“Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons” (Lolita, 73).
Despite all manner of things pointing to the beginning of the hottest season, beginning with the date and season's first sunburn,it's not summer yet. The temperatures continue to hover around the 70s, occasionally sneaking up to the eighties if you're standing in the sun, but even most days it's just sitting there in the 60s and being terrible. Usually I like rain, or those hazy over-cast days where it threatens to pour all over the place but doesn't. For once, I want summer so badly. I've noticed it's something a lot of bloggers—at least those in the parts of the globe who are experiencing the weather shift to warm at the moment—are all vaguely posting about it.
There is a certain kind of summer that we all dream about and attempt to construct out of the ethereal, fusty memories of all the summers past. It's the kind of environment that seems really dreamy, built on lethargy and languid, slow-moving, snapshots of bike riding, picnics, sun-umbrellas and christmas lights, the moments before and after thunderstorms, hair sticking-to-the-back-of-your-neck and freckled, sunburned noses. For me these romantic images of the season that makes almost literally wilt into a shriveled, dehydrated and sweaty flower are idyllic at night-time. I always remember sitting up in my sweltering attic room with christmas lights on the ceiling eating melted chocolate and peanut-butter and listening to music with BFFs. Or sitting outside, in some weird conglomeration of bathing-suit and cover-up trying to decide if it's still hot enough to hop in the pool. Suddenly, I wouldn't mind it. I would love nothing more than to be sitting in the car (preferably passenger seat—I hate driving) with the windows open and driving somewhere. I even want that suffocating humidity and heat that so frustrates and ruins the things I normally don't spend two seconds worrying about (ie, hair and melting makeup).
by beehives
Irish HareIt seems that every blogger has their own specific version of this summer, but it does seem that there is something in common. Snobby disdain for it though there may be, I'm certain that deep down everyone wants the kind of bug-buzzing summer of
The Virgin Suicides (book or movie, and of course, minus the obligatory tragedy). Part of the fantasy of this comes from the kinds of things we imagine we'll wear. Floaty, white dresses and pretty little sandals, funny little blouses with patterned or high-waisted shorts, mimicking photos of people going on bike expeditions and wearing all kinds of hats and silly shoes and sunglasses. A chambray dress or something midriff-baring, something that I wouldn't ever even think about in any other weather, floral prints and hair in wispy braids. Like all the summers in those Francesca Lia Block books, where the girls lie around and everything is beautiful and lyrical and a little bit sinister.
That's sort of the problem—this vision of summer that we all long for is somewhat ideal. Saturday was one of the bigger street festival events in my city, and my work had a table set up outside. There I was, standing there in my denim romper and straw hat, oblivious to the fact that the back of my leg was being fried into crispy, red-raw, oblivion. It was hot, and sweaty, and I ended up with that line on my forehead from the hat, and a distinct inability to get the latex glove back on my hand in order to pack up the baked goodies. Even now, days later, I stupidly have an idealized feeling about it. In retrospect it doesn't seem that bad—no summer does, no matter how bad the sun-burn. I don't do well in the heat, and yet I feel the need for it for once. This yearning (oh god, I hate that word) is something new for me. Especially since my regular trips to the beach have waned in the past few years—because the beach is the only place where this kind of oppressive heat is delightful and perfect.
The Virgin Suicides, 1999
by abless