Literary Exercise #8--A Sunny Day.

I've decided that I don't have to a paragraph intro to every blurb I write. So I'm just gonna jump right in. Yeah. ;)



A sunny day. A summer day. I wonder if it's possible to translate warm breezes and clear sunlight onto blue-lined paper and bic-made pens. Maybe if I leave my notebook out in the sun for a while, let it soak up the rays. Maybe if I take my pen with me, out to the streets, to the beach, to the city, to the clattered multi-lingual communes. There's something about the perfect day that makes you feel better about yourself. I never thought of the weather as an apparatus to absolve my lesser qualities, but when I stepped outside, all my worries turned chaff-like and were whisked away.



And you know everybody's out. Back in Minnesota, on the chop and turf of the lake waves. Out in California, in the mite-free air streaming down onto crags and gulleys and brown and blue creeks. In Texas, but you know that there, in is out, and they don't emerge until the latter-day evenings and nights like shadows. In Maine, though I think the sunlight is their first experience with a liberal sense of joy, neither to the left nor the right. In London, although their perfect experience could easily be exchanged for heavy fog and drizzling rain. In fairy tales, where the princess delights as the first light peers through her blinds and paints patterns on her floor. In Australia, Jamacia, where Fosters and Red Stripe meet together for "Hooray Beer" festivals and the kangaroo long jump. In Paris, where the outdoor cafes are filled to their capacity and they're forced to bring some chairs inside. In blenders, as the strawberries, ice, and tequila lend their juices to the perfect concoction and serve their long line of thirsty patrons. On the internet forums, where laptops are brought outside and bloggers have to squint to see their carefully crafted lines. In the church, where stain-glass windows leave their crystalline bodies and join the twirling, dazzling dance across pews and dark wooden support beams. You see, no one wants to play the guardian on a day like this. Hug a musician, they never get to dance, but watch them throw their pianos and guitars down prematurely and free-verse it on the dance floor. The real encore happens when they lift their tangled mass of strings and splintered carvings to the sun and ask for one more song. In the heavens, where angels frolic with the agility of elves, leaping in softly rounded arcs and stopping mid-air without the awkward recoil home to thirteen-year-old boys armed with safe fire arms and their first hunting experience since the wild west. In a writer of sorts, where sorting through turns of phrases is akin the sun choosing which rays to send down. And the turning of the page breaths softly on the bare skin of the reader until his bones are warmed and soothed. In wedding parties, where the groomsmen arrange the patio furniture with smirking smiles and glistening necks. Like in chess, it's a matter of where you set the pieces, and if you want to take the queen, make sure your table is close to the bridesmaids and the open bar. In concerts, in eminem and dr. dre, filtering through the grid shield of metalic microphones and sounding through the elevated speakers. In everybody's perfect dream, where they don't want to close their eyes because they don't want to miss a thing, and sleeping is waking, until the sun sees that everyone is singing their favorite bar songs and retreats to his own reserved party. In the cosmos, where stars burn bright like young bucks, seeing who can get closest to supernova-ing the moon without turning into a black hole. In the eyes of everything deep and profound, seeing all that is good and and the mystery in the bad, and seeing that all is good. No one walks out without having a party to attend--and no one seeks to amend it--not until the night comes, not until the morning light, and not until the sun ends its sunny days and summertime plans. It's not the day who makes the sun, but the sun who makes the day.