Another day at the museum: The BMA, 10/25/08

Rainy day today, so I hit the Baltimore Museum of Art again. Since "a picture's worth a thousand words", I'll throw up a bunch before I toss out much in the way of my own words... (Be forewarned, this is a long'un)

The Visitation




Four-panel folding screen depicting the effects of the phases of the moon by Dario Cecchi, 1948



One of the coolest watches I've ever seen: Skull-form watch, ca1637-1658, French, steel



Head of Medusa door knocker, Emile-Antoine Bourdelle, ca1861-1929


Assorted landscapes, in oil (Jacob Van Ruisdael, Dutch, ca1628-1682)...


...and lithotint (James Durfield Harding, English, ca1854)...


...and crayon lithograph (Richard Parkes Bonington, English, ca1824)


One of the current special exhibits features the artist Franz West. The description of his work was, for me, more compelling than most of the actual pieces. As I wandered through the exhibit, I found myself repeating "what the fuck...?" over and over.


But then I got to the focal point of the exhibit, a work entitled "das Ich und das Es" (The Ego and The Id), which was designed and built specifically for the room within the BMA in which it was displayed. Note: Photography is not allowed in BMA special exhibits, so I nicked this shot from the museum's page about West.

This piece definitely intrigued me. The scale just isn't evident in this small image. And it's actually thought-provoking. From the description: "...the Latin term "ego" [das Ich]... means "the I". The task of the ego is to find a balance between primitive drives and reality. The term "Id" (inner desire) is a Latinized derivation of das Es, and translates into English as "It". The id is dominated by the pleasure principle." But which is which? Is ego's balance reflected in the uniform, soothing pink loops and id's chaotic drives in the riot of multiple colors? Or is it the reverse, ego finding its balance in a melding of colors, and id focused on throbbing pink pleasure? West apparently hasn't specified.

Moving on to the moderns: Man Pointing (Alberto Giocometti, bronze, 1947)...


...and There is No Finished World (Andre Masson, 1942)


The Three Rings, Henry Moore, red soraya marble, ca1966 (Both times I've seen this piece, I've wanted to put my hands all over it)




Modern, abstract art has always been a mystery to me, something that my visits to the BMA are helping me learn to appreciate. This piece is a prime example. To my uncomprehending eye, it's just a bunch of black smudges on a bright green background. Apparently, there's much more to it:



Metaphysical, huh? Who'da guessed?

And finally, The Baptism of Christ, by Louis Comfort Tiffany, ca1890-1899



After the museum closed, I headed over to the Papermoon Diner to fill my grumbling belly. The place is a riot, in more ways than one. It was hard to concentrate on the book I was reading, with so much stuff to look at around me. But the Eggs Benedict with ham and avocado were freaking fantastic.





Stopped for gas on the way through the city. As I got out of the car, a guy approached and asked if he could pump my gas. I'm probably a sucker, but after only minimal hesitation I said ok. He launched into a story about having just arrived from eight years out in Cumberland. Interesting coincidence, as I'd just vacationed out that way. His time there was apparently no vacation, as he'd just been released from prison and was only given a bus ticket as far as Baltimore. He was trying to raise enough cash to get some dinner (real food, not the prison "suey" he'd been living on) and a bus ticket to Glen Burnie and his grandmother's house. After the tank was filled, I gave him $5 and drove off wondering if I'd been swindled. Meh. There are worse things than being ripped off for $5. And if the guy was genuine, I wish I'd given him more.

Today was one more day in my love affair with Baltimore, a city that is terribly unappreciated. Following my tendency to associate music with places, I've come to identify Baltimore with the same elements I love about Maynard James Keenan and Tool, specifially their masterpiece album Aenima. Like that album, Baltimore contains some things that are beautiful, some things that are humorous and quirky, and some that are seamy, edgy and dirty. And all of those elements are shoved tight up against each other, often within the same song or neighborhood. It makes for a whole that is incredibly stimulating, if you take the time to really listen and look.



Stinkfist

Something has to change.
Undeniable dilemma.
Boredom's not a burden
Anyone should bear.

Constant over stimulation numbs me
and I wouldn't have
It any other way.

It's not enough.
I need more.
Nothing seems to satisfy.
I don't want it.
I just need it.
To feel, to breathe, to know I'm alive.

