Fall

Fall is a fascinating time of year in New England.

Everybody says they love fall; "fall is my favorite time of year" and all that shit. I don't believe anything everybody says. 

Most people speak without thinking. They say what they feel other people want to hear; what other people will respond to without challenging them. You are supposed to say you love fall when you live in New England. New Englanders feel like they own fall. 

Every time it rains, and I emphasize every fucking time it rains, some asshole says "Good. We need the rain." This is the perfect example of a mindless comment. A learned response.

I used to hear people say that when I was in my mama's womb and I would kick violently, causing her great discomfort. Got to the point where she would not leave the house on rainy days when she was pregnant.

Some people do love fall. Legitimately. And why not? It is beautiful. And it is not bone crushingly cold yet. Suffering has not yet entered the picture.

I have been enjoying it. Now that I have lightened up and don't view the end of summer as a death sentence. 

It's not that I have evolved. I have just given up. There is no sense in sticking needles into my eyes 10 months out of the year. I am stuck here. I will never escape. "I was born here, and I'll die here against my will" (Bob Dylan, Not Dark Yet). I am 66. I grope desperately for ways to not despair.

I particularly love it when there is a strong wind and leaves are flying off the trees like raindrops. A deluge of leaves, if you will. It stirs something in me.

Gorgeous colors. There is something to be said about stepping out of your house and enjoying the privilege of your surroundings as if they were painted by a master. Diverts your attention. You walk with head down in defeat; suddenly you notice the beauty and your soul soars. You drink it all in and for that moment you have no troubles.

Priceless.

I like the way New Englanders look in the fall. Lots of denim jackets. Boots. Cool hats. Seems like the perfect season to express yourself.

As opposed to summer when fucking Hawaiian shirts are de rigueur. 

I own 3 or 4 Hawaiian shirts. I don't wear them anymore. I used to be a peacock. Up until very recently. Always searching for the most colorful and outrgeous shirts I could find. Now I am a rugged individualist.

I have no idea why. I don't know what that says about me. I don't know what sparked the change.

Am I expressing myself more honestly or..................have I given up on another aspect of my personality?

I have one of my father's hats. A Fedora. It has 3 inches of dust on it. I love this hat. My father died in 1999. 21 fucking years ago. I still have the hat.

My plan is to clean it up, somehow make it fit me (it is too large for my diminutive skull) and wear the damn thing in the winter. I have not had the courage up until now. A Fedora is not exactly inconspicuous.

I think I would look spectacular wearing that hat. 

Winter is coming. Fans of Game of Thrones understand the ominous implications of that phrase.

I don't care. Bring it on. Doesn't kill me anymore. Although one thing that will never change about me (unless it does) - you will never hear me say, as I look upon the aftermath of a snowstorm is - "isn't that beautiful."

I look out the window, I get angry and feel trapped, and say - "This fucking sucks."

Random thoughts on a random day.

I go back to work tomorrow after 7 days off.

Fuck that.