When you’re lying in a hammock under a midsummer Texas twilight, there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with the world. Time is suspended beneath a luminous porcelain plate of the moon and, clichéd as it may sound, minute by minute, another stream of ancient light winks from a half sleep sky.
Everything about this scene is a classic Hollywood summer: the crickets and Katydids; the cicadas and muffled lilting Southern voices. The smell of the heat in the air; the smooth slick of an almostsweat on your skin, dewy in the humid lull.
This is peace, this is life.
This is being whole and alive and in the world yet alone enough in it to see it through my own eyes and feel the warm knot of, dare I say it, happiness, or contentment at least, if there is to be a difference between those two elusive emotions hunted down in this Label Age.
I am This. I am not That. I should not be These. I have Them. I want Those.
I am here.
I see an airy charcoal ocean above me. I smell scorched grass. I hear clicking lives in the bushes. I feel the sway of the hammock. I taste the salt of the earth on my lips.
“That’s all well and good till you wake up covered in mosquito bites”, says the cynical Irishwoman inside me.