Finger deep within the borderline.
Show me that you love me and that we belong together.
Relax, turn around and take my hand.

I can help you change
Tired moments into pleasure.
Say the word and we'll be
Well upon our way.

Blend and balance
Pain and comfort
Deep within you
Till you will not have me any other way.

It's not enough.
I need more.
Nothing seems to satisfy.
I don't want it.
I just need it.
To feel, to breathe, to know I'm alive.

Knuckle deep inside the borderline.
This may hurt a little but it's something you'll get used to.
Relax. Slip away.

Something kinda sad about
the way that things have come to be.
Desensitized to everything.
What became of subtlety?

How can it mean anything to me
If I really don't feel anything at all?

I'll keep digging till
I feel something.

Elbow deep inside the borderline.
Show me that you love me and that we belong together.
Shoulder deep within the borderline.
Relax. Turn around and take my hand.

Woke up on the wrong side of the bed today...

As I was typing out the details of this year's annual pilgrimage and the dukkha that accompanied it, I kept trying to think of an appropriate theme song. I have no idea why this one didn't occur to me. Leave it to Incubus to sum up exactly what I was feeling, and with a sense of humor no less.



Calgone

On my way home,
police car pulled me over.
After they left, I puttered out of gas.
'Triple-A' came, but my card was expired.
I had to walk home, but of course, it rained half the time.
I tried to get some shut-eye, but I was abducted.
They put cold things in my butt.
They sampled a bit of my D.N.A.
They left me on top of my sheets.
I dreamt I went potty, then woke up drenched in me.

Yeterday sucked hardest ever...
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today
A little bit less than nothing would go my way

Woke up to toss my soiled sheets.
The hallway was dark and I stubbed my big toe.
It was then that I sensed the irony, burning me...
I heard a voice say
"Come sail aboard S.S. Nepenthe!"

I suppose I'm to blame...
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today
A little bit less than nothing would go my way

Thank goodness for bathtubs and suds...

I suppose I'm to blame for getting pulled over.
I guess I'm the culprit for running out of gas.
Let's assume I'm the guy who didn't pay 'Triple-A'.
In actuality, I let the Zetas probe me.
Yesterday was all my fault,
I let negativity get the better of me.
Thank goodness for bathtubs and suds.
They temporarily set free this quandary.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today
A little bit less than nothing would go my way

The annual pilgrimage, 2008

Got back last night from this year's trip out to Cumberland, MD, which is something I look forward to all year long. The fact that I have such high expectations for the trip created issues this year and gave me a whole lotta thinking to do. Lessons in dukkha and attachment are, of course, never easy.

I wrote last year about the indulgent way that I always begin the pilgrimage-- a massage at The Bath House in Berkeley Springs, WV, and the scrumptious (cheesy word but, damn, it's appropriate in this case) snow crab legs at the Texas Grillhouse in LaVale, MD. Added a slight twist this year in having a hot stone massage for the first time. I honestly don't know how I've lived this long without the sublime feeling of hot river stones slipped between my toes. First time I've ever blissed out enough to fall asleep during a massage.

So far, so good. Things started out just as wonderfully relaxing as usual. Monday began well, also. It was chilly overnight, and morning revealed a thick mist rising along the Potomac River and Tom's Creek between town and the surrounding mountains.







The day's plan was to drive over to Garrett County and ride a trail that runs between Herrington Manor and Swallow Falls state parks. I headed out fairly early to explore a new road before breakfast, and ended up driving all the way to Keyser, WV. I was hungry by the time I got there and began the hunt for any place besides McD's or Burger King at which to chow down. Passed a sign for The Candlewyck Inn that included the words "fine dining" and pulled in to check it out. Turns out they don't serve breakfast on weekdays, but that didn't stop the owner from offering to cook something for me. I ended up with a wonderful veggie omelet and home fries, and a pleasant conversation about the perils of small-town restaurant ownership. He also tipped me off to a shortcut from Keyser to my intended destination and within less than an hour I was passing through Oakland, MD, on my way to Herrington Manor to get my ass kicked.





