I

’m alive, and therefore I sweat.

At a young age I learned to merge those two

gross activities into an ipso-facto literary equa-

tion à la Descartes. I don’t fancy myself a philosopher,
though, unless of course Descartes sweat. Which he
probably did, because he was alive. Then, ipso facto, I
am a philosopher. See how that works?

Regardless, there’s something about summer that

turns me into a deep, perspiring thinker. Maybe it’s
the freedom I have to mentally romp. In college, we’re
bestowed an almost-four-month hiatus when it starts
to get warm outside, during which we swap five-page
papers for glossy internships or charming little mun-
dane jobs or traveling. And in all of this, there is luxury;
there is time.

Time Is On My Side — The Rolling Stones

The original frenemy, free time lends to both pro-

gressive and toxic thoughts. My marvelous mind can
choose to be productive one day in, say, the thick of
June — but it can spiral into existential wah-wah when
August rolls around and the looming promise of school
hangs in the air like an upcoming date with a really hot
guy. Once you’re on the date, it’s great, but the car ride
to the restaurant is sticky, sticky agony.

Wah-Wah — George Harrison

So how do we stop this sun-induced cacophony?

George Harrison hated the way “Wah-Wah” turned
out. Producer Phil Spector did his job and produced the
shit out of it, and the result reeks of endless tinkering
and mixing and adding. But there’s an inherent beauty
to the song’s raw chord progression. The way it falls
then picks up, kind of telling us to do the same. So when
we shake off all the chachkis — the bad thoughts, the
uncertainty, the tinkering — things sound pretty OK.

I get a little bit of bass added to my song when a

stranger compliments my necklace and I let him. And
the drums come when I tell him to have a great day. A
groove starts when I inhale mango gelato with some
high school friends, and we laugh at freshman-year
roommates and Melania Trump’s marshmallow dress.
The summer sweat goes away here, and I don’t miss a
drop of it.

But some summers — some lucky, muggy, unsuspect-

ing summers — you get a guitar solo. It happens at a
music festival. You meet a guy (we’ll call mine Detroit
Denzel) who also loves the Pixies and understands the
beauty and essentiality of Mark Rothko. And you kiss
him, to M83, possibly the most underwhelming indie-
pop band of all time. But what the hell.

Do It, Try It — M83

Kissing Detroit Denzel felt like a symphony, like

every silly problem of mine melted away and all that
was left was colors. After the festival, we kept seeing
each other, and the city was ours to peel. There was so
much to uncover: What makes Detroit tick? What made
us tick? What was his favorite movie, his dog’s name,
his biggest fear?

Are You That Somebody — Aaliyah

Everything was fresh. I knew it might end, like sum-

mer might end, but I didn’t care because the thought
of having even a moment with him was endlessly more
delicious than the comfort of inaction. And I think it
was love, but that might be those simmering nights in
the passenger seat of his car talking. So maybe it’s good
to leave it all there, simmering, living.

Age of Consent — New Order

One scorching day, DD and I were at a concert. The

sun aggressively streamed into my eyes as I blabbered
about my dreams and the future, diving into that sum-
mer-existential abyss again, and DD patiently listened.
I solidified, unwittingly, the nature of our fling when
I blurted out that I wanted to move to New York next
summer, and possibly for the rest of my life. I expected
him to freak, or to get mopey and shut down completely.
Instead, he looked me dead in the eye, his brown ones
tiny and steady as the fact of knowing that the seasons
change, and he opened his bearded mouth:

“I dare you.”
And I started to sweat, and it felt great.

2B

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the statement

Wednesday, September 7, 2016 / The Statement

Life Is A Mixtape:
Summer Sweat

B Y M E L I N A G L U S A C

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