Originally Posted Friday, June 13, 2014
Strawberry Moon. Strawberry Wine. Be careful. This is the last full moon of spring. The madness begins. Here in the south, sleep is already troubled. I've asked--taken a survey, if you will. Perhaps it could be the coming of the full moon, people will say, but I know it is more than that. Indoor comfort can't begin to counter the menace outside. The mosquitoes are terrible this year, worse than I remember. The air is already sticky, thunderstorms already brewing. Rotten limbs are beginning to fall. All the northern birds are gone now. All we are left with are buzzards and mocking birds. Wild things have taken over. The lawn writhes with bugs and lizards. Weeds I've never seen take root and spread. It is impossible to keep anything alive between the lines. Soon, even the beach will be horrible, the sun too hot, the sand to bright. Only shaded pools with frozen drinks will offer any refuge. And nights. . . oh, I swear, they bring adultery. Women warm and glowing in light cotton blouses and flowing skirts become discontent with the abysmal brutes they must share their beds with at home. Frustrated husbands become violent for the life they are not living. Tennessee Williams did not make this stuff up. For Faulkner such nights brought rape and murder. Anyone with any sense (and, of course, enough money) will flee to their summer homes in the mountains or on one of the northern Capes. People without the money but with adventurous souls will travel somewhere south of the equator. And for poor schlepps like me. . . there is nothing except a weak but tenacious hanging on.
About the adultery we can only wait and see.
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