I have no mountain biking skills to speak of, and I ride a rigid cyclocross bike. But a few very fun rides through the kiddy roller coaster that is the main trail at Rosaryville State Park made me confident enough to tackle this trail that is rated as "beginner". A guy working in the park office also confirmed that there was "one short rocky section", but that the rest was pretty easy. That "one short rocky section" that he pointed out on the map apparently grew significantly before I hit the trail. It was rocky from the freaking get-go, and I'm talking rocks ranging in size from dinner rolls to full loaves of bread. I bucked and bounced for two miles before deciding I was risking busting either my fork or my head, then turned around and hike-a-biked it through the worst sections on the way back. But I wasn't ready to give up just yet, so I loaded the bike back on top of the car and headed to the other end of the trail at Swallow Falls to see if perhaps that was the easy part.

It started out being fairly lovely, much smoother, swooping through hardwood forest and then descending quickly into hemlock groves. But then, rocks. And not only rocks. Big, freaking, tangled hemlock roots. This ride was nothing if not a lesson in why bicycle suspension was invented. If I'd had a bike properly designed for this type of trail, with full-on double suspension, I could have had a major blast. As it is, I think my cervical and thoracic vertebrae have fused into one great big hunk of bone, the thoravical. My chiropractor's got his work cut out for him at our next appointment.







The trail heads up through those tree roots on the left


The best section of all (again, the trail's on the left)


After another roughly two miles of torture I gave it up for good, again walking the bike through the most stone-choked sections. It was frustrating to quit with so few miles under my wheels, but I have to admit I'm fairly proud that I handled the bike so well on the portions I did ride. I was able to remain relaxed enough to let the wheels bounce over the rocks without bucking me off, and I picked up some decent speed on the smooth sections. Certainly a worthwhile experience, despite the discomfort.

And then things took a turn. This year's pilgrimage is notable in that it's the first time in eleven years that I chose to spend part of it with people I know. The ladies with whom I ride had planned a five day thru-ride of the C&O Canal. When the idea first came up months ago, it sounded like it could be lots of fun. For a variety of reasons, though, I decided against it. But I planned my trip for the same week with the intention of joining them for one of the most interesting sections of the towpath, the Paw Paw Tunnel. As a result, this particular pilgrimage ended up less time- and care-free than usual. Having to plan and schedule and interact with others added a hectic element and made the time spent with them turn into the focus of the trip, when it should have been just one enjoyable portion of the whole. Leading up to this day, I questioned a few times why I'd made this decision. I was sure that it would be fun and would further develop my friendships with these women, but it's counter to the purpose of the pilgrimage.

The plan had been for a pleasant mid-day ride with my buddies, 25 miles or so at an easy pace that would serve as a recovery from the beating the day before, with the fun of Paw Paw Tunnel as the centerpiece, and ending up having a lovely dinner by myself in Cumberland.









It turned into me riding alone down to (during which time I snapped the pics above) and through the tunnel, meeting my friends on the way back, then exerting myself pretty damned close to my physical limit, driving 60 miles that I hadn't planned on, and not getting back to the hotel and a shower until after 9:00pm. Dinner was with the gang at Bill's Place in Little Orleans, but consisted of a surprisingly good $3 bowl of lima bean soup.

This unexpected deviation from the usual course of pilgrimage events left me ping-ponging between concern and compassion on one hand, and resentment on the other. The bitterness I felt (am still somewhat feeling) over what happened is certainly not very Buddhist of me. But I wasn't able to obtain the peace of mind and quiet reflection that I so look forward to during this annual trip. The time I spend alone out there is time in which my mind can empty of all the responsibilities and issues and neuroses (my own, mostly) that I find to be part and parcel of every human relationship in my life. It allows the same freedom I experience when I escape to the woods, or onto the bike, or cruising country roads in the car, but for an extended period of time that creates a deeper rejuvenation and euphoria.

The fourth day out there, my last, didn't serve to improve the situation. The morning began not with curling mists rising in front of the mountains, but with totally grey, overcast skies. After breakfast at a favorite coffee shop up in Frostburg, I decided to just head home. Along the way, I was pulled over by a cop for doing 83 in a 65. Despite ending up with a warning instead of points and a fine, this was like insult (deserved, I know) added to injury.

