I had coffee with my friend Michele this morning. Neither of us grew up here in Southern California, but both of us feel that we are supposed to be here. I think we were talking about clothes when Michele said, “It’s always summer here.” It is, and, you know, it isn’t. You have to really look, but you start to be able to discern the seasons here in ways mostly having to do with the angle of sunlight at noon. I find myself thinking, “In a month it will be twilight at this time of day, not mid-afternoon,” and “Where did the middle of July go?”
I told her a little about some stuff that’s going on at work, and then I came home and got reflective. My summers used to be defined by design deadlines, my busiest season, preparing to roll out new sets for tours each fall. I had to be super productive. In my own parallel universe, I had both of my babies in summer. Summer is what kids anticipate nine months out of the year.
What I have loved about summers, a visual list–the outer banks of North Carolina
Islay in Scotland
not gaining weight
reading slutty books or Nancy Drew
not reading Joyce
riding around with my uncle who knows all the good stories
getting the filter removed from my vena cava
the tour de France
reading about the festivals in NME in the aisles of Borders
designing sets for operas.