This Summer Evening

August 12th, 2012 

Under a summer night sky, music. The sun has set. It's dark, but not so dark yet. The in-between, the gloaming, its soft warmth, is dying. The gloaming is dying.

Listen- you can hear it as it slowly, slowly, recedes into the heavens and its sister, the Night, sails smoothly, softly, upon us. It’s different now.

Just behind the bandstand, the faint glow of lights, invisible in their source, remind you that, not so very far away, the silver colossuses still stand guard, sleekly, stoically, silently, staring out- out into the sea, the land, the sky, on their Island of Manhattan. They cast ominous forms against the blackened horizon, and they tower over me during the day, as I skip from shadow to shadow, but they cast no shadows now.

Oh, that sweet, sweet, painfully sweet night air, unfathomably deep and viciously sweet, with subtle notes that compose the arête of summer evening eternal is here. Late summer evenings that are never forgotten. Love, reflection, and truth reside here on these evenings.

Draped lights descend, sweeping, down, down, down. Down. Down, from the top of the bandstand. Incandescent bulbs with gold filaments, glowing- most faintly, some flickering, a few not at all.

Winking, blinking lights in the sky- the sorry excuses for stars. See how they fly overhead now, barely floating, barely crawling through the dirty lavender sky. Some are flying lower. They are rushed, compared to the great sky leviathans above them. They're headed south. Some are leaving. Some are coming. All are moving. Those riding sit in chairs, unaware of the wind in the night sky that is whipping by them at five-hundred miles-per-hour. They sleep their troubled sleep. They gaze their empty gaze out the oval window, uncomfortable in the pressurized chamber hurtling through space. The air is stale. Cold. They listen to their music and it's like having an old friend with them. Warmth. They read their books. See how slowly the pages turn. But the pages are crisp, not weakened by the years of doggy-eared love in frantic, maddening search of the unanswerable. They think back to where they were and who they were with. Or, they think where they're going, of whom they'll be with. Will it be the same as before? None are present.          

An old couple stands close by. He in light blue. She in salmon.  He touches her upon the small of her back, wraps his arm around her waist, and pulls her close to him. He looks down, sidelong, at her. Searching. Her gaze never moves from the stage. They forget a great deal because they've finally learned there isn't much worth remembering. They wonder which one of them will go first.

The band is dressed in black. The girl singers are in bright pastels. Polished black shoes of the singer tap to the rhythm. He creates it. He moves it. It goes to leave his body, but he keeps it in his foot. All the musicians are moving, even though it's a song sung and played by him and him, alone.  They all jive to the beat, connected. They're together, though apart. Except the drummer. He sits, still.

Did the songwriter, while long ago writing this song in his room alone, crying, know that one day, while playing it for thousands of people, that some would talk in drunken, amorous slurs to one another, unaware what  he sang for them? For her? For him? For the very sake of song? Others, as equally unaware or unimpressed, jaded by the years, take refuge and are engrossed in the faint, unearthly glow of their phones- they'd rather be somewhere else, with someone else. In a way, they are- they’re not here. But they’re not there, either. They’re in-between. They’re nowhere. But nowhere is better than the idea they can’t bear, of spending another night in their apartment, alone. Off-white walls and thoughts, worries, fears, and dreams to keep them company. Escape. Feel the night around you. Get away, away. Away.

A drunkard, with faltering, "Look-Johnny's-taking-his first-steps," not unlike Frankenstein's first unsure wobbles, stumbles near. He’s made his entrance- where’s his applause? He grins mischievously, his teeth glistening in the night. He swings his head round, eyeing all, grumbling profanities with brilliant incoherence. He looks round again. He might as well be blind with those eyes. All eyes turn toward him, then quickly look down, away. He searches their blurry, melting, morphing, phantasmagoric faces, straining to find her, yearning to make amends. 

A girl's birthmark covers the better part of her right calf. Birthmark? No. Tattoo- a rose. Black.

The crowd, all at once, begins bringing their hands apart then palms and fingers, slightly cupped, together again and again with swift, rhythmic slap-a-pat-slaps. Forceful. Percussive. Slapping. Repeating. Again. And again. The noise continues, reverberating against the ceiling of the trees. Nothing is so odd. 

The show is over. What now?

People shuffle away, slowly, on awkward legs that do not cooperate- that creak and groan after not having moved in hours. The last note, long ended, stays with them. They still feel the euphoric joy and peace it brought them- the soaring harmonies, the primal rush of the drums. They felt whole.

The pack picks up their speed as they exit the park where the life, which they left earlier, is still waiting for them, grinning, at the park entrance, just where they left it. 

