{"id":7838,"date":"2010-07-16T06:40:33","date_gmt":"2010-07-16T10:40:33","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7838"},"modified":"2010-07-19T13:55:50","modified_gmt":"2010-07-19T17:55:50","slug":"the-breathing-of-summer-mountains-the-hissing-of-summer-lawns","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/07\/the-breathing-of-summer-mountains-the-hissing-of-summer-lawns\/","title":{"rendered":"The Breathing of Summer Mountains, the Hissing of Summer Lawns"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

It was almost dark on an early summer eve, and the forest was never more enchanting than now, at dusk. At dusk the mountain begins to withdraw its force back into itself and become quiescent. If you too can become quiescent, so still that you can’t think of your name, you can feel this as a palpable fact. Just become so still that your mind won’t be bothered to remember the mundane, and then you’ll feel it like you feel the shifting of the winds. Then you’ll know when the mountain changes from exhaling to inhaling. That’s not so important in itself, but the mind that is quiet enough to notice is. The mind that is not always caught up in detail is your only treasure. Stop chasing details and become still to feel it. The mind that sees details clearly but is not caught by them is like a vast borderless mirror. That mind does not oppose itself.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(G. Bluestone [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Midsummer<\/strong><\/p>\n

On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
\nthe boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the
\ngirls’ clothes<\/span>
\nand the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies
\nsince last summer<\/span>
\nand they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
\nleaping off   the high rocks–bodies crowding the water.<\/p>\n

The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
\nmarble for   graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
\nbuildings in cities far away.<\/p>\n

On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks
\nwere dangerous,<\/span>
\nbut in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we
\nwere after.<\/span>
\nThe summer started. Then the boys and girls began to
\npair off<\/span>
\nbut always there were a few left at the end  —  sometimes
\nthey’d keep watch,<\/span>
\nsometimes they’d pretend to go off   with each other like
\nthe rest,<\/span>
\nbut what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted
\nto be them.<\/span>
\nBut they’d show up anyway, as though some night their
\nluck would change,<\/span>
\nfate would be a different fate.<\/p>\n

At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all
\ntogether.<\/span>
\nAfter the evening chores, after the smaller children were in
\nbed,<\/span>
\nthen we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the
\nnights we’d meet<\/span>
\nand the nights we wouldn’t. Once or twice, at the end of
\nsummer,<\/span>
\nwe could see a baby was going to come out of all that
\nkissing.<\/span><\/p>\n

And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
\nThe game was over. We’d sit on the rocks smoking
\ncigarettes,<\/span>
\nworrying about the ones who weren’t there.<\/p>\n

And then finally walk home through the fields,
\nbecause there was always work the next day.
\nAnd the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front
\nsteps in the morning,<\/span>
\neating a peach.   Just that, but it seemed an honor to have
\na mouth.<\/span>
\nAnd then going to work, which meant helping out in the
\nfields.<\/span>
\nOne boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
\nThe house was very old, maybe built when the mountain
\nwas built.<\/span><\/p>\n

And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for
\nnight.<\/span>
\nStanding at the front door at twilight, watching the
\nshadows lengthen.<\/span>
\nAnd a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about
\nthe heat,<\/span>
\nwanting the heat to break.<\/p>\n

Then the heat broke, the night was clear.
\nAnd you thought of   the boy or girl you’d be meeting later.
\nAnd you thought of   walking into the woods and lying
\ndown,<\/span>
\npracticing all those things you were learning in the water.
\nAnd though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you
\nwere with,<\/span>
\nthere was no substitute for that person.<\/p>\n

The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were
\nglinting.<\/span>
\nAnd for those who understood such things, the stars were
\nsending messages:<\/span>
\nYou will leave the village where you were born
\nand in another country you’ll become very rich, very
\npowerful,<\/span>
\nbut always you will mourn something you left behind, even
\nthough<\/span>
\nyou can’t say what it was,
\nand eventually you will return to seek it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Louise Gl\u00fcck [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The moon was brighter, not bigger. I could see that…<\/p>\n

I blinked, and the moon left an afterimage on my retinae. It was *that* bright.<\/p>\n

A million people must be watching the moon right now, and wondering, like me…<\/p>\n

