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the day was fabulously warm yesterday, must have been about seventy. It was close, too, with summer-warm breezes bringing summer-like humidity. I came around the corner of the garage out back with my arms full of laundry, and stepped into the path of the moving, sensuous air, and the memories of thirty gorgeous summers brushed through me all at once. It is a stirring thing, that first kiss of a premature summer that has stolen away from its place on the calendar, as designated by mere celestial mechanics, and comes with lust for me; and fiercely gentle, loves me right here in winter's own bed, and caresses me like only summer can.
But it will not stay, and has already gone back to the other side of spring, leaving behind a cold damp chill, and me to dream of its warm return. Summer will never stay, and for that I love it all the more.
i wish I had been Truman Capote in another life, only I was born before he died. I would have lived his life a little differently, I think. I would at least have finished Answered Prayers.
Sometimes in our lives people make the right decisions, and sometimes they do not. A parent doggedly protects his child from the epidemic of ADD misdiagnoses, despite what 'everybody says', his dissention finally vindicated with a vengeance in the adulthood of a perfect boy. Later, the same man, unable or unwilling to get past the agony of his wife divorcing him, selects a bald witch to marry—mostly for her benign capacity as a mannequin to tolerate any illusion he wishes to drape upon her, apparently denying her disingenuous personality, so obvious to others.
When it all ends, what will it matter which we have done, right or wrong? If I could do Capote's life again—and do it even worse than he—what would matter most to me is the effect. Would people have been moved and stirred by my brief passing, enough to wake the perfect one deep, deep within?
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