Summer 25
Inspired by Marguerite Duras, Summer 25 explores a world in revolt through the prism of art and writing. Three of ten.
The laundry room is at the rear of the house. Two of its three windows open out onto the backyard. Rotting railroad ties form a failing barrier against the sprawling hill, creating a ten-foot wide flat alley of a yard. The center of the wall is cut away; cinder blocks form stairs to the sloping side of the yard. Seeds fall into the cinder block holes, giving weeds and saplings room to take root and spring from the cracks. The yard is shielded from the neighbors by untamed Georgia woodland, a primitive division of land along property lines. Manicured lawns end at the stark reminder of what the land once was. Briars run the meridian of sun and shade, producing wild blackberries that grow ripe and red; ripening and growing sweet, soft and a dulled black-purple that attracts the eyes of nearby birds, further propagating the thorns.
It’s been a particularly rainy season. People on Teams calls joke that Georgia’s turning into Florida. Daily scattered thunderstorms do nothing to combat the heat; if anything, the near-absolute humidity traps the heat in the air. Going outside is like stepping into a sauna, making one’s skin tacky and one’s shirt clingy. One benefit is an increase of fireflies. They grow more active on rainy days, although not when it’s non-stop. The optimal days for fireflies come when the rains stop in the evening. The entire life cycle depends on wet conditions. The eggs will wither and die, so the mothers seek out moist dirt or nearby water sources. The larvae that survive burst from their eggs with a hunger. They prefer rainy days because that’s when worms and snails and other prey come out. I don’t know why the adults prefer wet conditions—they eat pollen, if they eat at all. Their whole existence is around becoming a blinking plea in the dark.
What I read leads me to what I read next. I’ve been circling another George, of sorts—Georges Bataille. He left footprints that Kathy Acker could stomp through—seeing (Story of an) eye to (Portrait of an) eye. I run my fingers along the roots I’m tracing, a dotted line connecting Bataille to Kathy—she believed she was the reincarnation of his lover Laure, born Colette Peignot. Laure’s biography brings my first Rimbaud mention—Kathy used Rimbaud in In Memoriam to Identity. He shows up next in The Rebel, a work about artists during rebellion and revolt. Rimbaud, the poet of rebellion. I buy his works and read A Season in Hell—and I marvel at such an elegant quitting of art. There is no shame in that, of course. I’ve known those who quit not for the lack of love but because of too much of the world.
He became a visionary by debasing his life, disorganizing his senses, exhausting within himself all poisons and preserving their quintessence. But what of us born disorganized? I thought exhausting poisons was the norm. What happens when the visionary can’t close his eyes? Camus cannot deny Rimbaud’s work, but not his later life. The poet of rebellion become a colonizer and arms dealer. Even the translator of his complete works can’t hide his disgust in his introductions to Rimbaud’s Harar letters. The prophet turned profitless is only irony that he sold his soul for failure. Forgive me for butchering this thought of Camus’: it’s the right of an artist to observe, but it’s the duty of a man to act.
We arrive late to my writing partner’s house. She’s having a celebration for the release of her novel Lavender & Gin. She opens the door and during our hugs, we nearly let her cat out the front door. We get plates of lasagna and walk to the living room, where the other guests chat and finish their meals. A kind couple get up, carrying their plates and cups and motioning to take their spot on the couch. While we eat, Abigail thanks everyone for coming out. She is wearing a cream-colored silk dress beneath an emerald green velvet robe, held together by a belt with gold tassels. The music is authentic jazz and blues from artists who frequented the pansy bars of prohibition, the setting of the novel. Someone calls for her to read us a passage and she obliges.
We drink, kiss, talk, love, without looking over our shoulders. We need friends then we care for and protect one another. We’ll always find each other and create new spaces for ourselves. It’s an honor for me to do it. It’s worth every risk.
She closes her earmarked copy. There is applause and a few people wipe at the corners of their eyes. Her advanced readers resonated with that passage and the room reflects on the grotesquely named Big Beautiful Bill, an outright mocking of the people whose lives will be lost through hate. What we need, she tells us, are our communities. To not stay at home. To check in on each other, because we’re the only ones left to do it. Everyone in this room is my community, she concludes, and we’re all we have left. The applause is even louder this time.
The rain stops around 6, giving the ground enough time to dry before the sun sets. Dozens of male fireflies—they’re the only ones who fly—blink bioluminescent signals against the darkening sky. When the female firefly is drawn to a particular blink, she sends her own yellow-green response from the ground. The backyard is alive with unsynchronized flashes. One zips right by the window, a dash among the dots. Desperate neon flashes pleading to see an answer. From the window, I can’t see the flat lawn and anything in the hill disappears among the flashing males. I won’t be able to see a response if I stay inside, where it’s cool, dry and calm. I slip on some shoes and step out into the dark, searching for a signal.