I could have considered all of this some perverse "reward" for yesterday's good deed, but it wasn't. It was just weather patterns and not paying enough attention for radar traps. And yesterday's strained afternoon and evening were just a case of doing what needed to be done in response to an unexpected situation. The events and atmosphere that we find ourselves dealing with are not rewards or punishments. Nor are they good or bad luck. They are just what is. What creates the difficulty is how we classify and respond to them. My first response (after attempts to squelch my resentment) was to wonder how expectation fits into a Buddhist lifestyle. What the hell is the trick to looking forward to something with pleasant anticipation, without forming an attachment to the resultant expectations?

The conclusion I came to is that it's a matter of control. My desire for escape from schedules and responsibility, my craving for the freedom I feel during those escapes, isn't freedom at all. It's an attempt at control. Doing what I want to do when I want to do it, being impulsive or indulgent as I see fit, is just control in a different form. It feels like freedom, but isn't it really just enslavement to a need to feel that I'm calling the shots, instead of squeezing my life into the jigsaw puzzle of work, commuting, home ownership, family, and friendships? And it's my disinclination to give up that control that caused resentment to override the concern I felt for my friend. That's one of the hardest things about following the Buddhist path-- having to relinquish all sense of control and deal with things as they are, learning to want something yet being able to live with not getting it, developing the ability to gracefully flow with the alternatingly pleasant or painful stream of life. It's kind of like riding tricky singletrack. Ya gotta let go and relax enough to let the bike pick its own line through the rocks and enjoy the ride despite any bruises you end up with.

And that's enough of the philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Despite the lesson learned, I headed out today for one of those temporary escapes and cruised the back roads of West Va up to Shaharazade's. Lunch was great and the drive was great, but by far the brightest spot so far this week has been one brief moment this afternoon when I drove past the spot of the burned-down trailer (described here and, later, here). I had noticed on a similar drive several weeks ago that a new trailer had been installed on the lot. Today, as I was coming around the curve leading up to it, I noticed a basketball lying on the ground next to the basketball hoop that's been standing in the same spot along the road ever since I first saw the place. And, strolling across the yard, the same tow-headed kid I'd managed to avoid running down almost a year ago. The sun gleaming off his blond hair and the hand he raised in a wave gave me the biggest smile I've had on my face in many days. If I didn't know better, I'd almost consider it a reward.

Hallelujah, amen

Cribbed from the Large Fella, who apparently cribbed it from Jason4Pedros.

Recreation + Charitable Donations = Win

Stumbled across a link to the Plus3 Network in this week's edition of the RoadBikeRider net-letter. This. Is. Awesome. I've been trying not to feel ashamed of myself that I don't do more in the way of donations and have yet to figure out some kind of volunteer gig with which to get involved, but this is right up my alley. Granted, they won't make a ton of money off the measly miles I put in on the bike and in the woods, but every little bit counts. Right?

Now this is a virus the world needs...

Stolen from the excellent blog, essays & effluvia.

The new little monster

This is Ivan. He's four months old and is currently living in my bedroom while he and Olive go through the kitteh acclimation process. I haven't had a full night's sleep since he moved in because he attacks my feet through the blankets all. night. long, but he makes up for it by purring like a motorboat whenever I pet him. I think he's cute. Olive doesn't yet know what she thinks of him.

And, no, he doesn't have a funky upper lip. I caught him mid-nose lick.

I have no idea for a subject line...

One of my cats died this morning, so I'm just going to babble for a bit to get things out of my system.

Up until the point of my finding him, it had been a very normal Saturday morning. The brats woke me up before 5:00am, I got up and watched a little tv in the dark until they calmed down, then went back to bed for an hour or two until they woke me up again, then I got up and fed them. After their breakfast, they went into rambunctious kitteh mode, chasing each other at top speed throughout the apartment and generally making a ruckus. Then things calmed down a little and I decided to make some breakfast for myself. At some point around then, either in the bathroom before or the kitchen during, I remember the boy cat rubbing against my legs and me reaching down so that he could squeeze between my leg and hand as he made his rounds of my feet. He's a long, lanky boy, almost skinny to look at but solidly muscular to touch. With his thick velvety grey fur overlaying that muscle, he's the personification of sleek. But perhaps I should be using past tense and saying he 'was'.

