and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

My friend keeps asking for her story. "how is it coming?" she'll ask, and I'll stop and pretend to think about it, like I don't already know that it is coming horrifically slow. "But you can't rush creativity!" I insist to her - a false excuse.

Truly, you can't rush creativity.. but truly, I have been too drunk to notice. Summer has a way of doing that to a boy - picking him up out of his reverie, slapping him around a bunch and plopping him down in a bar somewhere. Most likely it's out on a patio or porch somewhere with drink in hand and eyes heavy from cigarette smoke and sleep.

Creativity, in these times, is like a pestering mother.

"clean your room"

"pick up your clothes"

"when are you going to finish.."

Yah yah yah, mom. I get it. Bugger off. It's summer and it's hot and the birds are flying around way up above the buildings and the sea and the sand are calling. Coronas on the beach are calling.

And I feel oddly drawn. I don't even like Corona.

But the book, the story, the drawing, the sculpture.. they're put away, packed up, stuffed in a closet somewhere because summer is for action and effect.. not the slow grind, not the mundane, not the blaisse.

Summer is for writing quickly, and hurriedly, because you don't have time between lunch and cocktails and dinner and cocktails. Summer is for typing fast and skipping spellcheck and saying screw you grammar, screw you. They'll get the point anyway.

Summer is for slacking off at the office and slacking off at the gym and slacking off slacking off slacking off. If you know what I mean.

I think I write too much about the summer sometimes, but it's a good and just beast, so why not? Are you tired of it yet?

I'm not.

Summer is for laying in the sailboat and pointing the tiller away from land and just soaking in the fat of life. Summer is for BBQs and fireworks and red hot dogs at the country store. Summer is for seafood.. lots and lots of seafood. And big music festivals and taking sick days.

Lots and lots of sick days.

Summer is for driving around and saying "how about this heat" and not worrying too much about where you go or when you'll be back because it'll all work out in the end - why sweat it?

Summer is for stopping at the side of the road and talking to the old man sitting on the tailgate of his pickup and buying the cheapest corn on the cob you've ever imagined and going home to cook that corn on the grill, watching the kernels slightly brown and having the butter and salt and kernels munch in your mouth in such a way that you feel you might just die and wisp away.

Summer is for really really long run on sentences.