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Posts Tagged ‘summer’

Last Evenings of Summer

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It’s the open windows of summer that I’ve started to miss. I miss all the people in town sharing their indoor space with the world. On my walk home, I used to be able to hear a conversation every night outside an open kitchen window. It was a husband and wife, both just getting home. It was the same time every night, the three of us doing our societal clockwork. I’d hear only small fragments and always the same questions: the how-was-your-days or anything-happen-at-work-todays? The mundane exchanges coupled with the openness of the window always lead me into nostalgia, like they should have a pie cooling on the windowsill or something.

My neighbor plays his piano every night. He lives alone with his master piano and he isn’t very good. Still, as I sit in my home and he in his, I wouldn’t trade our evening concerts for anything.

Air-conditioning can sometimes feel like a godsend, but God, it’s so nice to feel like nothing’s changed.

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Wind Swept.

One weekend: City lights in the rear-view, The Sunday Times, an Irish pub, sunsets, crashing waves, cold nights, sweaters, drive-up beach fronts, and books and books and books and books and books and the first glimpse of springtime sun.

Here’s to the warmer months to come…

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Past your house.

The morning light seeps in through now, with the time change,

and I get confused when I wake up.

I count them, twelve steps to the bathroom, fourteen more to the tea kettle.

I lose track on the way to the balcony. Good morning sun.

Seen so many places, vast empty spaces, that I adapt to the crickets in the morning.

My own feet on the ground, shifting weight, and I wonder if the air will ever smell like winter here.

Those first chills always came early, summer days moving by fast, and people’d say, “fall’s comin’ on quick this year.”

At night, I play this game; I walk past your house on the way home from work. You’ve been gone but I think of you.

What’s the game? I hum your melodies backwards.

I thought you’d like it.

Because no one brings the guitar now, and no one the bottle of wine to share.

But the kettle rings, the tea steeps, thirteen steps to the dresser drawer, and from there, always far many more than a day should have.

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I remember sneaking up to the attic when my parents slept with their door closed. I’d pull the bed out that the couch turned into and would flop, flipping from side to side, a king in his luxurious court, presiding over all of himself.

And then there was the time Philip came in and my flopping stopped. I’d been caught. Even the squirrels who would rustle back and forth on the roof throughout the night, they stopped too. He looked at me and said he was going out, that he wanted someone to know, just in case, he said. And I said to come home soon or Who cares what you do? I don’t remember which.

And I heard him creak down the stairs on all the ones I knew to avoid and felt the summer night creep in through the window as I heard his footsteps outside.

I was barely awake when he came back an hour later, smelling of lake water and the fullness of a lived summer night.

He came to say goodnight, but this time the crickets were louder than his steps. He sat next to me on the bed, dipping me toward his warm wet weight as the mattress creaked.

“I’ll have to show you stars sometime,” he said to me.

Here’s the thing though: I’ve always been much more cautious.

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summers going fast i hear.

I told my mother not to worry and she never did, as mothers do, because these were big summer drops and our toes in the sand digging in deeper and deeper still.  Her hemp sandals stayed at the bottom of the dunes, underneath a tree with her bag and leather journal, my shirt, too.  The dunes dropped off quick on the other side, steep into the forest and we had rolled down hours before and spent the whole evening feeling the sand cool under us as the sun went down.  Now it rained and rained more and we crept closer to the tree trunks to, well, not to stay dry, we certainly weren’t that, and not warm, as the drops were bath water, but we clang to the trunks none the less.  The dune was easier to climb then now that the water had stiffened the sand some and we made our way up to the top with ease.  She spread out her arms wide and I watched her and the lake as the waves picked up with the wind.

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This is the bean. People made fun of it when it was being constructed and complained about all their tax dollars going toward some stupid sculpture. (Granted, it ended up costing around 23 million of those hard earned dollars.)

But then everyone realized that it is the coolest thing ever.

Here’s what it looks like from inside:

Walk from the bean, and find yourself with a bottle of wine at one of Millennium Park’s  free concerts with full orchestra. Here are two things I like: cellos and skylines.

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Willow.

I read a haiku today.  

“ill-tempered I returned, 

and then in the garden

the willow tree.”

There’s something about a willow tree, the way it extends a caring arm to hold you close. Protected, I read by its trunk as it swayed in the breeze.

It reached for the water, if nothing more but for a simple laugh, dipping its toes in with every sachay of the branches.

I took a garden walk today and that’s what summer is for.

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Quiet now and someone left the lights on. Noticed it when I woke up for the bathroom. Maybe Andy had gotten up for some orange juice, left the light on again. She likes the sugar at night. I hate when the lights get left on. I like sleeping in places where I don’t know how many steps from bed to door, three steps out past the staircase and a right into the bathroom careful to miss the towel rack. I like it when I crash into things, makes me feel like I’m on vacation. But the lights are on now and here I am.

Summer park today and it was so hot I couldn’t focus. The temperature gets up there and suddenly it becomes the woman crying at the end of early color films. “But when will I ever see you again?” the trees say to me as I hold their lower back and they faint in my arms. 

“Andy?” I said as she was drinking out of the container. “Why are you up?”

“Needed a drink,” she said. “Couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams. Too hot. Have a lot of things on my mind. Couldn’t sleep.”

And of all the ailments one could have, even a blend of everything that makes a night sleepless, I find myself with no excuses. It’s not that I can’t sleep, I can. It’s just that I am not currently sleeping.

