Thinking about summer

About a month ago, I sent away some film that I had completely forgotten about to finally be developed. The images that came back to me illustrated my first summer in Seattle, a city where summer is kind of a big deal. With the other three seasons bringing extensive periods of rain and blank gray skies, summer in Seattle bestows to us the gift of sunlight, and Seattleites tend to take full advantage of it: swimming or boating in our multiple water sources, hiking or camping in the many beautiful forests surrounding the area, a lively city-wide Pride celebration in June, flea markets and community events, etc. etc. It’s a classic picture perfect summer, straight out of a movie, if you choose to ignore...certain aspects (ridiculous levels of tourism and displacement of houseless people.) My images didn’t reflect that summer, however. Thanks to the specific film I used, the photos (included below) harbor a grainy melancholy opposite of the neons and pastels of summer, instead reflecting the gloom that is usually correlated with Seattle and that I, personally, tend to correlate with summer.

I was going to write a long essay on the history of summer and our relationship to it as humans: the season’s emphasis on freedom, productivity, and self-improvement, and maybe that will be an essay for a later day. Right now, I’d rather reflect on my thoughts towards the season and the realizations I’ve reached through exploring these photos. Throughout my life, I’ve felt as though, because of my circumstances and resources, I was watching through a window as the masses loved and anticipated a season that brought to my family and community extreme heat, isolation and boredom. As an adult, I try to find ways to branch out and take advantage of the summer, but can’t shake the remnants of this feeling: watching (with the help of long-term internet and social media access) and succumbing to the pressure of romanticizing a certain standard of life, taking advantage of every sun-kissed minute and showing off the best, most exciting pieces of myself. I’ve always felt an estrangement from the excitement, this inability to not force standards on my own experiences, or to forget the uncomfortable and dangerous threat of the Arizona sun, or to ignore the increased pressure on my body image, the sweaty exhaustion of working a service job during a tourist season, the isolation of being a child away from school and stuck inside.

My first summer in Seattle, I didn’t have many friends (more…friendly acquaintances), missed my friends and family at home, didn’t know much about the city surrounding me, and felt as though I was watching everyone live on a screen while I sat idly and watched. But I really am incredibly grateful for the gifts that summer grants us—lush nature, the sharp feeling of sun on your neck, the park lively with dogs and kids on swings—it is a liveliness that I welcome and admire. As I sit in my 40 degree apartment in February, my fingertips cold against my keyboard, I hope to be able to set my lazy self-comparison aside in the upcoming warm months and allow myself relaxation and slack. I hope to find a level of freedom, brightness and fulfillment in my own specific way. I know this doesn’t need to look a certain way, doesn’t need to include lavish summer vacations, or boat parties with huge friend groups, or going to giant stadium concerts (damn you, Taylor Swift). I’m trying to learn that when I limit life, something that should have limitless possibility, I limit myself and what I am able, open, and excited to experience. While I still approach this season with shaky ankles and the desire to return to winter apathy, I hope to find a way to spend these days in the sun, without fear of it, without isolating myself from it. I hope to discover ways to experience summer, and life itself, my own way, and to enjoy it so much more because of it.

A (love) poem I started in July, but finished in November.

109

we have so many dreams
this summer
night, moon and
streetlight
beams, your sticky
legs next to mine,
a box in the hallway.

no, it’s okay.
sleep now if you can.
my neck
damp, chatter
outside—
a living lullaby.

my mother said
I’d meet you
in Eden, so I waited,
under the apple tree,
gazing
at the fruit.

instead, we met in
bare walls
before we splattered
blue and orange.
instead, you plant
the garden
in the center
of our studio—the tree
blossoms.
pluck the apple,
my darling, you
can have the first bite.

the apple cries
in my ear and i
believe it, as i crunch
into the cold skin
and you
catch the juice
before
it hits the floor.

wake up now,
open your eyes!
the relentless sun
stalks through
cracked blinds,
wooden limbs
grow thicker, cracking
the cement,
the garden
sleeps. we
exhale
with the windows
open.

A prose(ish) poem exploring my anxieties toward a brighter season.

July Birthday

Ever is the search for a welcoming summer, for a tender sun that doesn't burn, that doesn’t emit reminders of muddy footsteps now eroded by winter rain, that mercifully wraps me in its light and illuminates the grayish glint surrounding the gold in my iris. It permeates my nostalgia. It seeps into my pores and burrows beneath my sticky skin. It is a promise of recollection and sentimentalism and prodigal childish whimsy. It is a reminder of the identities I’ve buried under gray sheets pulled over my hazy head. 

Chasing the sun can be deceiving—it will always be right in front of you. You will find yourself, blinded under a spotlight of your own design. The summer conceals its threats of inadequacy and missing what we’ve chosen to abandon behind blooming marigolds and sun-kissed eyelids. We try to dance under crushing heat, but we find ourselves wandering artificial grass fields that curl inward, inward, inward, leading to no answers, only memories of oxybenzone and chlorine and Nintendo DS games and listening to monsoons and sleeping with wet hair. I always embraced the monsoons more than the sunshine. Memories and heat will always hold you back. Just keep telling yourself that. Its brightness above you is a blazing taunt, your own cold complacency a more welcoming home than the pastel threat of having to leave it behind and become something.

The photos: