October

The weather’s finally changed, at least for now; blinds drawn over the sun, the days cooler. I felt happy when I woke up. I made oatmeal, listened to Beethoven’s piano sonatas, met a friend for coffee, played football in the park. I feel increasingly lucky, the older I get, for these little slices of Time, which are not only precious but hardly guaranteed. There is very little I don’t feel apocalyptic about: the peace and security of the entire globe seems to be at risk now; so it is strange, even slightly surreal, to have such utterly pleasant, normal, dare I say bourgeoisie days. I’m to have days, or even hours like I had today; the realization is bittersweet. Capitalism produces the illusion of continuity and progress; the work week — unnaturally imposed on the human being — produces these little spots of time of serenity (the sense that we have earned our peace). Even now, writing this, I begin to dread Monday; the return of the work-week and the news-cycle. And even the heat might come back — there’s no proof that October will not be dry and hot in the northeast (as it has often been the past few years). Our contemporary age has no interest in the progress of the seasons — no respect of the harvest cycle; spots of time are just that: blotches on the face of our relentless 24/7, 365 pace of reality.