writing

Carve out some quiet

Carve out some quietHeader image by Danielle Santalla via StockSnap

I’m welcoming autumn and the slow spread into winter with a happy heart. Autumn is my favourite and most creative time of the year. I love the textures in colour, landscape, food, and clothes. I can feel my creative potential percolating so much that I’ve decided to carve out some quiet and settle into this space.

Autumn symbolises a period of celebration, challenge, and mystery as darkness takes over light. I find this transition refreshing and playful. Summer is so bright, so blue, so tanned and golden and salty. I love the misty chill that completes autumn in Vancouver. You can be soaked to the bone but still slick with a fine layer of sweat, never quite shaking that last bit of warm.

Autumn is grounded. Autumn is alone in your room when it’s dark, sleeping in late and watching the sunset at four pm. I find spring too turbulent and somewhat overwhelming. Hemingway and Cummings adored spring (most artists tend to); but I prefer autumn with its full cloudy skies and early nights and cool bedsheets and hot drinks in heavy cups and pumpkin muffins and roasted squash and eggplant and bowls of slippery pasta and thick soup.

Keats understood the fullness of autumn; that ripeness to guide potential and encourage change. Keats poem To Autumn isn’t one of his most well-known pieces, but I remember skimming its verse in university and being drawn to a few lines:

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
        And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue

At its end, summer leaves a mark of pallor on the land with pale fields and hazy skies. There’s something infinitely alluring about the texture of autumn: the brief burst of colour on leaves; delicately layering articles of clothing; sharing warm pie with cold scoops of ice-cream after a meal.

Shakespeare, the tragic tease that he was, bares autumn’s cold shoulder in Sonnet 73 with glaring images of naked tree branches, empty churches in a black night, and the glowing ember in the dying flame of youth. Shakespeare’s autumn is quite the contrast to Keats’ autumn, but we don’t all perceive the same moments, do we?

Like Keats, I’ve experienced some pretty terrific things so far this month (and we’re only three days into September!) and I owe it to carving out a bit more quiet on these blurry grey days.

  • I did my first-ever handstand
  • I’ve stopped wearing makeup and feel sexyasfuck
  • I’ve started writing strange fiction, again
  • I helped paint the Latergramme office white and it looks ah-maze-ing
  • My apartment building (finally) got city allocated compost bins

I have one more marvelous piece of news to share that was finalized yesterday, but I want to keep it my little secret for a bit longer. Secrets are so hard to come by, these days.

We’re off to a solid start, autumn.

 

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