“Why are you up?” She says.

“It’s always the transition that gets me.”

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i drove a toyota corolla that isn’t mine into the texas state capital and before thirty hours were up I managed to slip in four films with my future roommate, combine that with a shot of guy talk and suddenly you know exactly how a well put together mise-en-scene can make 103 degrees outside seem like an early autumn.

lists should always be questioned yet scanning the top lines of one-through-tens is often our most efficient way of becoming conversational masters on a given subject without doing the back-work.

that being said, rent a couple of these, and just make sure your air conditioner is up for a challenge.  

i can guarantee this is back-work you won’t regret.

à boute de souffle (1960) - jean seberg 

if the stripped shirts don’t get you, that smile will.  if you ever wondered why the rates of high school female french students with pixie cuts is higher than their spanish counter parts, don’t necessarily look to amélie.  if starting a film movement, 1960s paris, a live-free-die-young mentality, and a bogie reference to melt hearts isn’t enough to get you watching, i’ll tell you this: at the end of the film, you’ll know why “new york harold tribune” could be a wet dream. (tps)

2046 (2004) - faye wong

i first remember faye wong in chungking express leaning over a counter and whispering “chicken salad.” she had me right there.  wong kar wai is in the very good habit of bolstering his already sumptuous images with actors who somehow manage to still be the focus of our attention.  wong takes on a number of roles in wai’s hk tribute- the dream android, the coy mistress, the unrequited lover- but all of that seem accessory to her precise touch and her perfect form.  the film tends to open around her, leaving enough rope for most actors to hang by, but finding wong unperturbed; she steps with a daring confidence through each vignette, serving as the welcome catalyst to a film never about her, but always reliant. (tvs)

how to steal a million (1966) – audrey hepburn

if her father in the film traffics replicas of art and beauty, he definitely created one statuette that will be good for the ages.  the lace clad legs, in my book, could get away with far more than just larceny. hepburn, though always worthy of admiration, adds in a sultry touch not necessarily worthy of an oscar nod, but definitely some toe curling. (tps)

une femme est une femme (1961) – anna karina

somehow godard’s most playful, uninhibited, and well-executed work is now relegated to the back-burner of this prodigious legacy.  but nowhere in the jlg canon can you find so perfect a symbiosis between the new wave star and his chosen muse.  karina’s performances go straight to the heart of what 1960s france has to offer a viewer- whether  running through the louvre or upholding the subversive element, giving androids a better name or singing the strip tease, karina is an exuberant and vivacious screen presence, addictive even to her most subtle pout.  she’s is on top of her game in femme, between her sailor suit, burnt roast, and book amalgams you’ll have a hard time making your first viewing your only one.  (tvs)

manon des sources (1986) – emmanuelle béart

as much as the 200 year old farm house and always nutritious mediterranean sun draws me back to the south of france, if this film were all i knew of my beloved country, i’d perhaps love it just as much. there must be something about french vowels that can make mouths shaped just so.  you gotta give it to any woman who can make a sequel more memorable than its first starring the french film god.  granted, this film came out in 1986 and should be every farm aide’s fantasy, just hopefully not taken to the extreme taken in the film (fabric should not be used that way), and even after 20 + years, the woman has shown some staying power.  still a french vogue cover girl (which often means a lot more skin than its tame american counter part), check out what an h&m ad looks like in france. (tps)

leri, oggi, domani (1963) – sophia loren

if you’re ever feeling fortunate, stop.  recollect the year 1963, remember than in it the insufferable marcello mastroaini scored not once, but twice on this list.  shortly after his stint tooling round with the lovely ms cardianale shotgun in his roadster marcello hopped the train to meet up with de sica and dive in to his next assignment: barking in bed while sophia loren gave him a tour of the room.  loren masters each sequence of the film (yesterday, today, and tomorrow for us inglesi) delivering with verve as the sympathetic call girl, the flighty superstar, and (especially!) and indomitable populist matron.  she throws herself into each sequence with a contagious abandon that leaves you at turns stunned, breathless. (tvs)

blow (2001) penelope cruz

hunter s. thompson, another face if jd, once said, “i hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”  thompson had it all, including the tragic ending, as did george jung in blow, with one added benefit… take a torrid affair between two of the darkest and smokiest out there and add in a few flash cuts of whips, cuffs and chains, and suddenly tragic endings seem oh so utterly worth it. (tps)

8 1/2 (1963) – claudia cardinale

the only time i believed a director when he told me he was in love came somewhere around the 19-second mark of this trailer when felini brings us claudia, the ostensible missing link in guido anselmi’s doomed production: the vestal white, the perfect smile, the evident restraint of guido’s reaction gives clear signal that our boy is done.  but cardinale would have that effect on about 60% of the human population.  her role is small, making a total of four appearances, but when she’s onscreen you remember every crevice, hoping in some way that a more detailed topography of the image will keep her there a second longer.  cardinale, in a few photogenic minutes, steals the movie right from under felini’s nose, and to his endless credit, the maestro doesn’t seem to mind one bit. (tvs)

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I used to have an old man as a neighbor who would tell us a story about wild geese flying over a lake. He told us every summer back when the only thing you had to worry about was breaking in your baseball glove and the only pain around were bee stings and scraped knees but the old man knew what flower to pick and rub on them to make them feel better. Come to think of it, I don’t remember the story anymore, but I bet I could find the flower in his backyard.

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