American Summer

If I decided to rank them, the most memorable scenes from my summer would involve deep-water swimming holes. Lucky me, no less than three times I found myself floating on my back with ten toes poking out and staring up at landscapes carved by glaciers. The water is cool but not cold. My mind is empty. 

As the country, the United States of America or so it’s called, unravels not unlike an 80s-era Soviet Union, we the people go on living. 

There’s this paradox afoot — everything’s happening at the same time. Existential dread and blackberry season. Civic heartbreak and summer sun tans. Boarded up businesses. Beers on the beach with your buds. Riding bikes home through the soft summer air, getting passed by riot wagons full of Portland’s finest, headed off into the night with dark intentions.

To the questions I’m always asking, there’s an answer in here but it’s not something I can negotiate with right now. Just have to let everything wash over me, like that cool water, and hope something meaningful floats to the surface.