Aug 26, 2012

Strange Fruit

I sprout in the autumn and flower all winter long. Come spring the leaves fall and flutter away. Then summer. The dormant time. I go entirely to ground.

It is all upside down, yes?

Upside down, back to front, topsy-turvy yes, and all that, truly but not chaotic no, nor random. Cyclical. Orbital. Predictable even when I take a peek at the cheat-sheets of hindsight.

I am a bit of a feather head friends and slow on the uptake. It only occurred to me this year that I feel the same way in Atlanta early in August as I did eons ago in March when I lived way the hell up north. For those of you who have not lived in Canada amongst Gods Frozen People or in other places of extraordinarily dark, chill, and long winters, let me describe the day of light and hope.

Up north, it happens in March. Out of the blue comes a day that nukes snow banks and sets spirits soaring. Beautiful human forms emerge from shapeless fleece and feathered cocoons. The UPS dude wears shorts. Umbrellas pop up and open on long shuttered restaurant patios. Lunch runs long and loose and, for me back then, liquid. You know with absolute certainty that you will get flattened by one more soul crushing blizzard but you know even more that you have survived another gawdawful winter.

And what a feeling that is.

Here in the south it comes in August. After long months of sprawling, sweaty summer where every outdoor breath is a soggy shot glass of 5 Hour Apathy there comes a day of lightness.  Air, first thing in the morning, is cool and crisp. At lunchtime, the car is not a hellacious furnace. Early in the evening, while the sun is still up, the dogs bark and bay for a good walk. The mosquitoes might be carrying something that will knock you flat, but the odds are that you will see Autumn again.

And what a feeling that is.

Way back in March, on a Friday, I had my last real night out en Femme. That Saturday, the wardrobe was folded, the makeup cased, the bags, shoes, wigs and the rest of the pretty accoutrements were put away. Ploughed under, furloughed away.

Here in August, come the early shoots, stirrings underground, in the quiet times before the sprouting and flowering. Foreshadows and rumblings of the riot of fecundity and flat out fun that go along with my topsy-turvydom.

And what a feeling that is.


To those of you who have reached out with the odd hello, I am very grateful. Believe me when I say that you have my very full respect and affection. You know who you are. Thank you sincerely.

To those of you whose blogs I love, please accept my apologies for not following you on your journeys as well I would like, and for not cheering you on from the comments section. I admire your ability to write and share with such constancy and care.

And to those of you who drop in here time to time looking for something scandalous or halfway witty, thanks for coming back. I am promising to myself to have great experiences this autumn. There should, therefore, be much to propose and prose on about here on Voyages en Rose.

Subscribe in a reader