I find this time of year very sexy. Everything is actually climaxing. All the flora are fully engorged and so, sooo ripe, abundant and ready to explode with their own sweet juices. Life, life, life. Is this why California is so cool? Everything there is fully, maximally freaking out all the time in the constant summer, and maybe everyone is frolicking around happily fucked all the time? I have to shake the prehistoric-looking giant vines and flowers there because I want to slap them silly. This part of summer feels like swollen breasts during ovulation.
I almost had a pleasure stroke due to a very far-out experience looking at some purple speckled broad beans at the Union Square farmer’s market the other day. It felt like when you and the world fold the universe sheet together, like you bring your corners to its corners and fold the sheet crisp perfect and warm. The colors gleamed. The wavy green and yellow summer squash, neon pink radish sprouts, purple asters glowing from the inside, peaches like baby heads, twirly fairy tale eggplants all mauve-and-white tie-dyed. ALSO, the mackerel fish that happen to be my favourite, I swear they were so iridescent and fresh that their eyes still reflected inner light. Everything feels saturated in extreme ripeness. Including me.
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This season is a fat Venus sexual dynamo from the fields, sweating pheromones on a clamshell scented with flowering thyme and tasting like the last strawberries of the season, simultaneously fucking and birthing. Sorry, spring, your “frisky” procreating, in comparison, makes you a gangly, fawn-eyed teenager afraid to masturbate. Summer right now just wants to FUUUUUCK. It is mind-blowing and raw sex that afterward walks around in a happy, satisfied la-la land. It makes things psychedelic, dosing you with ecstacy made out of fireflies, golden plums, a blessed cool night, and constant sunshine. Fuck you, summer, I love you.
After this trip to the market, I watched Ann Romney address the Republican National Convention. The way she talked about love and her attempt to empathise with women made me feel endangered. There was a big, fat, abstracted and disconnected void in everything that came out of her mouth. Not surprising I felt this way – me, someone who could savagely fornicate with a season – but I also kept thinking, I wonder if any of these thoughts I just had ever crossed Ann’s mind too?
I think Ann needs to be humanised. What I mean is that there’s something very Marie Antoinette about her, only less openly frivolous (as was expected of the Queen of France) and more “golly gee whiz”. The Cleavers are about to become monarchs, guys. I’m sitting here, eating about seven plums consecutively and trying to figure out why I think that teaching Ann to fuck vegetables would fix her. When I look at Ann, I see a lack of fullness to her experience of life. She takes hypothetical planes, not ships. She is talking at us from 25,000 feet above our heads. There has been no time for her to slowly suck on the possibilities of human life, the weird connections, the overlaps, the deep, strange pleasures. She hasn’t indulged in the “adult party”, as a friend so eloquently put it.
If I were to try and fix Ann, just as her friends try to fix gay people and women, I would get some of that summer ecstasy I was talking about and make her do it. We could start today, because perfect, it’s a blue moon. A blue moon is when two full moons happen in one month. This occurs about once every two and a half years, so it seems like a chance to do something you would only do every once in a while. Like stripping all your clothes off and “moon bathing” in the rare rays and thinking about a wish. I would encourage Ann to wish for her own human-ness, and I would wish something along the lines of more self-understanding, creative flow, peace, money, etc. We’ll watch the moon wane and talk about the ripples in the water, and she won’t think it’s weird that I’m talking like this. We could take the whole Labour Day weekend together getting real. We’ll get laid by summer and drink raw milk and drink the dark grape, and maybe she will thank me for saving her life and America’s life that she loves.
Previously – Bon Apetit, Here’s to Nothing
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