"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

23 September 2010


It's a curious practice, the attempt of making a definitive mark of the changing of the seasons on a calendar. Time, after all, is an abstract. Of course, by trying to mark time, break it up into little sections, humans perpetuate the illusion they have control. As a species that seeks patterns in everything, the concept of chaos is more than a little terrifying.

Over the years and lifetimes, I have found the changing of seasons to be all but imperceptible. Just one day, boom! the cyclic wheel has turned, and it's no longer [place seasonal name here]. Where I live, winter lasts for half a year and the first omens of autumn, the first leaves turning, was happening a week or so before my birthday. In fact, one of my friends declared the first day of high country autumn three days before my birthday. It was cool and breezy that day, and I was wearing jeans and button-up, but I was still able to knock about in sandals, so I felt inclined to disagree, perhaps out of denial, or maybe even the Congo.

I guess that would beg the question; with the warmth since, has it been indian summer, or has summer just been hanging on especially late here in the pointy lands? Is said question really relevant? After all, remember, time is an abstract. Dig on some quantum physics or Buddhist philosophy if you don't believe me.

It is not without a sense of irony, however, that the day marked as the autumnal equinox, the sky was filled with pendulous clouds, which brought about hours of rain and cool temperatures. We went for a walkabout anyway. When heading back home, there was a bit of comfort in the scent of wood smoke in the air. We had our own fire, and I found a bit of simple enjoyment in it, despite the fact it foretold of cooler days upon the event horizon.

Irony aside, it was needed. The moisture will help with the tinderbox conditions, which has included burning bands. Cooler temperatures will help get the aspens to really start turning. There's a festival celebrating the trees turning coming up, and according to the media, it's getting around peak time in our region that is called the central mountains, which sounds sort of gangsta to me.

Word. Sentence. Paragraph. Thesis. Yes, I know, my grasp of Street is both intimidating and horrifying. I am so Street I'm Trail.

Such a statement is made without the benefit of intoxicants, so perhaps I should start, but I digress...

Has one season really ended and another began? That's not so black and white as a date on the calendar. Even and especially in a place where it can snow at any time of the year. And I am a sucker for those shades of Grey anyway.

Whilst some of the birds have gone on their way, there has yet to be a hard freeze, which really sends the flora to sleep. Up in the sky, there are still towering thunderheads that I sometimes see the resemblance of Chinese dragons contained therein. These things are more definitive omens of the changing of the season to me than the notation of the of such on a monkey-made article of timekeeping, but maybe that's just me, and I'm a different breed of cat.

It will be autumn soon enough. The passing of the equinox or a date marked upon a calendar have so little to do with it. One day, boom! the cyclic wheel will have turned, and it'll no longer be summer. On that unmarked day, I'll be certain to raise my teacup in a silent toast to the seasons shedding their skin in a way imperceptible to mere monkeys.

No comments:

Post a Comment