When it rains here in Autumn, the bleary dreariness of the sky has a fascinating, complicated relationship with the tree leaves. It is simultaneously true that the blue-gray of the rain and sky and air both dampen the colors and enhance them. I’m currently sitting in a comfy chair in our front room, my feet propped up on the old trunk I’ve lugged around for decades now, pointed and looking occasionally out the broad window that takes up so much of our front wall like these old NC houses tend to do, looking at the Crepe Myrtle tree right in front of me, and how among the dying, fading green of most of its treeness there is one of its branch/trunks which has decided to join the Autumn fun and is, for the most part, bright orange. And sitting there in the sleepy grayness of the morning storm, it’s quite pronounced. Like a lamp. A bright orange one. I would imagine it’s having a contest with the Dogwood tree also on the front lawn but out of my current view which early on in the season (read 2 or so weeks ago) got the party started by turning a deep, satisfying brick red.
This…can we call this whole year a season? Like 2020 is a season, with (if you’re lucky and live somewhere like NC or whatever) subseasons? Let’s. It’s the COVID season. This season has been a weird one. In the same way that we all saw different opportunities to do house overhaul, clean out the closets, redo the whatever, I feel like so many of us saw the opportunity to do the same internally. Like god or allah or the tao or the flying spaghetti monster or whatever you believe in looked around at all the canceled plans and said ‘well, let’s make the best of this and do a little spring cleaning with the littles’. I’ve been on an interesting journey which has spit me gently and lovingly out into a garage studio where I’ve taken up painting like a tornado takes up a cow-with enthusiasm and a hearty commitment. Maybe a minor, healthy amount of obsession, but I feel like that’s necessary when embarking on an artistic venture like this. I find myself twitchy on the weekends while my wonderful wife forces me to not paint in an effort to avoid the all too common artistic burnout. It’s a journey that has been long coming and feels good and right in the way that a long-overdue switch feels. This means, however, that there’s less time or drive to write, which I suspect will work itself out in time as balance and rhythm are found.
All that to say, that I apologize for my absence.
The sun is starting a half-hearted semi-shine through the thick wall of cloud, and my household is still fast asleep other than me. One dog has shifted away from my noisiness to another room but the littlest dog continues oblivious and in a gymnastically strewn position on the couch next to me. And the wife continues, probably joyfully, fast asleep.
Happy sleepy Sunday, everyone.