The Writing Season

It has happened every year, around late July. Right around this same time each year, the currents of our moods reach a fork, and split.  I am enjoying long summer twilights and cold drinks and thinking about miracles like trees and parrots and Hendrick's gin.   He is stewing in an existential malaise where there are no real friends and nothing worth doing that isn't just a hoop in the contrived game of life in a suddenly inarguable prison of obligations and empty gestures.  Bad things happen during this time.  Extreme behaviors are acted out.   At least one of them is likely to hurt me or someone else.   Of course, this ennui will be soon remedied by the applauding crowds of Indianapolis.  And then it will be looked back upon as an inevitable part of the joyous birth known as THE WRITING PROCESS.