Heat. Cloying, smothering, licking sweat along the nooks and crannies of body, rubbing moisture into the swell of hip and the delicate hollow at the back of your knee. Heat. Glaring light glancing off roads which sway and glitter in the midday sun, black tarmac puffing hot, oily breath into the still air. Leaves hang motionless, dispirited, sagging from parched trees, while sunflowers turn emaciated, drying faces to the glaring, muted yellow of the sun which hangs like a malevolent spirit behind the clogged, smog-ridden air.
Summer clings with desperate fingers to the waning August days, scrabbling with dry withered fingers to the fading of the days as the implacability of night makes almost imperceptible gains with the sweep of each rotation.
The enervating midday conflagration of vapid heat belies the increasingly cooler mornings when autumn breathes a clean, astringent promise that hints at the edge of consciousness of the beginning of the change, while night brings with it breezes which sting promise into enervated spirits.
This time of year carries a powerful and often poignant emotional blow to me. Probably more so than any other season. Prose and poetry often cite Spring as the bridge to new tomorrows, the traditional beginning as it were of life, change and possibilities. But for me, Fall has always held the singular position of being my time of new change and new starts.
I have spent a considerable part of my life adjusting to change and making new starts; less so here, now in the latter part of the fading detritus of a life lived. Lately, however, I sense in the drifting scent of possibilities, the tug of restlessness that burrows into the enervated reality of my day to day existence, a hint that the implacable march of change is occurring.
Gossamer strands of possibility drift just beyond the reach of eye and spirit, trailing sticky threads of maybe across eyes blinded by the harsh midday realities.
As always, I struggle to ascertain what is truth, what is perception and what is reality. For ultimately, there are no absolutes. My truth is valid only to me, from the narrow perspective of my own universe it allows no empirical evidence of its singular correctness. I find a wry enjoyment in this newfound revelation – that truth is never absolute but instead simply another phantom possibility and only one of a myriad of possible paths.
I find a measure of …what? Contentment? Pleasure? Bitter acceptance? In the knowledge that regardless of my own obvious motivation, things are moving forward and change is occurring – for better or for worse- it is inevitable.
I don’t care for summer. I am glad to see its imminent demise and find in myself a small measure of pleasure in the contemplation of the coming autumn.