Something about summer; the piddlyness of it, makes you assess everything. Like a snaggletoothed red head with a magnifying glass. The walking around the house bare-skinned, drinking berry nectar out of the bottle, sitting on the porch to talk to the plants. The joyous pointlessness. The sweetly sick looming of a grown-up life and the realization too that any plans you made were lost in the flood and now unfold like spittled paper. I am not afraid of the future; I love it, I want to hold it and tickle its belly and guffaw at its ingenious jokes. I want the togetherness and the aloneness, the clashing of bodies like wooden spoons. I want that familiar ache of the loss of something real. Make the right moves and the wrong ones just as fast. Don't you think it's just marvelous; all this living?
photo: JFK Library
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