So, anyway, I poured myself a bowl of cereal and curled up in my chair in front of the tv. While I was sitting there, the girl cat jumped up and settled herself on the back of the chair behind my head. Things were quiet. When I got up, I noticed it was strange that the boy wasn't curled up on top of the scratching post behind my chair. That's usually what happens-- When I settle in somewhere, they both soon come and settle in nearby. But he wasn't in the room. I put my stuff in the kitchen and headed to the bathroom, as he sometimes curls up and naps on one of the rugs in that room. He wasn't there. Strange. So, I headed into the bedroom, even though the only time they spend in that room is either when I'm trying to sleep or when they're playing Kitteh Speedway. I came around the bed and found him lying under the bedroom window with his head and shoulders up against the wall. The fact that his bowels had voided made it immediately clear that he was dead. When I moved closer, I saw that his eyes were partially open and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. Other than that, he was in the same sort of position that he would often sprawl in on the living room floor after play, with his long legs stretched out and his tail curved up towards his back.

I kind of freaked. I was in some weird state between frozen and hysterical, stunned but knowing that the sobbing was going to start any moment. So many thoughts went through my head, first of all being that my beautiful boy was dead. He was absolutely one of the most beautiful cats I've ever seen in my life and I loved to just sit and look at him. And, aside from the crazy rambunctious moments, he was very mellow and self-contained, only occasionally, quietly seeking affection (unlike the girl, who's in my face regularly, trilling and chirping for me to spoil her). The moment this morning when he rubbed against my leg was one of those instances. I didn't pick him up then, but for all his self-containment, whenever I did pick him up he would let loose a deep, loud purr while I stroked him. The feeling of all of this was the first thing to go through me when I saw him lying against the wall.

After that was the more practical issue of what to do. I closed the bedroom door to keep the girl out and called the vet for advice. Really, I knew what needed to be done, but this is the first time I've had an animal die this way. As a kid, we were always distracted and sent off to play when any of the family pets died, so I only had peripheral experience of death. And the other cats I've had on my own both became sick and died via euthenasia. So beyond the shock was the issue of my own experience with handling a dead creature. For all my fascination with death (call it morbid or pragmatic, it's probably a bit of both), I have a serious aversion to dead bodies. I was practically a basket-case the winter a few years ago when mice gained access to my apartment and were one by one turned into mincemeat by my previous cat. Having to clean up their little carcasses flipped me out and left me practically sleepless with the dread of future occurences until the problem was resolved. As I was sobbing on the phone with the vet and, then, with my mother, I wondered how I would deal with having to lift and wrap up Alec's dead body.

After hanging up the phone, I sat on the living room floor and bawled. I must have sounded horrific, because the girl cat arched her back, puffed up her tail, and backed away from me. I finally calmed down and comforted her a bit, and it crossed my mind to wonder why she hadn't sensed Alec's death before I found him. Had it been that sudden? That led to the other course of thoughts that had been running through everything else-- How? Had he become rambunctious again, launched himself across the bed, hit his head on the wall, broken his neck? Had he messed with one of the electric sockets in the bedroom? Had he somehow ingested something in my apartment that I didn't know was fatal to animals? What the fuck had happened to him?

I finally gather myself up enough to become focused on what had to be done. I gathered up paper towels and an old towel and went back into the bedroom. I was torn between wanting to kneel there and look at him to remember that moment and all the moments since I brought him home in January, to fix his beauty in my mind, and to prolong the suddenness of his death. Cleaning him up and driving him to the vet would finalize everything, he'd be gone with no chance of reprieve, no chance that I was imagining all of this and that he'd suddenly stretch his long limbs and raise his head to look at me with sleepy eyes. But his poop was beginning to smell. At the very least, I had to clean that up. I also had no idea how long before rigor mortis would set in. Better to deal with him while his body was pliant. Surprisingly, the squeamishness I expected wasn't an issue. Perhaps because he was my beautiful boy, perhaps because I was so focused on dealing with things, I don't know, but spreading out the towel and gradually shifting his long, limp body into the middle of it was easier than I expected. Wrapping him up was another matter. I'm not kidding this cat was long. I didn't want to handle him too much, trying to fold up legs and all, but I got him wrapped and began to pick him up, only to find that his tail was hanging out of the towel. So, onto the bed and tuck that in, then out to the car.

