Sunday, July 27, 2008
Outside of baking bread I didn't have a lot to do today. So little that in the late afternoon I had time to lay on my back in the middle of the yard, lolling around with the latest dandyland inhabitant, an elfin hound.
After spending a minimal amount of time puzzling as to what his name might be, I let myself slacken into the natural slowing of time and joined him in his houndly relaxation. He has a bit of the refined melancholia of a foxhound, but so far junebugs and impertinent songbirds are the only things I've seen him give chase to. There was a breeze today, but really it was too hot to chase anything. Better to lay still and listen to the jarflies grate their rasperators in the treetops. Ah summertime!
Which in dandyland is slowing down as it nears its end. We don't go for the Gregorian calendar around here. There used to be a wirey little old widow, sheathed in black, with a pillbox hat, who would invite herself to sunday dinner at our house, regularly. The only thing I remember about Sally Smiley was an expression that she used, often, to show that she was completely unimpressed by preposterous inanities - pssht! That could well be applied to the Gregorian calendar and its ridiculous and arbitrary quartering of the year into seasons that do not match reality on the ground.
One doesn't have to be a pagan, and dance naked round a pole, (not that that mightn't be fun) to realize that midsummer night's eve should be situated in the middle of summer, not at the beginning. This was all cooked up by people who don't go outside.
Anyway ~ I'm sure the calendar makers will eventually recant their folly - or perhaps the seasons will change so radically that we won't recognize them. In the meantime, who cares. To really feel time slowing down you need to let such trivialities slowly roast out of your mind, so that's there's a nice vacant space for the billowed up clouds to slowly graze across, like great celestial sheep, cropping their way across the infinite blue pasture of heaven. Cloudgazing- now that's a religious holiday.
On the old slow round, July becomes so hot and muggy that time is trapped in its density like a wastrel fly in molasses. Then the surge of summer growth slows into stillness, leave droop, & if you watch, you'll see a few early gold ones fall off. Dust, on the cowpaths, is trod powder fine, and puffs up between your toes. August is the real beginning of autumn - the plants are finishing up what's left to do - they take their time building up to the glories of October.
But that's ahead. There's still a few timeless days to savor summer in.