You know, so far as blogs go, this one’s pretty impersonal. It’s mostly guides or funny observations, and only rarely do I scale the soap box (it’s pretty tall, but not quite a high horse) to opine and inflame with a raucous or a rally.
But today, I wanted to talk about today.
Yes, today is October 1rst, and Fall is here in force. ‘Here’ being a relative term, of course. As the wonder of the interwebs allows people of all creeds and countries to mingle, your sense of Fall or even if you’ve felt it (for truly it is a thing to be felt, deep in the bones, from the rustle of the decadent leaves before they die to the penetrating joy of the wind’s razor’d kiss) may vary from mine, but that’s part of why I want to write about today today. Not just to wallow in the wow of the written word, but to try and tap that magical quality of a text, of the story, to make use of words like wet and crunchy and crisp, orange and wood, and fire, to talk of the cold earth and the twilight air and the rain and wonder of it all and somehow twist a web of words that you do know… into an understanding of a thing you don’t know.
But hey, isn’t that sometimes what writing is all about?
And either way, you still won’t know it the way I do. Even if you were here, in this town, or standing where I stood and wandering where I walked today, it’s always going to be a bit different. I’ve always thought of writing as a painting that’s different for each person that sees it. It’s the writer’s job to keep it from changing much, but though we can spin the wheels in people’s heads, controlling how fast and how far they spin is another matter entirely (and one of the things that makes it great.)
So, where was I? Ah, yes, today.
Today is October 1rst, and it seemed the where I was decided to announce it, to revel in the month of Fall and Halloween by beginning the month with the former (already ending with the latter).
I was made for days like today.
There is no heat in our apartment yet, and I awoke in the chill of the early hours in what I’d like to say was a state of content refreshment, but the truth is I woke fuddled and frazzled, a slovenly pile of sleep’s mildew and DO NOT WANT. Yet, thanks to the gentle prodding of my future Mrs., and her eventual threats of physical harm, I shoveled my pile of person on into the shower. The water burned across my skin to light the pyre of grouch so I could phoenix my way into a better person (though one not tempered ’til I’d tasted a daily dose of caffeinated goodness [Irish Cream Java Monster]) for the day.
And when the deed was done, and the door had opened and the one extreme led to the other, the water’s last fading fingertips slipping away in the chill of the morning, then I felt poetic.
Am I waxing too much here?
This isn’t transformers, but hey, it is transforming, for today the weather met me with what I enjoy of it. The gravel of the parking lot, the rough scrape of the rocks against each other and cast against the slight sink of sensation at the smaller stones and sponge wet ground beneath, the sky a dark and gray of clouds that wavered just out of reach, and the rain…
There’s something different about rain when it’s chilled. It happens in the early Spring, and seems to happen in the whole of Fall. In the summer, rain is luke warm at best, and comes hordes and hurried as a thick thunk a thousand times on the windshield of a car. Even in a light rain, there’s a soft but heavy handed aspect to it. Does that make sense to you? It’s like the water from a hose, sprayed and splayed across a windshield– it’s heavy but it’s soft.
But in my two favorite times of year (I was made for the birth and death of the world), there is something beautiful about the rain. Even larger drops have a tink and not a thunk. There is some ethereal quality to it, something perhaps explained into mundane in a physics lab, but oh so beautiful to me.
And the colors! No, not so much the orange and yellow of a tree in bloom, a bloom so called because it seems the trees would have a last chance to dazzle in the year before they sleep, but the deep hewn greens of early Fall, of Autumn that is not often called in memory or in fond pictures of the season. This was a green as full and dark as forest twilight, when the sun had long since faded along with hues so gaudy jaded, the kind of green that wants to brag about being from the old country, planted all around some old european fairy tale town amid craggily rocks and even craggier babushkas.
The kind of green that the director of a syfy original looks at and says, “That’s where I want my rock monster!”
The heat and the sun always seem to to drain the color of the world, and on the overcast and rainy days, the gray gives it back. Such beautiful greens are on those days, and this time of year, on the edge of the end of their wake until Spring, they are a deep and dark and full, and they resonate a smile in me.
I was inside most of the day, working on fixing people’s computers in an office, but just outside the windows, it rained, and rained for me. And when I got off work, October 1rst was waiting, and it had only amplified as the evening came.