With John Mayer in my head

O September

O go away, September.
I'm tired of you already;
Tired of your last-holiday-of-summer,
The finality of Labor Day;
Tired of your first-day-of-Autumn
September Twenty-second-ness;
Tired of the back-to-school sales flyers
And the ads for sweaters and backpacks.
I'm tired of the cool fall nights
And the "good sleeping weather" rejoinders.
Tired of football, even, bright lights
And jarring tackles and rah-rah Friday nights.
I'm tired of "The leaves are starting to change!"
Observations, and any references to woolly bears
And their predictions.
Tired, too, of all the "last-of" things,
Last Trip to the Lake,
Last picnic, last swim, last boat ride.
Already I'm tired of thinking about
And all the winteriness ahead,
All the dead leaves and brown grass
And ice.
I'm tired of missing sunny days and warm nights
And fresh tomatos on the vine.
Most of all of I'm tired of dreading
The Official Last Day of Summer,
Even as the mornings shine in my window later
And the evening enroaches earlier.
O come back, Summer!
Don't let September chase you away,
Don't leave me, don't go, please please please
Come back, O Summer! Don't -- go -- just -- yet --
Gone.

About, Time and Grace--Beck's note to Grace (fragment 5)

Darling--
I think I left my cell
In the pocket of my jeans
On the chair by the door.
Could you grab it?
Put on the kitchen table,
I'll get it later.
Or put it in your purse
And I'll get it
When we meet.
Answer all my calls, or not--
But remember if you call me
You'll have to answer, too.
Really, just turn it off.
And you know,
Even without the phone,
All day, I'll be thinking of you.

About getting on the road

A road trip--give me a Diet Coke and a stack of books and I can ride forever.

So I've got some new vampire books to try and plenty of Diet in the cooler.

And passing through Chicago on Lake Shore Drive -- exhilarating:

The city draws us in with a deep breath / We tumble through it, awed / Made small, used up, exhaled

I was going to write something lyrical and breathtaking

But instead I'm making you watch this.

About the end of the day

I love it when the day winds down. And I can watch it.
There's a satisfaction in being busy, in filling every moment of the day with work or activity, or whatever. Falling into bed and knowing that you couldn't have packed one more thing in.
But there's something about enjoying the remains of the day. Of just stopping, and watching what's left slip by. Letting things that maybe should be done, just wait. Just for tonight.
I've been out here, on the porch, since six or so--still full light then, and the neighborhood full too of busy-ness. Everybody coming home. Doors. Walks being taken, kids on bikes. Traffic in the distance. A dogs bark.

Me, first with the newspaper, then my book. In and out to fix dinner; a glass of pinot; then just some pink lemonade.
By myself 'til Greg gets home from baseball practice; he stays inside to watch the All Star game.
The book finished, I bring my computer outside. Summer and technology don't mix: A bug crawls in the keyboard. And doesn't come out. Even now, I'm wondering, Where is it? And what's it doing to my laptop?
I get my email. I spent too much time on Facebook accepting people's Mafia Wars requests and sending Farm Town gifts.
I talk to Angela, then Matt, on the phone, planning tomorrow--Harry Potter.
Then I Twitter. God forgive me.
But I'm not so plugged in I miss the day winding down. The light fades. There's a point when twilight comes--it was just a few minutes ago--when it's almost like a switch flips. I saw the darkness come. My screen glowed more brightly. Weird mix, isn't it?
A robin sat in the pine tree in the middle of the yard, and sang so beautifully.
I lamented that after a day spent inside, in a cubicle, the sun disappeared behind a flat, grey cloud--although just now, I could see a slash of red behind our neighbor's house. Lingering sunset.
I hear someone walking by. Shoes scuffing the cement. A man's voice. A child's whisper.
Surely I look ghostly, here on the porch, typing in the near-dark.
There's no breeze tonight, and kind of cool for July. And maybe the clouds mean rain on the way.
The fireflies have awoken. Are they drawn to my light?
Neighborhood's mostly dark now. I should go in--it's almost 10. But no mosquitoes have tried me yet, a rarity at this time of year. And I'm loathe to give up on this day--no matter, in a couple of hours, the day will have given up on me.
Firecrackers in the distance. Then it's so still.
Day fades.

About the creepy books I've read lately

I've got quite a list to write about, but I really had to mention this.
I just finished read The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones; City of Ashes; City of Glass series, which is a YA fantasy-type series with a Stephenie Meyers-recommended blurb on the cover. And it was fun, and I enjoyed them. BUT I could have done without the creepy "let's fall in love...oh wait you could be my brother" element in them. Really, with all the convolutions, why have THAT be the reason to keep the protagonists apart? Surely Cassandra Clare could have come up with something a little less icky.


I just started Turning Angel: A Novel by Greg Iles, a John Grisham-type writer, a nice, long paperback with a good recommendation from the NYT. And what do I find is its basis? A creepy love affair between a 40-year-old doctor and a high-school girl. Again...ick.


I won't blame this tendency on reading Twilight too much....