My apologies for the protracted time between posts. Medical marvels have continued to flummox physicians as well as limit my productivity. With good juju, I anticipate my summer of sloth shall morph into an autumn of brio.
On September 22nd, we came upon the glory of the autumnal equinox, the start of my favorite time of the year. In ancient cultures, the start of autumn was a period for celebration, rejoicing in the harvest, a spirited display of community. Some killjoys have mutated the seasonal transition to a time of disdain, anticipating winter. While standing amid the splendor, I have heard people mutter about the coming snow and slush and cold. I admonish them. The seasons are separate entities. Though there is continuity, they are unique. Are Browning, Whitman, Baudelaire, and Dickinson blended to glop because they all lived during the same century? More appropriately, should we blame Burns and Blake and Coleridge for leading to William Topaz McGonagall? Of course not. Regarding poets (don’t fret--- I’ll talk about pie soon), Yeats and Verlaine and Rilke saw their own digression and decay as the leaves swirled down into the soil and the night sky arrived early. Hmm, don’t see that. I find autumn to be a mystical segue into maturation. I find autumn to be the intense culmination of the year-long play with winter as the denouement; we applaud upon its conclusion, exit the theatre, and await the premiere of a new, exciting dramatic composition, the first act being the vernal equinox.
Using my senses is effortless and purifying during autumn. The vivid reds and oranges and yellows, kaleidoscopic marvels to my vision; the chill on my skin, making me reach for another layer of clothing, downy and warming; the smells of harvest--- tart apple, hearty oak, aromatic spices; the tastes of baked goods, both sweet and savory; the jolting vapor pops in burning firewood. The enhanced sensations, almost hallucinogenic, a mind-expanding, synesthetic journey without the enormous pupils and possibility of a bad trip, dude.
During fall, the delights of childhood can still be experienced as an adult; there just may be more abrasions and contusions. Jumping into a pile of leaves is damn fine fun, though I caution others to not do it randomly, as unacquainted yard workers do become rather peeved and may chase you down with raking implements. Canines also enjoy a rowdy tussle amongst the leaves. Another word of caution: my brother’s dog of yore, BoBo, could not distinguish between good and bad times to leap. For clarification, he bounded into burning piles of leaves (we rescued him). This is not recommended for any living, breathing being. Please discourage. I do enjoy witnessing animals that are not aflame during fall. Forest animals are very purposeful during this season. They resemble humans during tax time, all the running this way and that, the wide-eyed look, the furious motivation, the clamor involved in stockpiling, whether foodstuffs or paperwork. Any combination of creature and hubbub can be highly amusing.
Let us not forget the food. The feast. As a vegetarian, I do not partake in the consumption of the turkey. Occasionally I see those of the bare-wattled head and neck on my drive to work--- wild gobblers wandering aimlessly amidst the speeding vehicles of dawn. As a whole, I’m not too fond of any birds, but I do give turkeys a break since learning about tetanic torticollar spasms; the drowning in rainstorms thing is really just a genetic disorder. Who knew? Though I am an herbivore, I enjoy Thanksgiving immensely. This is because of the starch. I love starch. It is a close and personal friend of mine. I love starch. Potatoes, rice, bread, and corn, oh boy! I exhibit textbook addict behavior, very possessive of my tubers. I load my plate with the wonder of complex carbohydrates and eat until extreme discomfort. After groaning and shifting in my seat for a good 15 minutes, I’m ready for pie. If you know me at all, you understand what this means. Dessert plates are an insult; I tolerate dinner plates, though if offered the tin and its entire contents, the giver of such shall claim my heart. I am deeply committed and fiercely loyal to those who provide pie. It’s a quirk.
It’s 6:30 in the morning; I just stepped outside for a cigarette. It’s dewy and foggy outside, in the air a crisp chill, cool but not frigid. A thousand more leaves have descended during darkness. It’s silent. I am alone, smiling and contented, rejoicing in the quiet comfort of autumn.
1 comment:
There is a lot I could say about people who grumble in the midst of beauty, autumn, turkeys, and pie. I agree completely with the maturation theme. Autumn reminds me of my childhood desire to be a grandpa (I wanted to skip over all the stuff in between.) One of my favorite things to do is to observe the first sunset after the winter solstice and say, "The days are growing longer."
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