The days and nights grow equal in length, and then quickly resume their habitual imbalance: the nights now longer than the days. The weather grows intemperate and the mornings are frosty; there are rains and strong winds, some of which bite and blow fallen leaves or shake more to the ground. The skies on some days are blue, on others grey, either studded with puffy clouds, or devoid of so that it's a flat grey, like a calm sea before a storm.
The sun still puts in a brief appearance, glaringly or hesitantly, and yet fails to warm the living room and bedroom in the late afternoons, nor at any time of day. They face the wrong way during autumn and winter, when a flood of sunlight would do the utmost good to the residents on this side of the building. All inside sits in shade, untouched by any friendly yellow rays, with the exception of evening when overhead lights are switched on or when the glare from a lit screen spills a patch on the beige mottled carpet, or those from outside peek in. It's cosier (though somewhat chillier!) to sit in the dark than bask in unnatural light; only a lit flame offers a similar warmth as the sun.
Fire is an autumn element. Its spirit in harmony with nature consuming itself: dying, decaying and metamorphosing to conserve energy or become sturdier for the lean months ahead. All of nature on the turn: yellow, orange, reds, which fire can help along, as part of the chemical process, by quickening the decomposition; and if tended to makes faces rosy red and noses hungrily sniff its smokiness. That delicious, fatal fragrance caught on the wind, even from miles away, which the lungs inhale and expand with, to their fullest capacity like a smoker taking a long, deep drag...
...exhale, the breath of autumn: a crisp woody odour with an undertone of wet leaves.
Autumn, unlike winter, is contradictory. It's not really sure what it's supposed to be. The months it falls in prepare the ground for winter, and generate in us, as well as in the natural world, a turbulence that flings and tosses us about like a ship on high seas or a plane in high winds. Rag dolls pushed along by the current, and that includes political leaders and those we've put in place to uphold the civil laws and morals of the land. In other words, those who act on our behalf as a people, or have convinced us (as well as the other leaders they wrestle with and pacify) that they do so.
All is in some sort of turmoil during this transition, which affects the contents of the mind, all minds, as well as circadian rhythms. It's Tolkienesque, it's Ballardian, it's surrealism, this adjustment, this repossession of the ecosystem, of which we are a part. Humans are just one element in this grand scheme that occurs year on year, although we attempt to act against rather than with it. To carry on is certainly the British spirit, as I'm sure it is of other nations, yet in doing so we place ourselves in direct opposition to this in-between stage because it's not what we think of as a fertile period, in spite of its arresting jewel-like colours.
Change is uncomfortable, but not sterile. Everything is in constant motion: life and decay, life and decay. A disintegration, which in itself can be beautiful and will with patience enable growth. It's slow, not a race to be won. Autumn is only the start, and from this point the finish line cannot be sighted.
Without, copper and amber leaves, already turned, rustle as the winds pick up and pluck them off to turn mushy underfoot when the rains fall and drum on window panes. Birds take to grey or blue cloud-filled skies in spectacular murmurings, as people below rush to and fro and carry coats and umbrellas. Within, the refrigerator hums and every now and then gives a loud sigh as if it were a beast lowering; the kettle, last used three hours ago, clicks at rest like an insect grooming itself. The light retreats and dark edges in.
All is utterly bewitching; all sets the scalp prickling.
Picture credit: The Eye of Silence, 1943-44, Max Ernst (source: abcgallery.com)