The folks at the vet's office were great, ushering me into an exam room as soon as I got there. The vet gave him a quick check for any obvious cause of death, but there was nothing. His neck was fine, there were no burn marks in his mouth to indicate chewing on an electrical cord, nothing. According to her, sudden death of this sort in cats is most often due to heart failure. It's possible the crazy kitteh shenanigans this morning were too intense. It's also possible he had an underlying issue that had never been apparent. They're going to do a necropsy over the weekend and let me know what they find out. After that, they're going to create a paw print for me of one of his crazily long-toed big feet, then he'll be cremated and returned to me. I surprised myself again by unhesitatingly stroking his dead body and leaning down to kiss him. It was so very hard to leave him there and go home to only one cat, knowing I'll never see him again.

Olive, on the other hand, doesn't seem to realize anything's out of the ordinary. She's been in my face perhaps a bit more than usual for attention, though that's probably also due to the fact that I'm reaching for her every time she comes near. But she doesn't seem to be looking for him. As I was inspecting the electrical cords and sockets in the bedroom, she walked across the spot where he had been lying when I found him and barely stopped to sniff. They weren't super-duper bosom buddies, there was a natural sibling-ish competitiveness between them (though they weren't related), but I don't know how she'll adapt to being a lone cat. I'm sure she'll love being the sole object of my attention, but she's way too energetic and playful not to have a kitteh companion, especially when I'm not home. So I've already begun wondering how long until I'll have to begin looking for a new second cat, and what I'll have to deal with in adapting her to a new 'friend' at her age. Acclimating a pair of 4 or 5 month old kittens to each other is one thing. Once they've hit a year and have a sense of territory, though, it could be much more difficult. And her and Alec's personalities just so perfectly complemented each other, him being so mellow and quiet, and her being frisky and chirpy. This will be something to occupy my thoughts over the coming days.

On top of all this, I've been dealing with a fibbutzed computer this past week. I'm currently logged on in Safe Mode to access the 'net and get this all out. Which brings me to the other issue I faced in conjunction to everything else this morning, the drawbacks of the solitary lifestyle I've chosen. It was different when my famly was just 45 minutes away in the next state, but since they've moved to Florida the fact that all of my closest relationships are hours away keeps being driven home to me. While on the phone with the vet, I was asked if I had a friend or neighbor who could help me wrap up Alec's body to bring him in. I had to answer no. I know a few of my neighbors and am cordial with them, but I don't consider them friends. My closest friends, logistically speaking, are the women I cycle with, but I don't feel close enough to any of them to impose something like this on them. I considered calling one long-distance friend just for a shoulder but, again, I don't know if our relationship has progressed to the point of me blubbering over the phone to her. So, I turn to this, the electronic journal that allows me to spill my guts to long-distance friends, acquaintances, and whatever strangers happen to stumble across it. If I had a concrete belief in God, I'd be thanking him/her/it for the intarwebs right now. But now that it's all out, time for me to try to stop crying and figure out why my PC keeps freezing during startup. Wish me luck (on both).

Some rambling and a quick update

In my last post, I commented on the inconsistencies of our summer-into-autumn weather and was put in mind of it again this morning. Getting out and about yesterday meant pushing through thick, muggy, sweltering air. As a complement to that, the blue sky had a whitish cast to it that had nothing to do with the variable cloud cover, and there seemed to be a haze over the landscape that left everything looking droopy and tired. Overnight, though, the humidity broke and the air feels softer, walking is easier, and everything looks sharp and clear under the bright blue sky. It's like living in a Claritin commercial, when they peel away the allergy film to show how wonderful life can be.

So, a quick update for anyone who was following the long-drawn-out restaurant saga: It's been going on quietly in the background over the last few months but has now come to an end. After finally getting ahold of the restaurant's 2007 tax return and a P&L statement from 2006, then wrestling with my own personal budget, I determined that there's no way I could live off of the money I'd earn as owner of Shaharazade's. The business makes a decent amount of money, but the profit margin's too slim and the payroll too small for it to be someone's sole source of income. At least not my sole source of income. So, I e-mailed my decision and my apologies to the current owner, and got a response assuring me that he had a few other interested parties but that they're perfectly happy to take their time selling the place. I headed up that way yesterday for a late lunch for the first time this summer, once again merely a contented patron rather than a harried potential owner. Despite some occasional fretting that I've passed on an opportunity to get out of a seeming rut, it was a pleasant relief to just sit and sip a cup of tea and read a book with no other concerns.

