deal with it you need to find other environs. Georgia owns Summer. I prefer colder weather, but this weather is me, it is in my bones like nothing else. I will not be leaving this town.
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