The Indian summer came in all it’s glory.
It descended upon the northern hemisphere as I foresaw in early September. I sensed it over the horizon. You could call it an inkling I had. A kind of meteorological premonition.
That omnipresent solar powerhouse blared its emanations with searing and wonderful malice, flaunting itself as if taunting those who doubt it’s power. An encore for summer ensued, that rolled far into the reaping harvest; the hay fields glistened in the solar showers as they we’re stripped bare to their carcasses. People were bathing in the pulsating rays of the beaming sun, that dissolved the turgid glue of reality that stuck to their dermis; the residue peeled and melted while they laid basking on blades of emerald and pale grains of sand. People swam in the briny seas which held a mirror to the sun as it smiled with irony, gazing at its endless eyes as they twinkled and sparkled in deep turquoise waters. Waves of creamy foam enraptured swimmers, caressed their flesh – that washed away the worries, doubts, anxieties and neurotic nugacities of pseudo-realities manufactured to enslave their creative impulses. Shorts worn short, vests on and taken off, T-shirts were off and discarded, and tans were topped up as exposed torsos laid bare bronzing under the searing laughter of The Sun. The coastal towns were resuscitated and flowed with vibrancy as they were pullulated with droves of sun seekers savouring the last remnants of a sultry summer. Frozen and chilled beverages pouring sweat down glasses; were served by dutiful mermaids on ivory stilts earning a few extra quid in order to refurbish the interiors of Atlantis, they succinctly poured refreshments that were guzzled down parched gullets; a perfect solvent to wash down fishes battered in the velvet silk and fried in the molten fat of Krakens. Swirls of frozen flavoured lactate laced with sugar were consumed as the sales of ice cream soared, oh MR Whippy is happy – he can now book that winter break to Seychelles. Green fingered gardeners embraced the solar renaissance and ebulliently pulled, trimmed, and gathered the fruits of their labours.
Yes, it was a triumphant Indian summer.
But…
All things must past.
Somethings afoot..
Can you smell it?
There’s change in the air, winds of change, and the Sun is heading South.
The Sun leaves his luminescing cloak trailing across the North, and Autumn has engendered with her nurturing force.
Scattered ubiquitously across the realms – the crisp and toasted leaves are now damp and saturated with rain, brought in by relentless gusts of winds howling through trees and harvested fields ravaged and raked. The farmer a seasoned campaigner is ploughing away, scattering horse manure, that’s being turned over and over again on the fields for fecundity, and its mineral stench dissipates over the dewy hills, to indicate that one must replace what one nourishes. The mornings darker almost suddenly as if the Sun hit the snooze button and is catching a few extra moments in bed, laying indolently on a celestial mattress composed of cosmic dust from afar, velvet threads manufactured in the Pleiades, and quantum springs wounded tightly by the oscillating and centrifugal force of Mercury (the trickster not the planet). And night’s drawing in, as if they were furtive shadows encroaching on the illuminations of summer, the darkness is creaking in through the back door, closer each night, inch by inch, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. The dark knight of the cosmos is riding his chariot of carved stone, pulled ferociously along by valiant but crazy schizoid horses across the heavens ( not the same horses whose manure feeds the soil), traversing through the houses of the zodiac, ransacking the perfectly formed and detailed libraries of Virgo, trampling upon the monolithic structures of Capricorn, galloping overs the fields of rancid blood and turmoil of Scorpio, there’s nothing that can halt them, they pull sable cloaks over space, spurred on by the frantic lashings of electric whips, that strike and sear the hinds of these mastoid stallions, the dark knight is the whip hand. He’s on a mission, sent by father time, old Chronos, Saturn, who is winding the clocks back, twiddling his beard, pondering on what news the maiden will bring forth in terms of yield; scornful because he never devoured his son Zeus; as such it eats him up and splits him open so much – he’s pissing streams and rivulets of scornful gold liquid onto the fields of wheat and barley, it trickles down from his manhood into chrome chutes designed by interplanetary architects that hang suspended in air by scaffolding erected by lackeys from Mars. The piss of Chronos continues to funnel through limestone tunnels plastered with snotty slime and cascades out of the shellacked beaks of ravens scavenging fields, they’re the intermediaries, with every peck they nourish the soils, the piss seeping down into the depths which is the abodes of worms and creatures that crawl, and henceforth nourish the soil. And hovering over the fields with a shive, the wheat maiden’s gaze is fixed upon the fluctuations of copper scales, ensconced in weighing the barley and golden wheat, rubber stamping the approval of autumn. She knows what has been sowed and what has now been reaped, she notes every grain and writes it down, she keeps a ledger and accounts for every grain, no kernel is unaccounted for, like a compulsive savant she is calculating meticulously and precisely the conversion rate of every grain; how many loaves of bread, bags of oatmeal, boxes of cereals, and sacks of grain will be sold and fed to homo sapiens, bovine, and equine that push, pull, and crap. The maiden (at least she claims to be, but I have my doubts), A.K.A Virgo, sorting the wheat from the chaff as it’s her duty. Without grumble and full relish, she presses on, accompanied by Her friends- the flame haired heads, the spasmodic pumpkins fully corybantic – laughing with hysterical grins in the fallow fields, waiting for Samhain, to become sweet pies or to be sliced and guttered for lanterns, that bring light for children who wonder the streets after twilight seeking tricks and treats. Footsteps heard in the forest as twigs and sticks are gathered for broomsticks to be stacked in covens for flights of fantasy, witches and crones brewing entrancing potions and casting seductive spells, cauldrons spilling over with phosphorus ooze that dissolves chronic doubts and evokes delirious visions of manifesting desires. And fires are blazing on the ravaged harvest fields and fed stuffed Guys to symbolise the ritual of punishment for a man who dare to overcome the government, the establishment, the order of things. Oh Guido Fawkes you came so close, I take my hat off to you, for your courage and vision , but you paid the ultimate price for the prize of liberation. And now they make effigies of you and toss you on the raging heat. Is there any justice???
And so as emerald leaves become golden leaves, as pumpkins shift from lying in pastures into food and lanterns. And as branches that once held leaves now fly witches, and as food was churned and turned into crap, and the crap in turn – will feed the crops for food; ; the sunshine sways and steps aside for the moonlight in a cosmic dance; and so Summer transcends into Autumn.
Poetic metaphors for Autumn and for transformation.
And for the natural rhythms of nature and life.
They are reasons for seasons, and each season is an era, a chapter, a moment with its own unique flavour, colouration, and quality.
Why stay glued to the ways things are?
There is no reason for one continual season. Because ‘things as they are’ is what kills creativity and invention. ‘What is’ is what keeps people’s natural and creative impulses buried. Interred in a psychic prison.
Each season and passage of time brings forth new life. Embrace it. Go with its flow and rhythm. Even more powerful…Create your own flows and rhythms.
Imaginations is the faculty at your disposal to do so, the power within you to create new flows, rhythms, and seasons.
Imagination is the seed of life.
This season, why not go walking through the autumn leaves and contemplate. No, Imagine! What you could create and bring forth into your reality.
Moving from the stale leftovers of ‘What is’ and its barren wasteland of perception- into the landscape of unlimited possibilities and perception is transformative.
Life becomes ALIVE!!!
As my words flutter in the breeze, let them evoke and entice you, feel them in the winds of change.
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