As for that rut, there are various options under consideration. Taking up meditation (as I've been planning to do for a year or so now), taking up Tai Chi, taking a class, doing some volunteer work, doing some work on my apartment... The trick will be finding the energy and discipline to actually dive into any of these things. I think I foresee a fierce battle between me and my Inner Sloth in the coming months.

When autumn comes, it doesn't ask...

Persephone's eaten of the pomegranate, and so the transition begins. A handful of cooler days strung together, with one or two scorching hot ones in between to let us know that summer's still hanging on by its fingernails. This time of year runs me through a gamut of moods ranging from agitation to excitement, melancholy to anticipation. As the summer winds down, I find myself torn, having to choose between vigorous bike rides or languorous hikes through the woods. I want to be out there taking advantage of what warmth is left to ride for hours under the glorious blue sky. And I dread the coming of winter and the depression it often brings. But the sudden crispness in the morning air causes images to appear behind my eyes of the beautiful, solitary places I go when it's too chilly to ride, and the pull is hard to resist.

Impending autumn also turns my literary fancies in a very specific direction. I begin reaching for collections of Edgar Allen Poe, M.R. James, and Algernon Blackwood, weird gothic stuff that makes me eager for Halloween. Not surprisingly (depending on how well you know me), Halloween's my favorite holiday. In year's past, I've attended the annual Poe celebration at Baltimore's Westminster Hall, at which Poe, his young cousin/wife, and his aunt/mother-in-law are buried. I've also hung out along the edge of a crumbling 1700's-era cemetery in Shepherdstown and watched young (and not-so-young) tricker-treaters gambol by. This year's plan may be to experience Terror Behind the Walls at Philadelphia's historic Eastern State Penitentiary, though the details of that have yet to be worked out. Regardless of what I end up doing, October 31st is a day I look forward to like Jack Skellington dreaming of Christmas.



And just as the trees change color and transform, I'm inspired to make changes in my life, sometimes great, sometimes small. At this point in time, it doesn't seem that I'll be making the leap to restaurateur-ship or moving on to a new job. And re-locating to a new home's not in the picture any time soon yet, either. But there are other, subtler changes that can invigorate and inspire me. Even something as simple as a change of haircolor, from honey-brown to a deep and mysterious soft black.



Superficial, but fun. But what's behind these urges, this yearning for newness and transformation? It's not like the feverish awakening of spring, there's a tang of frustration and urgency in the feeling of autumn. So while that feeling excites and motivates, there's also an edge to it. Is it the relationship between autumn and death symbolized in the myth of Persephone, Demeter and Hades? Is it an atavistic fear of facing the onward rushing cycles of nature and time? Or is it merely the realization of summer's daylight hours waning into winter's early darkness?

A nice bit of synchronicity this evening. A thread at the Incubus forum led me to a John Mayer tune that nicely sums up the darker side of that indefinable autumn feeling...

Something's Missing

I'm not alone.
I wish I was.
Cause then I'd know
I was down because
I couldn't find
a friend around
To love me like
they do right now.
They do right now.

I'm dizzy from
the shopping malls.
I searched for joy,
but I bought it all.
It doesn't help
the hunger pains,
and a thirst I'd have to drown first
to ever satiate.

Something's missing
And I don't know how to fix it
Something's missing
And I don't know what it is
At all

When autumn comes,
it doesn't ask.
It just walks in
where it left you last.
And you never know
when it starts,
until there's fog inside the glass around
your summer heart.

Something's missing
And I don't know how to fix it
Something's missing
And I don't know what it is
At all

I can't be sure that this state of mind
is not of my own design.
I wish there was an over the counter test
for loneliness.
For loneliness like this.

Something's missing
And I don't know how to fix it
Something's missing
And I don't know what it is
No I don't know what it is
Something's different
And i don't know what it is
No I don't know what it is

Friends -check- Money -check-
Well slept -check- Opposite sex -check-
Guitar -check- Microphone -check-
Messages waiting for me, when i come home -check-

How come everything I think I need,
always comes with batteries?
What do you think it means...