I love vintage, old-timey travel ads. Deliciously nostalgic. Here are a few.
Here’s the truth: I love summer.
You expected something deeper and scandalous, I know. Well, my summer truth is slightly scandalous because every summer, without fail, I engage in the most eternal complaints about the season. I complain about the heat, the mosquitoes, the heat, the heat, and the heat. And while those things are truly worth complaining about–seriously, I think I’m dating these mosquitoes, they’re that devoted to me–the simple truth is that I live for this time of year. (Third behind fall and spring, of course.)
A few reasons why. Here come the bullets:
•The long days. I can’t emphasize my love affair with summer’s long days. In between slapping away the efforts of my greedy mosquito boyfriends, I tend to sit outside with a dreamy smile on my face, gazing at the bright-at-9pm atmosphere.
•My inner child. Growing up, summers meant field trips to the local library with my Sissy; spending endless days lounging around the air-conditioned house reading said books; acting like fools with the rest of my crazy sibs; popsicles; more popsicles; family trips; laughter. I can’t help but return to those sweet times in my mind and memory when summer arrives.
•My grown up, adult self. Yeah, I have to drive. And there’s nothing sweeter than mostly traffic-free morning commutes without school buses and all the kiddies on the roads. Just saying. You know you love it, too.
•The beach/traveling/vacations. Enough said, huh? Summer was made for those things, and I try to take advantage of all of them this time of year.
So one wonders why I spend more time complaining about summer instead of talking about how much I love it? Consistency. I’m all about consistency.
What’s your favorite season and why?
Jim Croce’s narrator’s girlfriend is cheating on him, and he sings his pain to a nameless telephone operator. You’re welcome.
Carole King on tap today. For me, this song pretty much causes a great deal of weeping while professing–with fists raised, no less–that this woman is one of the best singer/songwriters of all time. If you’re wondering, my blue is a bit less blue, due to the visit last night from a close, treasured friend. She certainly sweetly interrupted my plans to lay on the couch and watch NCIS.
I’m curious: what are your tried and true sad songs?
Oh, archetypal poetic dreamboat,
drenched in all things pentameter and haiku, quoting Ginsberg and Kerouac like days of the week.
I’d very much like to bathe in your finely tuned renderings of William Carlos Williams and believe that when you whisper “this is just to say” that you’re talking to me, confessing something I will easily forgive you for.
Let me be your endless metaphor, the bee to your flower, the leaf on your dying oak tree–
I can be your simile, like an oasis in a desert land, not anything like a mirage, but like the real thing, as real as you’ll ever know–
Play your jazz and write viciously across your parchment paper, honey pie, and I will accept your Beat Generation pretenses and your all black wardrobe and I’ll love you just the same, because you’re a poet and you know it, for goodness sakes,
and I’ve always been–always–a sucker for a man who speaks in verse.
The heart should never be
so revealed, so unaware of where
the results will land.
No more waiting when the answers
are usually quite clearly there.
No matter if you were moved.
Time to move on.
Too open, too fast, too trusting.
Too bad, too bad, too bad.
In the end, you actually missed me.
In the end, I walked away with no regrets,
warmly blanketed by the comfort
of full circle.
There are no words–
well, there are words–
but which ones?
(Blissfully) blinded, (glaringly) sighted, (then) goodbye.
I carved you out of the clay of perfection
and quietly watched the hand of truth smash you to pieces…
Still thinking about it.
Still sighted, yes, but no longer
looking back in youthful anger.
Now, a sad, adult understanding of what came to be,
what became of you.
Nevertheless–regardless–in spite of–
thank you, thank you, thank you.
Anatomy of a Year
there you have it–
my open, beating heart,
exposed on this frozen windowsill.
whether swirling vapor or single snowflake, it waits for you.
but it’s only the thaw that comes,
and my poor, shivering heart gulps the sweet, light air like water.
the air is a salve and a reprieve, whether pollen or ragweed.
and what of these long, hot days and endless, starry nights, upon this sweltering windowsill?
there is heat, but there is no you.
and now the chills creep toward the edge of my hot heart, poised to bring this familiar freeze and this refrain–
there you have it–
my open, beating heart,
exposed on this frozen window…