Summer-induced stupidity. That was the diagnosis, I decided as I made my way up the dirt path in the pouring rain. ~Aimee Friedman, Sea Change
The summer night is like a perfection of thought. ~Wallace Stevens
Yeah, yeah, ay. And so what is this anyway? Graphophobia? Graphodementia? Don‘t forget to write this week. Make a note and stick it on the inside of your eyelids, or else, on the screen of your smartphone.
The logick thing to open this here text up with is to rant on and on, like a dipsomaniac, star-stripped Sheriff under the battering Arizona sun of yonder century about my absence, paucity, dearth of writing for the past goodly, what, four months. A season of nonwriting, or perhaps better with that French kid, a season in hell. Though to state I was not writing is a bit of a fib, is to forswear myself. The keyboard was plunked down about, just not in this here blog‘s service. No sir. Well, the ego wants, what the ego wants. There must have been the faint hope that, from whatever corner of the blogosphere, whatever gaiaforsaken cranny of the planet, a cry would go forth, an outrage of sorts, demanding that yours truly would put, once again after so long a hiatus, the bit to his mind. Or, bloody plains please, git forever, abscond this dirty wateringhole. In so many words: somebody should‘ve been howling for Themzini‘s return, demanded my bruised, useless yeego.
[Neologisms, ay Chief, keep them coming a line a time, break‘em, ride‘em, is all.]
So Howdy, dear lectrice, howdy. ‘Ts been the dichotomous summer, hell yus, the two-mouthed summer, ain‘t that jus‘ ‘bout right, Janus? People of all the good earth of Swissaland whinging and grousing and bellyaching all of a rainsome june how them clouds and col‘ winds gon‘ never be right for this time of year. Ain‘t right sir. The question being foremost posed of how we hardtwerking, honest-to-the-lord folks could fall upon such inclement vagaries from whatever highriding, cloudborne tricksters. Yep, yeah, sure enough gotta be that darnedest trickster. All june I be hearin‘ that same blue tune. Couldn‘t give two cents, pressed by Old Nick himself I couldn‘t, didn‘t, ‘s matter of fact.
We always deserve the best. At all times. Even from the atmosphere itself. And to add to the hilarity of that mindest, the weathermen by whose lips the nation hangs its emotional wellbeing out to dry, these weatherfolks take credit/blame for whatever warm or coldfront comes to clap us; smiling in selfsatisfaction when the sun goes on a bender and making a long, culpable face for the overcast sky, the expectable days of rain. Imagining perhaps that their prognosis is indeed a hieratic revelation, that they should be adorned in the insignia of meteorolgical omniscience. Whereas, whereas…
Came july, the hind third of it if my memory serves me well and out leaped sol into the middle of a cloudless welkin to roast, George Foreman‘d approve, Western Europe. And out we went too, we Swiss people, we Europeans, we Northern Hemisphere flock of the heliophile to lie down in mother Sun‘s plentiful deathrays. Turning brown and sweaty upon plains of numberless towels – Ufschoetti, Seebadi, Allmend if you happened to be in Luciaria; Rentenanstalt, Utoquai and Lettebadi if you were frying in Turicum; and many other lieux in distant lands, on foreign shores, a few bus stops from the easyjet port of destination.
Logo, by week deux, those selfsame folks who felt ill-handled by june‘s gelid grip, started griping about july‘s sultriness. If we were in a Sauna or what? Why the bleep all public buildings weren‘t equipped with AC? It wasn‘t right, this gottverdammte Hitze could never be right, not for the righteous folks of Switzerland. And the productivity, I suppose dipped or even plunged. Though I didn‘t feel as compulsively lakesidebound as other years, my behind often ventured onto benches that it never otherwise seeks out. Over yonder by the Tivoli Tennis courts where you can hear the plock-plock-plock of the aristocratic little balls as they cross the tape in inept replication of Roland G. Where if you dare venture out for a swim, which even so antiacquatic a person as myself did, your legs will sink through unspeakable strata of waterfowl foulness up to midshin. This is what finally made me swim a few minutes, probably less, the fear of getting bogged down in swanshit. The lawn next to Lido is marginally better in that respect, you don‘t sink in very deeply and there is a rugged carpet of algae that suggests plantlife rather than Cygnus excreta.
I recall….[dreamswirly fading effect]…. One summer we balled up the Chlorophyta into snowballsized, skummy, green projectiles to be fired at each other across the shallow waters. We had an algae fight, no harm done, standing wastehigh in Vierwaldstaettersee, Verkehrshaus at our backs. Shallower than the stereotype of shallow supermodels, those waters. That is another of Lido‘s upsides for the nonswimmers: you can wade out a good fifty to seventy meters before there‘s that terrible drop off that suggests, not so much the Mariana trench as the very void of deep space itself, nonbeing – oblivion.
[Cut to present. Clear and raw.] But then, as if the July&August‘s hot spell weren‘t quite enough, people went forth to buy onewaygrills serving a variety of functions a) fumigating blameless nearby sun disciples b) burning 300buck-a-pop holes into the lawn and, last and least c) roasting their snippets of vile viands. The smoke, the burnholes, the rubbish, none of it matters, you are now alone on a planet that owes you everything – the humanright to pleasant weather, the humanright to consume as well as the humanright to connectivity.
Irregardless. We went to see Wong Kar Wai‘s latest flick. It was well executed, there were beautifully photographic „mass“ scenes, a dialogue that hit the right tones, strong female characters, fight scenes with lovely microcosmic slowmo shots and yet still nevertheless, it couldn‘t catch either of our imaginations. In my view it all came off too smoothly, it lacked a note of [narrative] intrigue, the main protagonist‘s face has been seen one time too many and, maybe-baby, there is an upper limit to how many ingeniously choreographed fightscenes one can enjoy in a single sitting. But even if a feeling of wonder remained in abeyance, suspended just above our kungfubattered brains, at least this has set us up to return to, review, contemplate de novo his older work, especially 2047, find out if the magick can still be experienced.
However there was indeed a moment of sheer cinematic bliss this summer, very unexpectedly so. The place beyond the pines rushed my aesthetic synapses like cinegraphic 3,4,5-trimethoxyphenethylamine – succulent silverscreen peyote. One scene in particular occasioned a few square feet of cutis anserina: years and years after his father had first driven down this bucolic country lane on his dirtbike, heading for the first heist [having forgotten crucial glasses], the son having talked to his father‘s old, forgiving, woeful „whitetrash“-stereotype smashing, humble friend, after this nostalgic encounter, one hour of reel spun by, the son pedals down the same rustic lane. The effect is beyond typed cyphers. And when the narrative teeters on the abyss of tedium, the director reels it right back in to the emotional main lode that runs rich throughout: father-son-ambition-desperation-forgiveness-longing… Perhaps much else could be written about this ne plus ultra but for this there are the links on rotten tomatoes.
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. ~Albert Camus