Black and White

The last time I went to Black & White (Bar) the night ended at dawn. It was one of the first weeks of summer and a night that was exploding with newness and possibility in all sorts of directions.

Tonight held no similar promise, which is fitting, maybe, since the offerings of the last time ultimately proved empty.

I retraced our path down 10th Street and thought about how drunk we were that night, from alcohol, each other. I thought about clenched hands and soft lips and what it looked like when the first hint of sun started to sneak across the otherwise dark sky.

It's one of the last week's of summer now and perhaps that's fitting too, a nice little bookend to a tale that never really got past the draft stage. (Ah, to write it again, to finish the story!)

What is it about summer that promotes this feeling of lawlessness? This tiptoeing around insanity and notions of invincibility and grandiose ideas and feelings? Were we blinded in the thickness of the air, in the steam radiating off the miles concrete before us? Enchanted by the spell of the delirium inducing heat?

What will the next season bring? Times of practicality? Rationality? A cooling of air and mind and feeling? How boring, how sad. I think I prefer the heat.