The weather finally changes over to fall tonight, for a few days at least. It’s muggy, grey and fitfully spitting out there, summer throwing a temper tantrum. I drove to work pleased as punch with the relative lack of other people, even on a Saturday — the out of town plates that did appear all in a hurry to make it to the bridge before everyone else.
And just in time for cool weather, football. Football, the sport I feel awful for loving but adore anyhow, in the same way that I can’t morally justify eating meat but do so anyway. I’ll spend Sunday with the games on and the windows open to fresh air, NOT air conditioning. Choo and I have a solid fantasy football team this year with the possibility of being a great one if a couple of key players live up to ability, so Sundays will be a delight again. Plus, I have a regular weekend, and that’s pretty damn awesome too.
Monday the pup and I will wander the fall like woods in the morning when it will still be in the 50s. The moss is going through a growth spurt, all pale green and starry, getting ready for the long winter. The trees are throwing off leaves here and there. The ground sounds hollow under our feet. (Actually, that last one I don’t get, and it’s not seasonal — on one of our walks, the earth sounds hard packed and hollow. It’s all cedar trees there, maybe they have deeper roots that have hollow spots? Or maybe hobbits live under there, who knows).
All my life I’ve loved September. It’s a month of possibility, in the same way that January is. I love learning so I actually usually started the school year fairly happy (or perhaps I’ve dreamed this, blocking out the bad memories in the same way that most of my friends and I can’t remember much of junior year). I even have a soundtrack consisting of exactly one song, the same song I’ve been listening to since 8th grade. I’ve driven to college with it, through the sleepy berkshires. I’ve sullenly listened to it on a train back to the very hot DC. It calms me down and somehow speaks fall in every language.
By the by, my determination to not be such an asshole even in the privacy of my own head has been tried sorely but ultimately made me feel better for a few days now. The obnoxious customers, the bad drivers, the frustrating hours teaching fade a lot faster. And my patience seems to be growing, too — aside from the Gamergate story that I follow because it’s important, I’ve started to lose the taste for following drama and outrage. You can teach yourself new habits, although possibly not in just three days.
I’m down to 100 pages in Winter’s Tale, and the story that the back flap promised has just begun to take shape which is an important lesson in how terrible back flaps can be at describing anything ever. One character has climbed to the ceiling of stars in grand central station, another is riding through the snow wastes with the mayor of new york and a sled full of paintings, a third is just beginning to recover his memories. What a beautiful book.