What is one to say about June, the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade. ~Gertrude Jekyll
I cannot help but revise my earlier, naive views concerning the hormonally-induced, super-charged copulation fantasies induced by the estival season. It is not always/necessarily/personally so (any longer). This could turn out to be a 100% subjective „analysis“, I‘m afraid. But, seriously though, this year, Spring in the form of March/April was somewhat more clement as regards the excitation of one’s sexu-imagino-reproductive capacities. This could apply to anyone, I hope.
It was a spring of changing fortunes, initially a bit too warm then later, as it progressed through the incredible fuckage of climate-changed global meteomorphosis, a bit too rainy. You might wish for a presentation of conclusive, empirical evidence to assert my point but [from the ruminatory seatpoint of this-here-now train to Fribourg] I cannot presently provide it. Though it would certainly be interesting to browse through pages upon pages of historical figures for humidity, temperature, precipitation, et al. scrolling all the way down to the present. Today is, as always, the book‘s last page, the data‘s final entry, the thought before the one now.
Instead, I will rely on my unfailing, ultra-generalized recall of annual weather patterns. At any rate, the mild spring-induced, as per eternal, skimpy clothing that allowed for empirical appreciation of physiques mixed with a dash of imagination. The occasional chill and light drizzle allowed for clear contemplation of every topic under the sun, including the relevant anatomies [male/female/???]. I didn’t have to go crazy about female human mammae, instead, I could contemplate their varying aesthetics in a vernal calm that also allowed for their absolute ridiculousness. I mean the male frenzy for a pair of skinny bags chock-a-block with mammary glands and topped off by perforated, dark-brown, carcinoma-like protrusions [fully intended for BABIES!!!] is what‘s so laughable, really. Not only that, one could do just about all the other stuff important to living [sleep, study, work, slurp capsule joe, straight-up work, watch Badminton on youtube, acutally play badminton (comically less competent than the little men on yt), sleep, drink instacoffee, browse the internet, curse browsing the internet, find out on the internet about „wasting one‘s time on the internet“, look out of the window secretly hoping for time to pass a tiny bit faster, prepare coffee with a MokaExpress and then bloody drink it, watch House of Cards (while vaguely missing Sopranos), sleep, ride the bicycle to the library, eat, read, go to the gym to gag on gravity, read at the bus stop, etc.], one could do these things in the ambient of humane temperatures. So the point is that spring was quite sensible.
But now this weekend past has been an exaggeration on all fronts. Instead of the slow, vacillating transition from vernal conditions to estival ones, we got a discontinuous leap. The quicksilver, just like in those old cartoons, skyrocketed up into the low 30s. I could easily imagine it geysiring out of the top of the thermostat in a red fountain. As far as I remember [and nowadays, despite much less booze, there is nothing I remember worse than weekends] I stayed home or at least indoors most of the time, not succumbing to the cheap, hindbrain heliomania I‘ve commented elsewhere on this page. But yesterday I ventured out, as hesitant and warily and anxious of precipitate epidermal extinction as one must given 32 centigrades in early june. The papers were raving about the hottest Pfingsten (Pentecost?) in recent and not-at-all-recent memory as if weather were purely an isolated, local matter meant to bring great joy to the Swiss People and nobody but the Swiss people. Which of course for reasons of temporary mAss-heliomania it did. „HEATWAVE!“ was plastered across the landing and front pages as if, in a surreal reversal and, then, retelling of history, we, the plucky nation of Switzerland, had defeated The Fuehrer and his evil minions. Which sure as @#$# we did not.
I‘m getting badly off the tracks here, aren‘t I? I feel rather like that poor US army grunt obliviously hacking away at Vietnam undergrowth, circa 1985.
Where did I venture to? The Rütli-Steg below the Richard Wagner Museum, a pleasant enough, sub rosa bathing spot as recently as last year, overflowing with human bodies in varies stages of undress this june. Stone jetty, wood-planked pier, tiny playing ground, sloping meadow lined by trees to the West, a severe mansion atop the hill where Wagner once rested his musical bones. The farmer, or city, scythed down two corridors of meadow adjacent to the road down the hill, giving the unwelcome invasive species space to colonize with their gaudy beach towels. Under the cherry trees. People who do not mind cramping together closely to the point of limbs almost getting intertangled. What happened? Who let the secret out? Packed as the place now has become it‘s been drained of all pleasantness. Yet there I went; to see my GF.
As supra, the temperatures were blistering, truly contra–biotic. The bodies were being photonically baked in their hundreds. Serious salacious amounts of epidermis was being sexposed, sweat-covered body parts flexed, pendulous organs swung to and fro. Cameltoes were in full effect, I seem to recall. It was the type of setting I associate with unlimited concupiescence, a seriously deranging cascade of hormonal neurotransmitters between neurons and gonads that conjures inner imagery of colossal copulating reproductive organs and tsunamis of climactic liquids drowning out all available fields of vision.
And yet, barely registering the sexo–visual extravaginza, I lay there unmoved. Apart from being w/ an unimaginably loving, comely, perspicacious female companion two processes seemed to be taking place in my mind that negated the prosaic, penicentric phantasms . A) a renewed, forceful appreciation of the fact that most bodies are best left clad [at less than 2m the defects become too blatantly bothersome] B) an ele‘mental battering by sol‘s surpassing radiation that short-circuits thoughts and, thankfully, testes likewise to the point where the whole point of being epiphanically reveals itself as: DROWSING. Not reading, not a good conversation, not listening to MP-bust-my-timp-3, not checking out the opposite sex‘s glutei maximi, not even sleeping [too hot!].
Then later we went for a brief dip in cold-foamer-cold FourForestCity–Lake where, under the cool water‘s surface‘s murky green one could briefly all but forget about the muglitude. The lake, eternal, on such days becomes both a refuge and an illumination: dust to dust for the dead but water to water for us, the living!
[And the sky now, gazing out of the train on my ride back to Luciaria already, is such that you indubitably want to scream for joy. Rinsed off the hot day that has gone before, the blue is light, flimsy, gauze-like and clouds snake along the horizons lower edge like fat, vapor-logged nematozooid beings that will expectorate their wet load on any unsuspecting city. It is a blue impossibly associated with neonates! …of all things. Behind it one clearly senses the presence of the infinite universe. A celadon sheen from out of the sun‘s late light sings across it all. The cornfields, interjagged by edgy tracts of darkest forest, cover the space to be covered below the horizon in pastel-mustardy expanses that are too small to allow the national agriculture to be competitive at the euro-industrial level but that yet radiate forth the romance and splendor and fructuous grandeur of yore‘s horticulture.
It‘s a sense of rain that lingers. The train-compositions carve a sort of tunnel out of it at 200 clicks per hour where it is still coming down. We are between Bern and Zofingen, in case you were wondering. And there‘s this ingenious thing that cutting-edge Swiss trains let you do where there‘s a floor to ceiling window in the exit narthex where you can stand, just like that, and watch the landscape swipe by at so and so many kilometers an hour in the highest definition evolution&technology presently allow for. Retina-grade.
All of the land in all directions rushing by before you like the biggest show it so verily is. But then after the next, somber slap of woodland the cloud formations have change and become so complex as to slip the grasp of zoomorph analogy. The colors too have permuted; in one sense towards the dark of night, in another towards a more modern, less romanticized tonality. ]