Category archives for summer
I’m sitting outside in the sun now and you can see the clouds of bugs. They move in little clouds of ten or twelve, all spinning and darting among each other and also collectively moving as a pack, diagonally down, over, up, to the side, circle again, farther up, down. Focus on one; he looks like he’s doing figure-eights!
In the trunk of her car, my mother used to keep a collapsible easel, a clutch of brushes, a little wooden case stocked with tubes of paint, and, tucked into the spare-tire well, one of my father’s old, tobacco-stained shirts, for a smock. She’d be out running errands, see something wonderful, pull over, and pop the trunk. I never knew anyone better prepared to meet with beauty.
Jill Lepore, The Prodigal Daughter
There’s an important piece in the New York Times about the boy who “strolled up the street in the tiny Catskills town of Pine Hill one day in the summer of 1965 carrying ‘The Catcher in the Rye.'” Summer.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Walked home through tall dark houses in the muggy half-rain.
Even through the nights, the pall of heat never broke. With a couple of other kids, I would go across 110th to the Park and walk among the hundreds of people, singles and families, who slept on the grass, next to their big alarm clocks, which set up a mild cacophony of the seconds passing, one clock’s ticks syncopating with another’s. Babies cried in the darkness, men’s deep voices murmured, and a woman let out an occasional high laugh beside the lake.
Arthur Miller, “American Summer: Before Air-Conditioning“
M sent me this.