streetrap: LEAFDUST: Autumn in New England is more than cold nights, fiery colors and rounded pumpkins. This year, the ghosts of Halloweenie are creeping around...
Monday, October 10, 2011
LEAFDUST
Autumn in New England is more than cold nights, fiery colors and rounded pumpkins. This year, the ghosts of Halloweenie are creeping around my homestead; coming in to visit. Perhaps it is because my Mother is dying of lymphoma (though she swears she will "be around for years to bother you all..." or because I am entering my second year of unemployment. (In 2011 America, I am not alone: I go to school almost full-time in my licensure program for my MA credential to teach AND student teach every day, from 7:00 a.m. to whenever the students and other faculty let me leave (smile), AND continue to write...however, none of these enterprises shows up on the radar because none of them are generating income. In America of 2011, it matters not if you toil from sun-up to sun-down; it only matters if you have created a "bottom line" that is taxable. So, I am technically one of the millions who are currently "jobless"...still.) Perhaps the ghosts are coming not for Mom, but for me? Hmmm...
Autumn in New England is a time of reflection and drawing inward. Though record global temperatures make some days feel like August, the nights have the snap and crackle of the stars beginning to crystallize. Perhaps not yet time for a hat, but definitely time for a hoodie or sweater. Summer ales are phasing out to Octoberfest brews. Hot dogs and hamburgers are being replaced by beef stews and crock-pot casseroles. When Dunkin Donuts begins pouring pumpkin flavored coffee, you know September has ceased and the true Fall has begun.
The ghosts know it, too.
Reading "Hamlet" in AP Seniors Literature class has affected my mood. The melancholic Dane joins his dead father in my dreams. I wake up answering to both. The Seniors in my three AP classes might make jokes about the dated verbiage of Shakespeare, but for me, his lines frame my nightmares. Howling rain against my windows only adds to the reality of the fright. Perhaps Hamlet's death becomes the ultimate peace--release from indecision; release from woe. Or, perhaps he only really wanted to follow Dear Old Dad and the lovely Ophelia, afterall? Hmmmm...
Like the Danish laddie, I feel caught in my thoughts. Afraid of my dreams. On the edge of my seat wondering what to do--if anything. Are we, in fact, simply pawns in the night, moved by an Angry God, out of boredom? Or, are the wonders to come blowing around us--hidden by the decaying leaves? Need we simply close our eyes to the blinding dust, for a little while longer?
Perchance there is still time to dream?
Autumn in New England is a time of reflection and drawing inward. Though record global temperatures make some days feel like August, the nights have the snap and crackle of the stars beginning to crystallize. Perhaps not yet time for a hat, but definitely time for a hoodie or sweater. Summer ales are phasing out to Octoberfest brews. Hot dogs and hamburgers are being replaced by beef stews and crock-pot casseroles. When Dunkin Donuts begins pouring pumpkin flavored coffee, you know September has ceased and the true Fall has begun.
The ghosts know it, too.
Reading "Hamlet" in AP Seniors Literature class has affected my mood. The melancholic Dane joins his dead father in my dreams. I wake up answering to both. The Seniors in my three AP classes might make jokes about the dated verbiage of Shakespeare, but for me, his lines frame my nightmares. Howling rain against my windows only adds to the reality of the fright. Perhaps Hamlet's death becomes the ultimate peace--release from indecision; release from woe. Or, perhaps he only really wanted to follow Dear Old Dad and the lovely Ophelia, afterall? Hmmmm...
Like the Danish laddie, I feel caught in my thoughts. Afraid of my dreams. On the edge of my seat wondering what to do--if anything. Are we, in fact, simply pawns in the night, moved by an Angry God, out of boredom? Or, are the wonders to come blowing around us--hidden by the decaying leaves? Need we simply close our eyes to the blinding dust, for a little while longer?
Perchance there is still time to dream?
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