a slightly less endearing feature
So I love autumn, blah de blah blah. Makes me feel all warm and snuggly inside, making pies, watching movies, the first stirrings of winter's turn towards hibernation, lovely blue sky days when a hoodie and a puffy vest are all (or more than) you need. Possibly another reason for my fondness for The Smoke -- it's autumn weather there ten months out of the year (January is too bloody cold, and July is absolutely gorgeous, but the rest of the time you need to layer up, gel!)
I think part of this may be due to the fact that I missed two of these seasons. For Fall 2000, I was in Santo Domingo, where October is the hottest month of the year and it doesn't get much cooler at any other time. Being on the beach in November was quite lovely though. I spent the Fall of 2003 in Galway on the west coast of Ireland, where the ground is pretty much two feet of dirt and then stone. While the weather got colder, I didn't really notice the seasons changing until taking the bus to Dublin at the end of November, when I saw the leaves on the ground and realized that since there weren't many trees where I had been living (lots of shrubs though) I had effectively not had a fall. I'm not cryin or hatin, just aware.
Part of why I love the autumn is melancholia, the realization that the year is coming to an end, that time is limited, precious and of the essence; my blood's rhythms hearkening back centuries to the ancestral farmlands of Bohemia and Scandinavia -- better pickle that herring and store those grains, pookie, or you'll be chewing on boot leather come February. All of this is very well and good for a person like me who is too often inclined to NOT make hay while the sun shines but instead lay inside, hopefully with some McEwan or with the Current Nose.
Alas, nowadays, as I have since March (barring a few June nights with TT -- eek!), I find myself alone in my bed; the formerly-Current Nose has taken himself out of contention for that spot, and I am in no hurry to repeat last November's shenanigans. Another thing about autumn: it sparks that longing in me -- the body's memories of warmth generated from another person, thigh against thigh, arms atangled, chests rising and falling, and of the sweet, sleepy cold morning murmurs about who will be the first one out of bed. Like any Gemini worth her salt, I swing back and forth between feeling perfectly fine and dandy about the situation and wondering if I will be alone for the rest of my life. The reality, I'm sure, isn't either of those, but I think, if I could choose a season in which to fall in love, it would be the autumn. Therefore, every autumn in which I realize I am not in love -- or really anywhere close to it, barring my fantasy relationship with this man -- is a mixture of happy-go-lucky, and happy-go-barf.
I think part of this may be due to the fact that I missed two of these seasons. For Fall 2000, I was in Santo Domingo, where October is the hottest month of the year and it doesn't get much cooler at any other time. Being on the beach in November was quite lovely though. I spent the Fall of 2003 in Galway on the west coast of Ireland, where the ground is pretty much two feet of dirt and then stone. While the weather got colder, I didn't really notice the seasons changing until taking the bus to Dublin at the end of November, when I saw the leaves on the ground and realized that since there weren't many trees where I had been living (lots of shrubs though) I had effectively not had a fall. I'm not cryin or hatin, just aware.
Part of why I love the autumn is melancholia, the realization that the year is coming to an end, that time is limited, precious and of the essence; my blood's rhythms hearkening back centuries to the ancestral farmlands of Bohemia and Scandinavia -- better pickle that herring and store those grains, pookie, or you'll be chewing on boot leather come February. All of this is very well and good for a person like me who is too often inclined to NOT make hay while the sun shines but instead lay inside, hopefully with some McEwan or with the Current Nose.
Alas, nowadays, as I have since March (barring a few June nights with TT -- eek!), I find myself alone in my bed; the formerly-Current Nose has taken himself out of contention for that spot, and I am in no hurry to repeat last November's shenanigans. Another thing about autumn: it sparks that longing in me -- the body's memories of warmth generated from another person, thigh against thigh, arms atangled, chests rising and falling, and of the sweet, sleepy cold morning murmurs about who will be the first one out of bed. Like any Gemini worth her salt, I swing back and forth between feeling perfectly fine and dandy about the situation and wondering if I will be alone for the rest of my life. The reality, I'm sure, isn't either of those, but I think, if I could choose a season in which to fall in love, it would be the autumn. Therefore, every autumn in which I realize I am not in love -- or really anywhere close to it, barring my fantasy relationship with this man -- is a mixture of happy-go-lucky, and happy-go-barf.
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