According to Talia

What you need to know, straight from the source: Ms. Talia Page

Thursday, July 01, 2010

My Stream-of-Consciousness Ode to Summer


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As the days grow longer and the lazy sun lingers high in the sky, pelting my city with stench-inducing heat, I stock every purse and bag with a spare stick of deodorant, lest I become one of the olfactory offenders packed tightly among other hurried passengers on the Q. My feet wear a dark, dusty coat of filth, which rises from the city street and clings to my sweaty toes as they grip tightly to the center strap of my flip flops, making a package of baby wipes both on my nightstand (for before-bed wipe downs) and in my bag a necessity if I want to retain one last vestige of cleanliness throughout July. The unemployed and transient litter the sidewalks with their slow-paced strolling and mid-afternoon margarita sipping as I struggle to navigate around them, in a constant battle against time to arrive promptly to work, rehearsal, a concert or performance. An urgency emerges to schedule each waking moment of my life with activities and travels which fully embrace and utilize the feigned “freedom” that summer implies. Freedom? I have not rested since April.

My laundry goes undone, un-emptied suitcases from last week’s trip make an easy transition to next week’s sojourn with the addition of a few clean pairs of underwear- the good ones, you never know who you’ll see. Leave the sports bra at home, you will not go running while you’re away. My evening meals, which used to take a page from Healthy Living, have morphed into beer-drenched, melted cheese affairs which, queued by a growling stomach, don’t begin until tomorrow approaches, reminding me that I’ve got more to do in the next 24 hours than my January self accomplished in a week.

There are kids everywhere- kicking trash down Flatbush Avenue, cutting me off on the sidewalk with razor scooters, and reading Curious George stories on the laps of their mothers, who drop them off at Day Care on the way to work. I watch mother and son closely, from Canal to 14th Street, remarking to myself how closely his tiny nose resembles hers, and wondering if mom, too, had white/ blonde hair as a child. The smells wafting from the street vendors are more pungent, more enticing, and more carnival-esque, evoking memories of my last few trips to Coney Island with people I love immensely, but hardly ever see.

My skin protests the solar attack, by summoning armies of itchy red bumps, that scream their anger more intensely with every minute I remain outdoors exposed and unprotected. My sunglasses slide continuously down the bridge of my slippery wet nose while I circle Madison Square Park, glancing longingly at the Mister Softee truck, trying to justify a vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles by promises of additional squats that are never actually squatted. I will be wearing a bathing suit this weekend.

The days, while actually longer, feel more compact as I dart across town to make my next appointment. The hot exhaust from the crosstown bus is suffocating. The mounds of nightly trash which line the streets tower over me as I hurry past, making each footstep audible so as to warn any scavenging vermin of my approach and hopefully avoid a run-in. How do those men sleep on the street at night when it is this hot? Would they be offended if I gave them the carrots that no one has claimed in the office refrigerator? Ten minutes late is the new “on-time”, no need to text my delay.

When my alarm goes off at 6:15, the sun is already poking me through the sloppy gap in my dark curtains. Just 10 more minutes of sleep, please. Al says temperatures will reach 95 in the city today. I have a show after work tonight, so I’ll need to bring a change of clothes. I’ll sleep in on Saturday….er…I mean September.