--Steely Dan, Rose Darling
The summer night, as we know, wears a smile of light, and sits on a sapphire throne. But how many know that the long blue space which curves like a scimitar between day and night--the place called sunset--is a liminal one?
Limen means door, and twilight-time dissolves the ink on any known map, heaves even the cemetery gates wide open. This hour is prone to ghosts, and in late June this fetching, this flattering light called Wit forth at the height of all her neither/nor states too. Here comes the tipsy, the ever ready for her close up, the not quite woman, the Teenage Theresa.
You remember the sci-fi T.V. show The Twilight Zone? Broadcast via who knows what magic to our Michigan home at the tres liminal rerun hour of midnight, the man's deep voice eased us in the audience toward a space between "science and superstition, between light and shade."
This hypnotic hero counted down to let me know all the old signposts were moot. Like a gateway drug, I carried this first forward enticement ever onward into an increasingly wild world from which weirdo Wit still refuses to trace her footsteps backward no matter how many other voices warn Retreat!
Thus prepared for my journey by the Old Ones of cathode ray and drive-in screen, out the back door I floated like dandelion fluff, dreamy as little teenage St. Theresa of Lisieux who spoke to the flowers, past the kitchen garden with its smell of dark blue sky and ripe red fruits. Note the top note of rhubarb, heart note of jasmine and base note of vanilla in Prince Jardinier's Ciel Mon Jardin. It's just like an adolescent girl's cherry-pie personality where she puts the delicious sour at the top and desperately hides the sweet deep underneath, isn't it?
This terrific summer scent puts a sophisticated spin on minor summer sins and dreams us back to the Lapeer Drive-In, naturally named The Sunset. There a wavy orange and red electric neon sign on the back of the screen served notice to the street that the solar hour was ending. Our tiny town too was about to become another world, one where parked way back by the hurricane fence after dusk another familiar friend's deep voice beckoned toward zones of enigmatic delight:
"Honey can't you see, I know it's real, it's got to be. Why not chase it where it goes....?"