I don’t do this often.
Gee. I’m so sorry that I haven’t seen you, blog world. I will try to be less tardy. Like. Really. And, I am also seriously sorry that many of my past updates have been heartless rehashes of stuff that has been posted on Instagram (even though I love it so) or cheap advertisements for “Oh! New thing! If you loved me, you’d buy it.”
See, I like to read blogs. I like it when they are about actual people and, some of those people, they are very nice writers. Not just pictures. Not just evocative photo filters. Words, though. Oh yeah. Bring me the words. Make them plentiful and maybe even a little long. I can take it. Otherwise, I have a 3 volume dictionary to help me out. It’s outdated but, the most important parts are still there.
Things have been very busy this summer. For good and for not-so-good. Lots of driving from Rhode Island to New Jersey or New York. Lots of work for Renegade and lots of work stemming from Renegade (that’s good.) I had set out in late-springtime with a mild set of ideas as to what this summer would be like. It included late night hangouts on the state house steps, going to the beach, wearing cut-off shorts, and drinking a bunch of tiki drinks (particularly “Dr. Funk: the ladies’ favorite”). To date, I have done one of those things. Lucky for us all, it was the shorts.
What I didn’t plan for was being sick for 20 days. 20 gross days of being unfocused and mewling like a teensy, sad kitten whose antibiotics didn’t work the first time around. I spent more time than is believable laying across the bed, body drawing a line between the window A/C unit at one side of the room and the small fan sitting at the other. And, during this time, panic attack after panic attack. After a few days (okay, like, a week), I couldn’t really tell what parts of me were sick and what parts of me were just scared I was sick (and, obviously, would be sick for-ev-er). If you know someone who has reached this point, don’t tell them, “Duh. Idiot. Just relax.” Surprisingly, this line of thinking doesn’t actually work. Mind over matter sometimes, talking-with-a-licensed-professional some other times, glasses of wine over everything, right? And, when mild substance abuse doesn’t clear it up, try running away. Write that down.
So, here I am, on pleasant leave, hiding out at my parents’ house. And, you know, this summer hasn’t been much of a season (all enthusiastic cut-ff short wearing aside). Even in small ones, city summers are pretty miserable. But here, held gently in American suburbia, the Summer is how I remember. There’s the beach! And hamburgers! The gentle smell of cedar! Mild sunburn! A weird sensation that, at 5pm, I should be at work on the boardwalk! It is, truly, as my downstairs neighbor says, “Summah”. Don’t fear suburbia. Embrace it.