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June 24, 2002 Sweet Flesh & Blushing Cherries
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Dear Readers, As I sit and type my head spins from oil-based paint fumes, my arms itch and my hands ache from hours of weeding the beds of my vast estate. Alas, the hounds are at the gate and it's time to shake our groove thing! I've noticed that tedious physical labor provides ample time to contemplate. This evening the nature of summer was the topic at hand. Not fickle or slightly creepy in that old man sense like spring and autum, summer is the sound of a child running barefoot on wet pavement, it's the sweet flesh of a blushing cherry. Summer is the season of children. Ah, to be a child again-- to wile away the warm twilights of careless summers playing made up games, to sit on a still-warm curb, sucking popsicles colored like the astro-pop sunsets, to swim until hands seem hopelessly wrinkled. As I weed the neighborhood kids pass by with bikes and balls, on skateboards and scooters and I long to have my summer nights free from the bonds of adulthood. But the time is at hand and act I must, for if I'm not to finish my secret underground lair certainly no one else will! But that does not mean you cannot free yourself from the chains of responsibility for just one day/week/month/lifetime. Eat that popsicle. Play in the sprinkler. Lay in the grass, stare into the trees and dream the dreams only children dare. If you don't do it for yourself, do it for me. Ken! |
