There’s a magic time that announces summer has arrived. It’s not the warmer weather or the ending of another school year. It’s not embarking upon of a long awaited vacation or even the ding-a-ling of a neighborhood ice cream truck.
Summer arrives at a special moment when the sun begins to lower in the sky, the night starts to seep in and the air is humid and warm as breath. At this very moment, heady scents on the evening breeze meld together in a brew of ambrosia. Like an organic pheromone tantalizing your imagination that laid dormant the rest of the year.
This scent, this aromatic vapor invades the body like a succubus, seducing mundane thoughts into anticipated adventure and conjured fantasy. This scent plays and blends with temperate fertile earth and stirs together with sweet blooming flowers, herbs and hidden honey combs.
It’s a sensation that hints you might have stayed dormant too long and spurs in your stomach a butterfly tingle of curiosity. Your anticipation is heightened by a cool trickle of sweat on your neck as the first summer scent wafts under your nose and introduces the magic of summer.
There’s an anxiousness, a mind-set of purpose mistakenly designed. A rampant metronome of heart-pace. Extreme sensory absorption. A calvary charge through exploded cannon-shot. Saber slashing, machete hacking- clearing ground for take-off. All fueled up and no place to go. Anxiousness turns into frustration.
The times they come past. Open and scattered, whole and broken. The jazz is inside the head, mind music, cosmic keys to open dimensional doors. Always reaching to catch the tempo, to run away, all frantic, all jump.
Man’s sound warps clouds, whirlpools weather and scalds his moods. Doors and round portals swing, open close, open close, the beat rocks dark matter into a madness.
Listen to it man, it’s jammin’, jivin’, loose and arrogant. Keep up, don’t drag, the music is all that’s left to echo through the illusion of time. There is no time, it’s all free-form, running for the chase, springing, leaping, a rocket shooting for the universe. Play, man Play. Blow daddy blow. Wail like groovin’ cat’s wail.
The hour slotted, the sky mottled and filled to near bursting with immense, oily, slithering yellow blobs; like viscus organic matter viewed under a microscope. A distant toll announced sunset, when everything turns to dark silhouette and the horizon briefly glows a cool melange of pastel pinks and purples before bleeding into a dark indigo and the stars glisten in black satin.
But this twilight changed. A burnt, orange-yellow churned the setting sun into a broken egg yoke. Green’s from the earth hemorrhaged into the last gemstone blue of the sky as yellow crude filled the stratosphere like a glass fishbowl overflowing with dead goldfish. This sudden transformation made everything look small, the oblique magnification dwarfed everything below, turning black silhouette’s into charcoal sketches on a matchbook cover.
Spilled finger paint, dripped to the earth, running in stringy globs over an invisible edge. Once again the world was revealed to be flat, mocking all scientific thought and hypothesis, proving it’s not what you believe, only that there must be a capacity to believe. The skeptics screamed,gnawing at the gristle and bone of their fingers in terror. The faithful lay down and were molded, drown in a darkening celestial coagulant.
Processional change is different each time the calendar ends.
The runaway heart, a freight train at 200 beats per minute, two and a half continuous hours and it’s time to stop the heart…. stop the heart? Emergency room ghouls stop your heart, three seconds, you are not dead, but something is pulled from the bottom of the soles of your feet and slammed to the underside of your cranial dome and flattened there, tight, solid, crushing, a grey-black moment of an eternity of compression. But the life-flood isn’t let out, it reconstitutes back through the veins, begins to fill back into the limbs until your petty conscious focus returns. The heart, –traitorous beast that it is– returns to a semblance of normal. Sulk-ishly resisting suggestion, but for the moment, a panting, uncertain panic of a moment, the heart releases it’s strangulation hold. Then it sits defiant and petulant in the chest, satisfied in it’s efforts for attention, having exhausted and fried the wiring of its shabby vessel. The heart, nothing but a shill for the subconscious ring master, circus huckster, invisible, immutable Loki trickster. The holographic reflections of the universe will demand their moments…because mere moments are all infinity can claim.