Vivaldi, Let's Stick with This One Movement, Shall We?

The most perfect of all seasons, late spring moving into early summer, is upon us.

I like to talk about the weather. I am one of those that Mark Twain referred to when he said we all talk about it but none of us does anything about it.

I'd love to do something about it. I'd like to stop it right here, dead in its tracks. We'd be pretty much okay if things like this became the de jure status quo for perpetuity. Ok, a little boring after a while, maybe too reminiscent of "Pleasantville" but I'd settle for ideal days even at the expense of a family member winding up as a nude cubist piece on an ice cream parlor from time to time. As a matter of fact, I'd even volunteer my cousin as a model 'cause, let's face it, after one montage of him as the central sufferer in some sort of "Guernica" takeoff, the artist would surely and permanently revert to still lives with lemons.

It could rain from time to time, just to water the plants, but otherwise I'm ok with sun and moderate temperatures.

They say that spring is the season of hope. Hope springs eternal in the human breast. We can keep our breasts and get right to summer. Spring is the season of hope soaring to the heights of a sixty-something day only to be dashed on the rocks of yet another weekend of rain with temperatures clawing their way up to fifty two. Fall's beauty we can keep for a slide show. Two weeks of moderate temperatures with a kaleidoscope of dying deciduous trees surely always leads to the dregs and depths of sub-zero cold, snow, ice, sleet, slush and predictable February SAD crazies. What is it that February plods like a blind cripple and after a not-soon-enough spike of weather that you actually want to get out of bed for we are suddenly in June, the equinox two weeks away and if you're paying attention and are a glass-half-empty type you know we begin the slow downhill slog to daylight being something reserved for the movies (the 4.45 pm late show at that.)

Fall is merely the rallying of a dying soul. For a few moments, all looks well again and you've never seemed more beautiful and vibrant. Then you cough up a lungful of bloody phlegm and it's all over. To hell with that. My end will hopefully come in a warm bed and a comment about the wallpaper having to go. I'm no hero and I know it.

So here it is June, the opening of the summer season. We'll all bask in the glow, have picnics and barbeques and play beach volleyball for a few months until the first tapping of ice rain on the windowpanes comes and I'll really have something to bitch about again.

I just now didn't want to seem ungrateful.

Bunny on.