Mildly whisky-sodden weather-blather
Nov. 4th, 2003 09:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonNovember is the strangest month ...
During the day, or at least during that endless succession of short grey dank days we have in these parts during November, the world seems very closed-down and compressed; the sky is never *lower* than it is during November, with the heavy grey clouds just inches, it seems, above one's head, and the darkness closes in early, and the raw chill sends one scuttling back into the warm den of one's home.
But at the same time -- I just stepped out of my own warm den, and went out on the back deck for a smoke, and there's a *huge* wind blowing, lashing the bare trees and dead leaves around in the darkness, and the sky is enormous, full of shifting scudding murky clouds. It's an absolutely magical night, full of portent and weirdness, and one can feel the season turning toward winter, and winter whooshing down out of the north.
I wrote something in a story once about how at this time of year the change of season is like the swoop of a clock's pendulum, when it's rushing down toward the nadir of its cycle. And, yeah; infinite suspension, in the sense that November is a sort of ultimate statis, grey and still and leaden. But at the same time, there's this great sweeping rush downward toward the deep cold and the *real* stillness of winter.
Age is like that--one the one hand, the sense of lowered ceilings and dimmed expectations and hopes, and the yearning only for simple comfortable warmth. But also the awareness of the huge wind-raked night out there, dark, raw, comfortless, inexorable, and so very beautiful, in a harsh relentless sort of way. I'll die, we'll all die, everything will die, and that's *all right*.
At some point I'll be ready to let myself get swept away in that black cold wind, but not quite yet; going now to wrap myself up in blankets and sleep, and get up tomorrow and go to work, under the heavy grey skies of another day.
During the day, or at least during that endless succession of short grey dank days we have in these parts during November, the world seems very closed-down and compressed; the sky is never *lower* than it is during November, with the heavy grey clouds just inches, it seems, above one's head, and the darkness closes in early, and the raw chill sends one scuttling back into the warm den of one's home.
But at the same time -- I just stepped out of my own warm den, and went out on the back deck for a smoke, and there's a *huge* wind blowing, lashing the bare trees and dead leaves around in the darkness, and the sky is enormous, full of shifting scudding murky clouds. It's an absolutely magical night, full of portent and weirdness, and one can feel the season turning toward winter, and winter whooshing down out of the north.
I wrote something in a story once about how at this time of year the change of season is like the swoop of a clock's pendulum, when it's rushing down toward the nadir of its cycle. And, yeah; infinite suspension, in the sense that November is a sort of ultimate statis, grey and still and leaden. But at the same time, there's this great sweeping rush downward toward the deep cold and the *real* stillness of winter.
Age is like that--one the one hand, the sense of lowered ceilings and dimmed expectations and hopes, and the yearning only for simple comfortable warmth. But also the awareness of the huge wind-raked night out there, dark, raw, comfortless, inexorable, and so very beautiful, in a harsh relentless sort of way. I'll die, we'll all die, everything will die, and that's *all right*.
At some point I'll be ready to let myself get swept away in that black cold wind, but not quite yet; going now to wrap myself up in blankets and sleep, and get up tomorrow and go to work, under the heavy grey skies of another day.
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(no subject)
Date: 2003-11-05 08:48 am (UTC)That? Was gorgeous. Made my whole morning. Just so you know.
Mer