Oh, October

October is my favorite month of the year. It’s perfect sweater weather, perfect time for cider and pumpkin pie, crisp apples and falling leaves. It’s Autumn at its purest. It’s reading a book against a tree with no fear of ants crawling down your shirt. It’s the smell in the air, not quite snow but a whole lot different from the stagnant heat of summer. It’s the overcast afternoons and the starry nights, lit with bonfires….

And I’m spending the first weekend getting my wisdom teeth out and the last weekend in jury duty.

I wish I could enjoy the lovely Boston October, but I guess it will have to wait. Ah well, seasons are always lackluster compared to memories. I remember how exciting December was to me as a kid. Christmas felt like an indescribable miracle that such a day even existed. I would count the days, get a fragment more excited every hour that passed. I remember carefully picking out pajamas on Christmas Eve, so I would look nice in the pictures when I opened Santa’s presents.

Christmas Eve felt like a secret. You knew something amazing was happening the following day but there was nothing you could do but smile gently and wait til morning. October is a little like that. After all, the best day is Halloween on the 31st. You spend the whole month enjoying spooky movies and silly costume ideas, and then on actual Halloween you float through the day as if it were a dream. You dress in your costume like it’s made of icicles and attend your parties and eat your candies in a haze, and then it’s over, and October’s over, and it’s November.

There’s nothing good about November. For us in the states, we have Thanksgiving, which is just a glorified dinner, and Midterm Exams. It’s just a too-long wait til December. And after December? A far, far too long wait til summer.

I do feel lucky, being in the first day of my favorite month. I just wish I wouldn’t have to spend tomorrow getting my teeth pulled. No candy apples for me this year. I’ll have to double up on the pie.

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Something about September

When in a city, it’s easy to feel like you live in a Lego set. Everything is hard lines and rigid angles. Even though people in suburbs spend about just as little, if not less, time outside as city folk do, they still get to see the trees, hear the wind outside their windows.

In the city, we wade in a sea of white noise, our eyes just peering over fog and static. We avoid the other heads popping above the sea of stimulation and rush, necks bowed, to our destination.

I always feel the urge to sit in the park. I rarely sat outside when I lived in a suburb. I think it’s just that here my window faces a brick wall and an air conditioning vent and there my window faced a forest. I saw birds in their nests under my porch and worms fell from my tree and onto my car in the morning. Fog coated the road on a cold night, the kind of whispy fog that looked like trapped smoke. Frogs belched, squirrels and woodpeckers clutched to the trees, spiders spun masterpieces on the windowframes.

Here, we see rats and roaches, pigeons and mosquitoes. The flowers seem too bright to be real and the people seem too real to be bright. Here, we lose our connections to nature and therefore to ourselves.

I keep a bamboo plant on my windowsill. I touch its leaves when I feel sucked dry of my humanness.

It’s something about September. It’s still warm enough to wear one light layer of cotton, but not for long. I remember the city in the winter. I remember the walls of grey and ceilings of white, the sludge-lined sidewalks and frozen toes in boots not made for such abuse. I feel I should suck in all the summer left in the city and keep it warm in my bones, radiating through me until next April when I can shed my winter coat.