Last night at neighbor Phil's--the immaculate estate on the corner with the pretty iron gates and precision-planted seasonal flowers out front--a spectacular fireworks show.
Glistening with sweat in the steamy still evening, we reflected the crimson, cobalt, golden, silver show overhead, booming around the hills. Stars, swirling pools of silver, yellow arches ending in emerald points, and those weird afterimages that sit on your retina like fluorescent branching coral.
Later, I stood at our upstairs window watching our own fluorescent night stars, our lightning bugs, as they silently blinked their way up into the trees.
A couple of days ago Tom and I went to the Frist Museum to see a weirdly schizophrenic pair of exhibits: Andy Warhol downstairs, with movies from the Factory, Edie in her eye makeup and invisible cape of fate, and the other denizens of his clubbing New York world. Upstairs, the Shakers: rag rugs, rocking chairs, a brown dress. The trailing voice of downstair's Judy Garland followed me around as I looked at the careful buttonholes on a dark deacon's coat, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".
Our Fourth ( well, actually, our Third) was a bit like that: Warhol showing off at Phil's, and the Shakers admiring the fireflies.
We love it all--thanks, Phil, the Frist, Andy, and the fireflies! And Tom, who brought the six-pack.