The Smells of Summer

Every once in a while Time has a tendency to show a facet it normally keeps hidden just below the surface of our perception. A moment when the passage of time, the passage of decades, seems irrelevant and experiences, actions, hopes and atmospheres all combine to give you, well, a timeless feeling. I had one tonight. I was driving home from a local bar that, due to its location, was much more convenient for me to take the back roads through the countryside to my home. And suddenly the summer smells, the hopes of the lamplight blacktop, the beers in my belly, they all combined to make me feel like I was 18 again, cruising towards some teenage destination filled with friends, brews and the potential pedestal of love. I hardly knew what love was back then, hardly had any experiences that could help me recall the softness of a young woman’s breasts, their amazing shape, delicate silhouettes in the moonlight hidden by sweet-scented hair and the barriers of youthful lack of opportunity. Guys, did you ever linger over the hairline of a female classmate, marveling at how it fell gracefully along the nape of her neck, not knowing how to but longing to devour all of her feminine promise? God, it makes me heady and even in memory there is a tangible reminder to enjoy the journey more than rush towards the destination.

Even as a lanky kid with big brown hair and over-sized eyeglasses I despised the guys who objectified women, bragging at how they’d “gotten some pussy” the weekend just past. Was I jealous? I suppose on some level I was, but yet I knew there was something inherently wrong in their approach.

But also, was I too much the artist, too ready to worship a divinity I hardly understood? I had to be, experience has since taught me that, while finding a muse is rare, finding a girl who understands, respects, is comfortable with and even welcomes the mechanism of the artist/muse relationship is even more rare. In other words, I drove a lot of potential girlfriends away with my intensity as a youth. In my defense, I knew there was something very special to be found, and with total impatience, I wanted it now! I’ve since begun to learn patience; it is one of the few areas in my life where I’ve been able to have willpower over my inclinations.

The only exercise I ever seem to get is academic. I can dance around the glory of Turkish women sporting floral tattoos, of Brazilian ladies with deep fathom eyes, of Canadian girls unknowingly kissing the world with old soul grace, of Arkansas (by way of New York and Michigan and point in-between) mothers who make me feel naked and confessional, of Wisconsin wonders who fill me with guilt over every decision I’ve made that has widened and lengthened our divide. I instantly smile recalling how a too-earnest 18-year old boy spent an evening reading poetry with a 17-year old blonde in her backyard by candle and moon light, and how my blood was poisoned for the rest of that summer. I can recall the beginning of Tony Pucci the musician, 15, innocent and with Fender guitar in hand, writing not only song after song, but cassette after cassette of songs for a Midwestern brunette with a Japanese name and a blue dress that still haunts my dreams. For years I believed it was absolutely impossible to find someone who could replace her in my pantheon; after all, we all only ever have one First Love.

And so I drove home thrilled at how my soul was exposed to the timeless tendrils of hope and need and youthful zeal. The radio started playing a song from the 1980s, and I smiled at the timing and appropriateness of it. As I pulled into my neighborhood, I saw two teenagers walking arm-in-arm in the near-midnight dark. The adult in me wondered at the time of night and what charmed spot were they hoping to find to feed their desires; the dreamer in me applauded this crazily-spinning world we cling to. The faces may change, but our passions will always boil from the same sacred, primordial pool. Her breasts are soft, young man, be mindful and respectful of her and take deep breaths, if you remember to breath at all. The smells of summer are strong tonight.