~Written on Tuesday, September 24th, two days after the Autumnal Equinox~
I watched as the fall equinox entered into my room through the first cold rain of the season. A downpour. The spattering, splashing water on asphalt. The plud of cool water hitting leaves. Water water wet. The water poured the leaves off the trees and buried the cars parked on the road under brown and yellow. My pages of scribblings and notes and doodles by the window were blown about and soaked under the weight of the spray and when I reawoke later in the morning there was no telling what was what anymore,—the blue ink had bled far and wide and changed the meanings.
I had woken up a couple minutes before 8am,—in the swirl of dreary morning minutes around when the equinox arrived in full, ~7:43am,—and I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, rubbing the crust out of my eyes, looking down my feet out the window because something felt unexpected about this morning. What was it? Who’s there? Rain was my answer; the very first rain of autumn. September had been a dry month in Chicago so the sound of the skies opening felt oddly foreign and the rain ricocheting off the screens in my windows filled the room with humidity. Raindrops like this, taken together, have the same look to them as Niagra Falls. Not something to get caught up in but a good vibe to wake up to. It was ~raining~ proper. And I loved that. I’m in love with the rain. Perhaps my favorite emotion is the rain. Of course it’s an emotion. Of course I didn’t close the windows.
AUTUMNAL FILM REC:
(disclaimer: this one’s from my friend Kim) It’s Meg Ryan season! When Harry Met Sally is my old roommate’s favorite movie of all time and he’s now living his dream living in New York City taking daily strolls around Central Park in luscious sweaters. Follow your passions. Thrift those sweaters. Sleepless in Seattle? Also incredible. You’ve Got Mail? Probs the most Substack-Fall coded film ever put to celluloid.
Fall rain falling is the church bells of summertime’s mourning. Persephone’s been taken back down into the Underworld. Can’t you feel her hold dissipating? She was a friend of mine and I know how she disappears. She saw a flower in the valley, one of those beautiful growths of the late summer that bloom in spite of the air getting colder,—she’s reached for it, and she’s been snatched up and taken down by the God of the dead. And the world’s now reeling without her, but it reels beautifully. Demeter recoils.
It’s strange to love a season with the lingering musk of death. Over the Garden Wall works better than most Fall Media because it’s so well aware of the haze of death looming over this time of year, but, interestingly, a death you can see to the end of because Spring remains just around the corner, the resurrection of all things green and living is in sight, and, like in Potsville, those who are buried in the ground are set to return to celebrate the Harvest of the new. And the whole show being set in the *spoilers* dying dream of its two protagonists while they drown in a pond. They’re in limbo. They stand between life and death just like this odd red-yellow wash of the folliage.
The wind rustles pages, wets notebook pages and rummages through the leaves outside, tugs them down if they’re ready. Here we are in a whirlpool of change! Isn’t that remarkable!! Feeling the fall through my skin is such an ecstatic sensation I can’t believe I’m allowed to experience.
It’s insane to me that there are only four seasons. The four. Why only four? The four is a construction of our trying to understand the world, making a measly four seasons,—it wouldn’t be too much more wrong to say there are twelve seasons, right? At the very least then there would be a slight musical allusion there. Perhaps every week is a season in itself. If that’s true, then why not every day? Could every minute be a season? Okay okay we’re getting carried away.
But it’s enough to say that the sun has stopped its frothing for this year. Now hidden behind cloudcover, cold wet rain, its become a small murmur like the sound creaking out from an old painted-over radiator. And ever since the equinox dropped on us, the world has felt like a long rainy tuesday in september. I suppose it is a rainy tuesday in September when I’m writing this now. And my allergies are on the lam. My nose is a faucet. Snot’s in freefall. Don’t look at me in the mornings. I’ll need a shower and some coffee first.
AUTUMNAL MUSIC RECS:
On Your Own Love Again by Jessica Pratt for a cool day with your windows wide open. Pink Moon by Nick Drake if it’s raining. Colour Green by Sibylle Baier for when you finally have to close your windows because it’s just cold enough that you can’t keep them open even with all your layering. Rain Dogs by Tom Waits for after, when the cold rain makes everything else cold and shades of spook enter into the leaves outside,—be warned, though, it’s a weird one. Manning Fireworks by MJ Lenderman for the bonfire you’re invited to, no matter the stage of fall, with plenty of poking sticks and sweaters and solo cups of red wine. And then, finally, Starlite Walker by Silver Jews for when you can’t sleep.
I don’t know how much more Summer I could handle, to be honest; I was nearing the end of my string. Every summer’ll be longer than the last going forwards. Prepare to be more and more strung out by the heat. The future is sweaty. Gotta stay hydrated.
I’ll spend my fall beside my lampshade. It’s my little memento. I like to read by its light.
Anyways, there’s a man on the first floor of my apartment building locked in a cold war with the rat living in the roots of the Silver Maple six feet from the concrete front steps; the man’ll stand there in the front glass door scratching his grey chin, just keeping an eye out. I wonder what he thinks of the rain, of the fall. Perhaps he’s thankful to see the street flooded,—maybe it’ll deal with the rat and its little rat family in the tree roots. I have never seen the man myself though, and I have never seen the rat. Perhaps I’m just not looking hard enough. My friend Abby’s seen the man, though. She talked with him once. It’s the only reason I know he exists.
