I’m stuck in bed today, tired from coughing. Croaky-voiced. Re-reading Ansel Adams’ autobiography and dreaming of great snow-capped mountains. I catch a glimpse, through the dirty window, of a white-blanketed roof and try to make do. Persuade me that there is no difference on the scale of majesty, and I’ll be impressed.
The Sick Girl by Michael Ancher, 1882
Words to the wise: On gloomy days, imagination is the best tool of all.
[Intermezzo] It is Finally Autumn. Ecstatic Autumn! is featured on Words for the Weekend’s The Beauty of Air-Vol. 5. I love both the concept and the execution of this blog, and am chuffed to be included-and amongst such fine company, no less.
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.
*
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! In the late afternoon I take my place: curtains open, cup of tea in hand, elbow on windowsill.The sun sets early, beyond the white and dove grey apartment house across the street. The sky is relentlessly pale, diluted even in twilight to a bleak rose or chalky orange: bold colours are too busy dressing the leaves to have anything to spare. It’s their yearly dying wish, one cannot blame them. We have four seasons, they have less. As the masses of crisp leaves move and heave they give off a sound like the cawing of crows. Duncan barks and noses the pane, desperate to be loosed with apocalyptic fervor on these unknown fiends. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind. The sights and smells are fleeting, of this and every other season. Dogs dream of chasing leaves, but will settle for a bone. As for me, I will drink down my tea and write some elegiac words instead.
*
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.
Yep, this is what I am doing today!
A young woman cleaning pans at a draped stone arch by Willem Joseph Laquy, 18th century.
Whilst I hate cleaning and refuse to believe that it is in any way therapeutic, my house needs some tender loving care. I’ll be back in the studio tomorrow, writing and blogging away. I’ve been working on some new material for A Small Press Life, so be sure to check back often.
I’ve taken the day off from writing, to do this:
The Green Sofa, Sir John Lavery, circa 1903.
See you tomorrow!
Hmmm. Where do you think I’m at?
My Daily Diversion post from Saturday (Tree House) is featured on Toemail! If you’ve never checked out this delightful blog, what are you waiting for?
As some of you know, my dog, Crosley, and my step-dad, Charlie, were both ill last week. I would like to thank everyone who sent their prayers, good wishes, and happy thoughts our way. We lost both of them on Friday the Thirteenth, just 6 hours apart. I was there for the one, but not the other. My husband held strong 100 miles away, as he cuddled Crosley during his final moments.
Since then, I’ve been reading a lot of Ibsen, drinking too much strong tea, and helping plan the funeral for the man who raised me. Yesterday, in a few short hours, I finished a short story that I started a year ago. Thank goodness that my words have not failed me. Blogging will be hit or miss for the next week or so, but it will not cease. I love my little A Small Press Life community too much for that. Some day, when I am up to the challenge, I will share with you what Crosley and Charlie meant to me.
“It’s so curious: one can resist tears and ‘behave’ very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer…and everything collapses.”-Colette
…and there’s nothing you can do about it. On a personal level, the only thing that can possibly be worse than watching someone you love die, is knowing that a second someone you love is about to die and that you cannot be with them, too.
I’m on the road today, heading home for a 10-day stretch. I wish I looked this fresh and kicky whilst traveling.
Whiz Bang, May 1922.
I will meet you back here later tonight or tomorrow, with some new content. Until then, thanks for ever-so-sweetly hanging in there!
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