Autumn brings many pleasant things. The apples come off of the trees, ripe for eating. Cider begins to flow and find its way into the stores. I begin mulling my cider and baking pies. The leaves turn to fire and drop to the ground. The trees become bare and everything in this world begins to die. Autumn is the season of bounty and waning, of that final passionate explosion before the cold stillness of winter.
I move amidst patches of rust and fire, blood and ire, inclement desire. The autumn is the explosion of life, the last great breath of the year, the climax before the descent. The final seeds cast, fruit drops to earth, cloth to bedside floor. In brilliance and passion, the world around me seduces my senses with its magnificence and I relent. I give, forfeit resistance, and drown in its splendor.
Mirth Of A Nation, various
Common Sense, Thomas Paine
Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller
The Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac
Beneath The Underdog, Charles Mingus
Sigrid And Gudrun, tr. JRR Tolkien
Books of Blood 1-3, Clive Barker
Going To Meet The Man, James Baldwin
The Way To Rainy Mountain, N. Scott Momaday
Death In June
The Dark Knight Rises
When the leaves turn to fire, I come enthralled by desire. Autumn is the season which births my passion. I writhe in the death throes of the year. Days shorten and cool. Nights carry the final brilliant climax of life on the air.
This is a season of fire. Whose flame do I see burning around me? I have your scent. I hunger. Howl to the moon with me and let go of restraint. Your blood is on my hands and I have your scent.
Such a nice, chilly morning. Where the crisp air meets me, I wake. The living green of my world turned to fire overnight and begins to push for its brilliant last climax before the dead season.
Samhain is over and the latter half of Autumn is well in its chilled breath. In November, death has settled into the world and the ground is beginning to harden. The lights of December have not yet reached their prime. Snow taunts and teases and it spits flurries upon us, not yet ready to lay its blanket down. The brilliant, fiery leaves of Autumn’s entrance have all fallen, turning brown upon the earth. In this period, I will make desolate music, before life returns in the joyous celebrations of light that come wrapped around December.
This month is grey.