There must be some simple, obvious explanation.<\/p>\n

Well, how could the moon grow brighter? Moonlijght was reflected sunlight. Could the sun have gotten brighter? It must have happened after sunset then, or it would have been noticed…<\/p>\n

I didn’t like that idea.<\/p>\n

Besides, half the Earth was in direct sunlight. A thousand correspondents for Life<\/em> and Time<\/em> and Newsweek<\/em> and associated Press would all be calling in from Europe, Asia, Africa… unless they were all hiding in cellars. Or dead. Or voiceless, because the sun was blanketing everything with static, radio and phone systems and television… television. Oh my God.<\/p>\n

I was just barely beginning to be afraid.<\/p>\n

All right, start over. The moon had become very much brighter. Moonlight, well, moonlight was reflected sunlight; any idiot knew that. Then… something had happened to the sun.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Larry Niven, from “Inconstant Moon” [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

Joni Mitchell went from a hit, jazz-infused album, Court and Spark<\/em>, to the uncertain territory of world-music experiment with 1975’s The Hissing of Summer Lawns<\/em>. It’s an album much more highly regarded in hindsight than it was at the time. Here’s the title track:<\/p>\n

[Below, click Play button to begin. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 3:01 long.]<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

[audio:thehissingofsummerlawns_jonimitchell.mp3|titles=’The Hissing of Summer Lawns’|artists=Joni Mitchell]<\/div>\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

The Hissing of Summer Lawns<\/strong>
\n(Joni Mitchell)<\/em><\/p>\n

He bought her a diamond for her throat
\nHe put her in a ranch house on a hill
\nShe could see the valley barbecues
\nFrom her window sill
\nSee the blue pools in the squinting sun
\nHear the hissing of summer lawns<\/p>\n

He put up a barbed wire fence
\nTo keep out the unknown
\nAnd on every metal thorn
\nJust a little blood of his own
\nShe patrols that fence of his
\nTo a Latin drum
\nAnd the hissing of summer lawns
\nDarkness
\nWonder makes it easy
\nDarkness
\nWith a joyful mask
\nDarkness
\nTube’s gone darkness darkness darkness
\nNo color no contrast<\/p>\n

A diamond dog
\nCarrying a cup and a cane
\nLooking through a double glass
\nLooking at too much pride and too much shame
\nThere’s a black fly buzzing
\nThere’s a heat wave burning in her master’s voice
\nThe hissing of summer lawns<\/p>\n

He gave her his darkness to regret
\nAnd good reason to quit him
\nHe gave her a roomful of Chippendale
\nThat nobody sits in
\nStill she stays with a love of some kind
\nIt’s the lady’s choice
\nThe hissing of summer lawns<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Says Wikipedia<\/a> of the song’s title and signature phrase (in a burst of un-Wikipedic commentary):<\/p>\n

…during the summer in the heat of the San Fernando Valley, grass lawns actually emit a noticeable hissing sound after the sprinklers are turned off. It’s very strange and alien and enforces the “this is not a real home” feeling.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Update, Monday 2010-07-19:<\/strong><\/em> Thinking about Joni Mitchell some more (thanks, Nance!), and thinking about summers, I realized the following might have been another good choice of a song here: hot nights in July, the chirping of crickets, a big blue moon, and two people alongside each other. It’s “Night Ride Home,” from the album of the same name [lyrics<\/a>]:<\/p>\n

[Below, click Play button to begin. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 3:21 long.]<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

[audio:02_nightridehome_jonimitchell.mp3|titles=’Night Ride Home’|artists=Joni Mitchell]<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From whiskey river: It was almost dark on an early summer eve, and the forest was never more enchanting than now, at dusk. At dusk the mountain begins to withdraw its force back into itself and become quiescent. If you too can become quiescent, so still that you can’t think of your name, you can […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,74,50,36,105,251],"tags":[376,1895,1896,1897,1898,1899,1900,1901,1902],"class_list":{"0":"post-7838","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-music","9":"category-language-writing_cat","10":"category-reading","11":"category-short-fiction","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"tag-louise-gluck","14":"tag-g-bluestone","15":"tag-larry-niven","16":"tag-joni-mitchell","17":"tag-summer","18":"tag-heat","19":"tag-humidity","20":"tag-mountains","21":"tag-lawns","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-22q","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7838","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7838"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7838\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7843,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7838\/revisions\/7843"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7838"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7838"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7838"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}