I suck down a deep breath of the cool night air. I suck down more than I really need. I bring it down, deep, to the bottom of my lungs. My chest, swelling, is full, is cold. Like freezing mountain lake water, which enlivens my skin, scalp, and shocks my being into awareness that is as exhilarating as it is frigid as I dive into it, enveloped, energized, electrified, alive, it’s in my lungs. Lightning bolts in my chest as I think of her. I can trace their form with the chill that resides within them. So cold. Yet, it cools and quiets the inferno of my raging, worried heart. 

Quiet on dark, shaded sidewalks. Dappled light through the leaves. Some of the tiny ones have fallen onto the dark, wet cement. They glisten, looking up at their friends, family, and neighbors in their old home, now so far away, smiling sadly in knowing that they're only to be reunited with them in each of their own deaths. Their fall. 

"Happy birthday Sofia" in all caps, scrawled on the pavement with chalk by a hand that has long perfected its chirography. Years have gone by since having good handwriting has mattered. It's been obliterated by scribbling notes at work and signing away sums on checks- no need to keep it clean, for it's going to be typed up. The muscles weaken. The pen wobbles, unsure in its tact and purpose. But the sidewalk- the sidewalk matters. Take the time- people will see. No touchscreen sidewalks yet to type things up on. 

Look up. The sky's never dark here. It’s quieter now, though.

Cold bologna and garlic hang heavily in the air, coming and going; whether the sandwich master has multiple sandwiches, or the original scent is merely being recirculated again and again, ad nauseum, in fifteen minute cycles, he would never know; he surely wasn't set on the idea of sitting up any straighter than he had to in the airplane chair that was better suited for making one as uncomfortable as possible while engaging in a practice that resembled the attempts at sitting, only to crane his neck this way and that, sniffing the air quietly and secretly, much like a predator that understands not only can it smell its prey's fear, but, just as much, its prey can smell the swift, unceasing gallop of imminent Death, as to not alert nor embarrass the perpetrator of this olfactory trespass.

Shifting and reshifting in his seat, much like his hands would repeatedly seek his misplaced keys in his pockets, hoping to find a new, hitherto unexplored compartment that, as though by magic, had not only appeared since his last recent stab but contained his missing, golden, glinting sharp, serrated-to-smooth keys as well. But, like the keys that never showed, he could not seem to find a semblance of comfort in the wretched chair.

"Flying- what happened? Funny- what once was treasured can all too readily become nothing but an annoyance," he thinks.

The mid-morning sun blankets the pallor of the pages of the book in front of him, which, being splayed open to the middle, is much more content to lie there like a pudgy, recumbent sun soaked matron of the sea, opposed to the shy, uncertain shoulder of the newly possessed book or the cold, sharp back of the nearly-completed book who, already in a fit of jealousy at the most certain prospect of your leaving her for another, turns away, it remains willing, tempting, languorous. Rhombuses of bleached yellow light fall upon the words that, though beautifully arranged and expertly crafted, grow into ideas deeper than his mind is capable of capturing for his own play and use.

How fast were they going again? He hadn't paid the attendant much mind, his weary mind clouded by cyclical thoughts. Over five-hundred miles-per-hour, to be sure. Yet, from below, how the jets seem to float and glide along so laconically!

"Flight, you will never cease to amaze me, no matter how often you enslave me," he thinks.

"Lilly: A Remembrance of A Dear Dog"

Lilly Thornberry, dear friend and loving companion, died this afternoon of natural causes. She was twelve years old. Lilly found her way into the Thornberry home in Wills Point, Texas by way of Robert and Lydia’s elder son, Jake, who, one afternoon on the grounds of the prestigious Wills Point Junior High Academy, after seeing local hooligans taunting and cajoling her, promptly decided to intervene and took her home with him when his mother picked him up that day. “I remember thinking ‘Where did we move to, that these little rapscallions would derive joy from tormenting a lone, defenseless dog?’,” Jake reflected. “She was a larger dog, with a Malamute or Husky ancestry clearly running through her. If she had wanted to, she could have easily greatly injured those ruffians- but she didn’t. She was so gentle. I never once saw her bare her teeth or growl at those antagonizing her; in fact, I never saw her bare her teeth- ever. She was such a gentle soul and will be greatly missed but never forgotten.”

Rachael Rader, of the Rader clan -longtime friends of the Thornberry family- and girlfriend of David Thornberry, took the news hard. “Even though she loved that family very much, I think that she had always secretly wanted to jet from this hot climate and make her way up to Alaska, where her spirit lay. She always tolerated the ‘pup pack’ of Golden Shorties as though an old nun would a young heathen- with the greatest patience. One of the pack, Thomas, also known as “The Bandit,” “Tommy the Shark,” “Tom-Tom,” or “Tommy Kaira” was always mouthing off- no respect for his elders. She would always say to me that she longed to go see the Iditarod sled dog race, meet a nice male Husky and settle down. I think she’s there now, among the snow drifts, sleds, and the chilling air that bites at your lungs yet at the same time, makes you feel all the more alive.”

