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| Rubbermoon stamp images, copyright M. Kelly. |
It is a Rip Van Winkle day, this first of October. If I had thoughts, and I did, I do, of making Christmas gifts or cards, it is already what I think of as "too late to be early." October doesn't dither about, though in LA it may bring our hottest days; no matter what, no one can pretend it is still summer.
Here, at 3:15, a warm (high 80s?) breeze rustles the palm trees and sways the curtains in light that would signify, on a true summer day, that it was around 5:30. With no effort I could swivel my chair and commune with air and sky. Which is how I end up sitting in October in an August state of mind.
One can grow weary of self-rebuke, of always at least half-assuming the label "fixer-upper" applies. But, argues that prissy Puritan Ethic, there is evidence. Yes, and perhaps there will forever be.
My affliction today seems to be Autumn Fever. It has nothing to do with baseball play-offs. It certainly is not connected to professional basketball, which may have gone the way of Kodachrome, just when I was beginning to know the who and what of it. I believe that some of us, for I cannot be the only one, have a touch of benign narcolepsy. We fall asleep, not behind the wheel of a moving car, but while punting on the slow-moving tributary of a larger, swifter channel. We drift...I see willow branches trailing in nearly-still water...for what we think is an afternoon but awake to realize it has been a month, maybe more. It is an enchanted state in which thirst, hunger, appointments and obligations are erased, until the spell ends.
And then, as a friend once said so precisely, it was now. I am not prepared to say what any of this means. The best I can do today is tell you that it IS. Once again, time and I have turned in opposite directions, to meet later by the Union Square flower stand that sells gardenias year-round, blinking at each other in happy though faint recognition. At what point must I admit that my fluid relationship with time is the real thing, not some dalliance, and simply surrender to it?
6 comments:
Your write like a dream Marylinn about this dreaming time, this benign narcolepsy, this drift through time.
I can't say much more other than to acknowledge how much your writing resonates for me. Thanks.
Elisabeth - Thank you and for letting me know that I am NOT the only one familiar with these states. Surprisingly, disorientation is not all that unpleasant. xo
I worry about dreaming through life - and then realise I am only worrying my dream.
I believe that the dreamy state of mind is a positive one. Better that than a depressed state. Some of my almost greatest ideas are almost formed when I'm in these states...and then real time gets in the way! Do you get tired of the summer life?
Isabel - I believe that's my conclusion as well...this is what IS, what do we make of it? xo
Kerry - It is much better than, and far removed from, a depressed state, that's certain. The art (I shall call it) of drifting does carry me to places I might not otherwise reach.
And no, I have not tired of the summer life. This summer, our beastly days were very few, much more moderate temperatures, breezes. But long ago I dreamed of living somewhere that would require a sweater (hand-knit cardigan, I could see it) year-round. I would bake and make soups and stews. Now I imagine anyplace colder would make me creak and shiver like an old sailing ship, my joints seizing up. So, I seem to be destined for where I am. xo
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