Early Bed, Fair Mind

There is less than one month of summer left.  Finally, here in my own hometown, the afternoon rains have arrived.  Now we begin hurricane watch in earnest.  Batten down the hatches.  

Elsewhere, I imagine, the weather is beginning to temper.  Soon, in "the heartland," or what I always think of as "Dick and Jane America," not the midwest, per se, but anywhere that has something resembling four seasons, the last days of summer soon will be followed by the blustery coming of fall. And then, friends, romantics like me living in the sunny south will begin to lose their wits in envy.  

I'm told that the recent Covid vaccine really hits the mark, and it is predicted that anyone receiving it will have very little illness from the virus.  

"Get your vaccine in September and be free in NYC in October."

That was the message I got yesterday.  It sounded so hopeful. 

I am, as are most romantics, I imagine, emotionally manipulated by weather.  I didn't buy a sailboat once because the weather on the day I test sailed it was dreadful.  The most memorable days in my life have happened in cool, dry weather, hiking in mountains, sitting in cafes, driving, windows down, through open countryside.  Those days are like paintings in memory.  No significant event, nothing dramatic. . . just scenery and weather.  

"I've been all around this big old world and I've seen most everything."

I should clarify that those were the prettiest memories.  I have others that are not so wonderful.  I am that most Germanic "Young Werther."  

Sturm und Drang.  

I should tell you that the cat is alright.  She came for food the past two days.  Her boyfriend has been around, too.  

And the vivid dreams seem to have come to an end since I have been slipping into bed early again.  Early bed, less liquor, and a more peaceful night's rest.  I'm thinking about eating an apple a day, too.  Somehow, my outlook on things is. . . "sunnier." 

I've been asked to do a guest lecture at the local college.  I don't think I want to.  I am wanted to do an hour on Florida Photography.  I laugh inwardly at the suggestion as I don't think I could do anything that would be "appropriate."  

"For over five years in a studio only blocks from here. . . ."

Nah.  

Most of my work or the work I truly like is risky at best.  "All art is a form of pornography," one of my cohorts says, "or it should be."  I'm not sure that is exactly what he said.  That is, in essence, how I remember it.  Whatever he said pointed to the idea that art should never be safe.  I sure as shit don't want to go into the classroom and show the photos of Clyde Butcher.  

And yet, that photo at the top of this post. . . what the hell am I saying?  A picture like that. . . .  Who am I trying to please/bullshit, anyway?  

But this morning, I am not of darkened mind.  I feel like a spectator on the verge of an adventure of which he doesn't have to suffer the consequences.  

Yea.  I've got that summertime sadness.  That's what she says.  Don't let your deal go down.