Lilly led a long and fruitful life, often accompanying the various runners of the family on their runs, always staying by their side- steadfast and true. “I knew that she was on her way out when she took no interest in running.”

There was a chill in the Thornberry house last night when they brought her inside. “She had stopped eating two days ago and when I looked in her eyes last night and gently called her name, there was this look she gave me- a look that said that she would be gone soon,” Jake remembers. “I knew she wouldn’t be with us much longer.” Shortly after noon today, she was gone.

“She always looked like she was smiling when you called her name,” Jake said. “She would just look right into your eyes, eyes that seemed to know something that you yourself couldn’t quite figure out, and she’d smile.” She shall be missed by all that knew her, but the memory of her, her gentle demeanor, and her dear smile shall never fade.

"Jet Pack Jake"

I once told a girl in kindergarten that I loved her. I was mesmerized by the effects of the words “I love you” in films and not just a little bit perplexed by the power -the phenomenon- that those three words held over the leading ladies of the silver screen, back when actors didn’t need a method to help them figure out how to feel.

With my ever-present curiosity piqued, I chose my subject- Anne, whose long, shimmering, dark brown hair was never still and who’s large olive almonds of eyes never rested. Her beauty and grace captivated me. This wasn’t just a social experiment I was about to perform; feelings drove the research. I plotted: I mustn’t immediately set my blast gun to “charm;” I must graciously display how skilled I am before she sways and swoons from my utter agreeableness and irresistibly pleasant nature. No day seems more brilliant than tomorrow when today is dark and bleak, so tomorrow it would be.

After roaming furtively around the playground like a raccoon for most of recess, waiting for the right time and gradually beginning to comprehend the notion of ‘eternity’ while musing over my plan and highfalutin ideas of amorous nature, avoiding at all costs the others and their shrill banshee screams as they played crude games, my moment finally arrived.

“Target acquired at 12 o’clock.”
“Roger that; proceeding with mission.”

She was at the far end of what served as a balance beam. Nobody had ever balanced the universal forces of love with the bitter, irrepressible forces of Fate while crossing it; it had always been easy. I ambled over in what I thought to be the most indiscreet of ways, casually glancing in her direction from time to time, not looking too eager but not aloof, either, until I arrived at the other end of the beam.

My eyes glanced in her direction and they were met with her’s. Lesser mortals would have balked at the feat ahead of them, but, like the very Dane himself and his immortal skull, I held my gaze fast.

“She’s aware of you. Good.”

As I prepared for what was to follow, I could almost hear the “Beginners, please,” that the director whispered- the crowd was restless to see me, and the thick curtains slowly began to rise, the old wires creaking and whining under the strain of the heavy, mildewed, black as death velvet curtain: it was time to perform.

I alighted the minuscule frame, balancing like a child prodigy of the circus -only in my mind, of course- being just clever enough to know that I mustn’t exhibit my brilliant tightrope walking abilities too very much, lest she think me pompous, so I played as though I had very nearly met my gruesome end, falling from a harrowing three feet above and plunging into the aphotic depths of the sea of mulch beneath. I could feel her eyes bearing down upon me, her heart beating rapidly in her chest and her breath coming even faster as she fretted about what might happen to this mysterious lad if he should fall. I looked up the most imperceptible of degrees and out of the corner of my eye, I watched her watch me out of the corner of her’s.

"Good. She’s aware that you’re aware of her."

Nearly there.

Nearer more.

Done.

I glided down, back onto the earth- the space explorer, back from the deep end of the outer space pool with only his jet pack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and two blue circular conjoined twins in tow, both known collectively as “Duncan.” The applause from the house rippled first like a wake from a tenderly-conducted kayak, but soon it grew and grew in volume, until it was deafening to behold and monstrous in force, a veritable North Shore winter swell, crashing into and shaking the very beach it touched as though the booming voice of Triton himself was congratulating me. My mind was silent; my face expressionless, barely able to reign in and bottle the glee and vainglory that emanated from my swiftly pounding heart and filled my being to my very fingertips.

As I looked her in the eyes, those olive almonds of eyes, the screams of banshees dissolved around me and Time worried itself with other, lesser creatures. With the gentle and wise teachings of Cary Grant and Bogie coursing through my mind, seeking birth through fresh air, the words escaped, saying “Anne, I love you.”

For a brief moment, there was a recognition there, there in those olive almonds of eyes; a recognition of a feeling neither of us could have possibly grasped with our young minds. And, yet...No- it was fleeting, as so much is.

Her eyes switched back and she giggled. With her two cohorts, she scampered off into the jungle of gyms, kids, and asphalt. I was left standing there by myself, feeling more alone than when the stars and planets were my sole companions. The smell of mulch beneath my feet was suddenly overpowering in my defeat. I looked around, not seeing anything, but still searching blindly for something. There was nothing. I was alone.

For the first time in my life, at the splendidly old age of seven, I was heartbroken.