Summertime Sparks
Dispatch #1
July: Midsummer Mystery
July is a unique month because, for the majority of us up here in the northern hemisphere, we’re completely immersed in summer. Academic obligations are (temporarily) a thing of the past, so for this midsummer month, we’re creating a new ritual, a new routine.
How do July’s midsummer mysteries manifest for you?
Is it a haze of hallucinogenic heatwaves?
Is it the magic of staying up late to soak up the mystery of warm summer nights?
Is it the rush of new adventures or the mind-numbing monotony of scheduleless days?
So grab your pens, laptops, paintbrushes, or cameras, and show us what July’s Midsummer Mysteries feel like to you. When you’re ready, submit your sparks here! Send your response to us by Thursday, July 4th, at 11:59 p.m. PST for the chance to be featured in our next Summertime Sparks dispatch.
Need some inspiration to get you started?
Nightfall in July
Anna Calia
The photographs below are part of a series that Anna created in July 2021. It was a bit of a ritual, where every night in the month of July, she shot a photograph, no matter where she was, between the hours of 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. She made a book from the 31 images she shot.
A long exposure of the 280 after dark
An almost full moon
July
A prose poem by Eloisa Lin
I’ll say, I wish I knew you in July. The strawberry seeds in your teeth. Your wicked, wet hair in the Taipei rain. Monsoon, you’ll correct me. Monsoon, you’ll say, as if you know gleaming silver droplets better than my words and my name. Monsoon, you’ll smile and think of that roiling wave of tears and sweat that drowned you and saved you. I thought you hated rain. I thought you couldn’t swim. Just like me. We used to hide from the herculean thunder and silver rain and lighting under masses of squelching blankets and squealing dreams. Now you’ll stare into watery depths and you’ll look at me with a kindness you think is owed to me. I don’t want your kindness, I’ll wish I could say but the words will stick to my throat, burst from my tongue as foam like the silver rippling around your limbs, still waiting—homesick, fistfuls of fear spilling from my lips, dry. When did you learn, I’ll rasp out. You’ll assume swimming, and you’ll giggle into vermillion leaves, in spouts and heaves. I’ll watch the stranger in front of me until you’ll finally say: July.