The Second Midsummer

This time of year always feels like a second midsummer to me, less sacred but somehow more true. All of the symbolism that accompanies midwinter n the northern hemisphere - a general sense of "getting to the middle of the worst bit and then feeling like things could get better soon" -  applies here in reverse. It's a true midsummer weather-wise, it's hot as hell, and it will be for weeks, but the promise of change isn't too far off either. 

There are other reasons this season has always felt transitional. My sister's birthday is around this time, and so is my wedding anniversary, and now, just lately the date of my aunt's funeral. Having spent much of life working at universities, the early weeks of January before uni term started were always in a different order of activity to the situation in term time. It's only a week or so until uni begins. 

With renewed social contact (and sweaty clothes and bad hydration) comes summer illness. This has happened before, quite often, between Xmas and Jan 21. One year I was sick as a dog for 4 weeks solid with a mysterious and unnamed viral disease later dubbed 'Long Steve'. This year, a friend has been wiped by influenza A for a similar length of time, I have had 'Long Gastro', and a really bad case of shigella (a much more nasty kind of gastro) has passed through the house, hopistalising our son for 2 days. All this disrupts the 'return to normality' that might normally come in the New Year.

I've noticed friends are getting cranky with each other on social media, sometimes over nothing at all. The brief sense of empowerment that came from making it through Xmas has dissipated. This year, this feeling is connected with recent events concerning the Adelaide Writers Week Festival. The cancellation of a Palestinian writer saw a mass exodus of other writers in solidarity, which seemed for a while like a rare moment of purpose and cohesion in a global situation in which we are otherwise powerless. But then, the Festival's shaky, crab-walking response came, and so did the acceptance of embarrassing apologies, and the impending realisation that Writers' Week is not only cancelled in solidarity, it's also actually cancelled. People are in disarray, trying to work out of an alternate 'rogue' festival is possible. That moment where our right to express our opinion felt powerful has changed, yet again, back to a sense that plain opinions are a very problematic way to maintain allyship and community. 

It's too hot to go anywhere near Burra. All I do is pay the bills and make plans for when things cool down. 

It's 41 today and I am inside. I am going to see David Byrne this evening, who is one of my favourite songwriters, but strangely, I haven't been at all focused on it and I keep having to remind myself it's on.

I'll post again in early Feb.