Like why we would ever mention ourselves and Claude Monet in the same sentence -- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s making me throw up a little bit in my mouth too -- but my relentless, repeating descriptions of the evening in my yard remind me a little of Monsieur Monet and the way he kept painting water lilies. Yes, I’m very aware: repetition is the only thing we have in common, and he did it infinitely better.
But in a strange way the yard is a lot like the his water lilly pond: Always changing in different lights and cloud covers and times of day, and begging to be the object of somebodys' -- anybody's! -- art. Like there’s a time of day when the trees in the front yard don’t even seem to need the last slant of sunset to be lit: They glow, all by themselves, unlikely luminescence. Or the moment that the violet hour becomes the dark hour, the way the switch flips every night a little differently. Or the magnificence of this weekend, not that it was what most people would call ‘a perfect weekend’ but the way it kept changing -- gloomy, low clouds in every shade of gray, to yellow sun, to a partly cloudy sun-and-shadows checkerboard, the way the air would change with it from cool to warm and humid, and the way the breeze would toss the trees, the way the maple tree sounded when it did. It was just so interesting, and so uniquely summer. And the super moon last night. And the fireflies, of course.
See, I’ve done it again. Monet-ed my yard. If I were a good enough photographer -- as good as Monet was a painter, say -- I would just take pictures of it and Instagram you to death. But my ability with F-stops and apertures is weak, and my need to describe the shit out of everything is strong. It is, as my friend John at work would say, what it is.
So it’s appropriate that today our frig magnets poem is kind of arty. Although the image is of fire, not water -- whoops. Water beats fire, anyway, right? Monet would agree. I'm trying to pick up a word or two from the previous day's poem and use it/them in the new one. Kind of like a word-chain between poems. Anyway: Be brilliant, you brush-welders.
Totally just because if I couldn't be at the beach this weekend, I managed to enjoy the ambiance courtesy of my infamous yard. 'Specially the koozie part. Welcome.
And it's sunshine, blue eyes, tan lines, slow tide rollin' / White sand, cold can, koozie in my hand, / just a summertime strolling / Chillin', breezing, sippin', singin' whoa / Beachin'