Summer 25

Inspired by Marguerite Duras, Summer 25 explores a world in revolt through the prism of art and writing. Five of ten.

I sit in my office chair, staring at the bottom right corner of my screen until the pixels change to 5:00 PM. I slam shut my work laptop and push back from my desk, the caster wheels sliding across the dulled finish of the hardwood floor. I take off the t-shirt I was wearing through the work day and find the white pique cotton polo I wore that day in Fort Worth when we visited the Kimbell. The breast pocket is inside out; I put the round-bottomed fabric back in, buttoning it shut with a dark metal button held to the shirt with salmon-colored thread. The designer’s tag is torn out of the back of the shirt, but his name is engraved on the top and bottom of the breast pocket button and the three buttons along the neck placket. I change into green shorts with fringe at the knee. They are a shade of green that evokes the sea. The button for the front and for the left-side back pocket are an oxidized blue-white. The shoes are white tennis shoes. The famous logo only appears through perforations in the white leather. The leather heel cap is red with a white ‘R’, which stands for ‘Red’. (This design also comes in ‘B’ for “Blue” and “G” for “Green”). I put on the silver bracelet I got from my wife’s sister. I put on my grandfather’s ring.

My wife gets home, and we quickly eat; I tidy up while it’s her turn to change out of the day’s work clothes and to get ready. I’m reading the first Summer 25 for Joy Deficit, a local live-lit/performance held on the fourth Monday of the month at the Red Light Cafe, off Amsterdam in the heart of Atlanta, right beside the Botanical Garden. I plan to debut the project here, then publish the first issue the next day. I reread the piece a few more times, then I see how I can hold the phone in my hand and show off the copy of George Grosz’ Ecco Homo when I mention it in the reading. Maybe I’m afraid someone will doubt the veracity of my piece. I have no reason to think that but when has that ever stopped me? I pick up my copy of The Rebel and try to ignore the growing nerves. I worry my morning’s application of deodorant won’t be sufficient so I re-apply.

I’ve always been afraid of talking in front of people or performing. I dreaded my turn to read aloud to the class. It was torture to be picked at random, but even if there was an order, I would be inwardly panicking and tracking how long each person before me was taking and about where I would need to read.

I wasn’t always nervous playing trumpet; in fact, I quite enjoyed playing. But one summer during karate, I took a kick to the face after time was called. We probably should have gone to the ER to get stitches but for whatever reason, we didn’t. It eventually healed, but I had to relearn the instrument with a fatter lip. I can still feel the scar with my tongue. I was too scared to play solo anymore. First chair trumpet would play a sustained G for the rest of the band to tune around. I couldn’t sustain the note from all the trembling.

Like a lot of other college kids, I experimented with improv. I had wanted to be a comedian for a long time, but I was too scared to be very good at it; too in my own head.

At least with writing, I can remain as elusive as I want. I figured to go the path of a Salinger- or Pynchon-style recluse writer weirdo.

My partner in Summer 25 stipulated we should not dwell on negativity but focus on the positive. Likewise, Joy Deficit is about sharing and creating joy within our community. For me, that is easier said than done. I’ve never considered my writing to be particularly cheerful. To paraphrase Joan Didion, my work is full of joy; it’s just not happy. It made me nervous to not only share my original writing to an audience, but to share something I wasn’t sure fit the M.O. of the show. Sharing Summer 25 to an audience takes my nerves to the next level. There is no character to hide behind. Auzelle and I started this as an experiment between writing partners, but as I wrote the first one, I had, not the thought of reading it at Joy Deficit, but the thought of what Joy Deficit inspires in me. The show has inspired me to action, expressed through this summer writing project. The theme for July’s show is ‘resist’. Kismet.

I was wrong to worry about ‘joy’. I fixated on the noun form, worried about not having enough of it to share. But joy can be a verb. To rejoice. To feel and show joy and delight. I was also wrong to be worried. The community at Joy Deficit is loving and accepting, and as Gina reminds us performers before we return to our seats, she’s there to kick anyone’s ass that needs it. I wouldn’t have had the courage to read my work if she hadn’t been in the wings willing to lend some of hers. She is the heart of Joy Deficit and to me, the heart of the Atlanta performance scene. She created a place for us to gather, even when it’s hard. Even when the world is ugly—especially in those times. It’s easy to stay at home, to hide from everything. It’s hard dealing with the July heat and the Atlanta traffic. It’s hard to overcome apathy and to take action. But those are the times when community is most important. I didn’t need to worry about what type of joy I brought, as long as I was willing to share what I had. All I needed was to find a place to gather, a community with which to pool our collective joys so they may be fruitful and multiply.