A Glass of Wine, Camille Paglia, and Thou

The end of summer, and I sit on my deck in the heavy Georgia heat with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and a copy of Camille Paglia's essays on "Sex, Art and American Culture." It is Labor Day weekend, and I am celebrating the end of summer. Tomorrow I will be swimming and feasting and toasting with friends by the lake, but tonight I savor the end of a season and dig deep into Paglia's essays.

The trees are the rich, deep green of early September, a few early leaves have begun to fall. My early morning runs are pleasant, and while evening runs are still hot, my core body temperature remains at a manageable level and recovery is swift again. This summer has passed in the blink of an eye, and I have had little time to enjoy the pleasures of summer I usually indulge. Last summer marked the end of my doctoral program, and while it was busy and stressful, it was more flexible than this summer has been. I spent a wonderful eight weeks in Florida, working at a fantastic hospital, being adopted as a temporary local in a great neighborhood, taking salsa classes, running along the waterfront, even joining a wine club. I feasted on tuna steaks and fruit, wrote interesting and worthwhile research papers, took off down A1A whenever the spirit moved me. By day I helped kids walk again, at night I explored new places, music, people. It was heaven, and I knew I was in it.

This summer, the dailiness of a full-time plus caseload has made the summer go by faster than any summer I can remember. As I am sitting on my deck tonight I hear my neighbor moving about on his deck, and smell the pleasant smell of his cigar. I suddenly remember it has been ages since I brought my guitar outside to play and sing, lighting candles and working up new songs and pretending no one hears me. For years now, I have brought my guitar outside to play on hot summer nights, and on most I would hear my neighbor raise his window very slowly, open his french doors, and settle his dog. At first disconcerting, as I do not sing in front of anyone but fireflies, I gradually got used to his presence through the smell of his cigar, and my playing picked up again. It was a sort of gentleman's agreement, I think. I never acknowledged his presence, and he never closed his windows.

The end of summer, and I realize how few of summer's pleasures I have indulged this year. It's time to wipe off my guitar, and bring it outside again. I know the fireflies will appreciate a tune or two, and unless I am completely mistaken, so will my neighbor.