is it fall yet?

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Summer doesn’t end for a few weeks, yet calendars and the alignment of the spheres mark official time, whereas the idea of summer—the feeling of it, along with its sights, sounds and smells—well, that all ends now, during the great American happy/sad holiday weekend. We light our grills; patter out to our parks, or farther, to deeper woods; dip our paddles one last time into the water; stay out late and sleep later; hit the roads for one final hurrah—all with a kind of gleeful desperation. (And, of course, the fleeting season turns our prose purpler than the early September night’s sky.) Summer vacation exists just for a tiny few—the young or the rich or the idle. Yet we all nod at the notion of it, and invest the season with hope despite the daily trudge to work. Its passing, though it happens every year, because it happens every year, is one of life’s minor tragedies.

:: the new yorker ::

summer is like this perennial tease — a breezy, brilliant high that drops you before you’re totally there. whether or not the weather or stars agree, labor day always hits hard and fast. school and work are about to sweep my whites and linen to the back of the wardrobe, and frankly, i’m ready. it’s been fun but i’m eager for this punchy, hot mess of sweat, shine, and show to end.

it’s high time for change, for darker and richer colors, for a bit of cold and chill to chase me out of this unnatural working-leisure state, into fall, the fairest of all seasons.

separately, black star’s “respiration” is one of the best songs i have heard in a long time. how did i miss this?


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