AUTUMNAL BEVERAGE REC:
Apple Cider for its cool spike. It’s good all season. I’m an addict who relapses whenever I see it in the store (even though I don’t have the money to buy any extraneous things when I’m getting groceries lol). And then, something I recently discovered, Pickle Beer to go with a crispy chicken sandwich.
~Written on Wednesday, September 25th, three days after the Autumnal Equinox ~
A text lit up my phone inviting me to a small get-together, seasons resolutions, arts and crafts, wine, etc.
I was thinking to myself how great this was having an occasion that wouldn’t cost me anything but the bus fare… Being broke forces one into a bit of an isolation… so I threw a bunch of things into a small drawstring bag (Gap c. 1998),—a small water bottle, a Vollman book, spearmint Zyns (I know),—and I set out across town.
Waiting for the bus, the sun setting, a man walked past muttering something indecipherable. Two men played chess on the concrete base of a street lamp and one of them exclaimed “he’s wrecking my shit,” and I said “oh shit yeah he is.”
The streetlights were already on, but the day hadn’t even set. I was unwilling to be amused by this and I crossed my arms until the bus finally came.
The people on the bus busied themselves with phone calls, small paperbacks, casual chatting,—I checked my phone for the time because I was unsure what time the seasons’ resolutions wine party would start and maybe I was already running late. All the people on the bus were visibly aging before my eyes.
I can only find my friend’s apartment by first finding the bar across the street. The address has been lost in my phone. I found his place, realized that the day had become fully night,—and when did that happen? The leaves in their courtyard were brighter than the grass. Fall was here, for good, or at least a few months, and the front door was open so I stepped in and up the stairs and his door was open too, as it usually is.
I opened the door, said “y’ello!” loudly and realized there were four people in the living room, all in their upper 30s, none of whom I recognized, all looking back at me with a sudden sense of intrusion. “Um,” I said quietly. “Is Ty here?”
“You have the wrong place,” one of them said, after a moment,—a man sitting on a stool holding a gin and tonic in his hand.
I said “Oh hm” and stepped back into the hallway.
Frustrated by whatever the fuck was happening I pulled out my phone to text my friend and the message sent green,—and I realized his invitation for the this was sent six months ago. Outside, the night was cold and dark and had been ongoing now for days.
AUTUMNAL BOOK REC:
The Complete Poetry of Frank O’Hara for the morningtimes you spend with a cup of coffee and maybe a cigarette or two. This above story was inspired by the poem printed at the end of this newsletter.
~ Written on Monday, September 23rd, one day after the Autumnal Equinox ~
It does seem to me that the internet is pettier than it was. I wrote a post sortof about it this morning.
I wonder though if it isn’t because of how the algorithms for all the major social media sites have been juiced to select for an increasingly isolated base human insecurity, like a excised chestburster, taken surgically from someone before it exploded out of their stomach and then studied and dissected in terms of how to make it healthier and less affected by its human host. How can a chestburster be trained to be in a human person but not burst out? That seems like the intent. It feels hokey and strangely sadistic. Being permanently online through a phone feels like an acute form of body horror.
Everyone has a small goblin inside them, pushed and pulled, the same way everyone has a small gnome about them that just wants to sit snug in a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate watching holiday movies. I suppose I can’t speak for everyone here so I’ll speak for myself: I’ve got two dogs in me; one sweet and one spicy. My sweet side loves blankets and spiced apple cider.
The other night I spoke to my friend after we jumped into the lake because, despite the nip i the air, the lake water is still warm enough to swim. Sitting, drying ourselves off, we talked about how this time of year feels nostalgic and she said that was because it’s because of memories of childhood and returning to school after a long summer of hijinks to see everyone all gathered together again. And I said that it felt like Fall’s feeling was a nostalgia towards the summer that just passed, maybe a nostalgia for every summer we’ve lived through, as if they all stack up onto one another with time like nesting dolls.
We were both right at the end of the day. A beautiful thing about this time of year is that you can say almost anything to wax poetic and it will still work and stir something in that space between your stomach and your gut.
FINAL AUTUMNAL REC:
The Magick writings of Alaistar Crowley, for before bed. “What?” You ask. “Ritual magic?” “Oh absolutely. It’s a wild time.” “Why is there a K on the end of magic?” “You know… I really couldn’t tell you…” But anyways, all of Crowley’s writings can be found on Internet Archives and they’re a trip and a half. I’d recommend giving Magick in Theory and Practice a quick skim/in-depth read if you’re at all curious. It’s such a fun little ride.
Poem — Frank O'Hara The eager note on my door said "Call me, call me when you get in!" so I quickly threw a few tangerines into my overnight bag, straightened my eyelids and shoulders, and Headed straight for the door. It was autumn by the time I got around the corner, oh all unwilling to be either pertinent or bemused, but the leaves were brighter than grass on the sidewalk! Funny, I thought, that the lights are on this late and the hall door open; still up at this hour, a champion jai-alai player like himself? Oh fie! for shame! What a host, so zealous! And he was there in the hall, flat on a sheet of blood that ran down the stairs. I did appreciate it. There are few hosts who so thoroughly prepare to greet a guest only casually invited, and that several months ago.
Hey! You! Thanks sm, as usual, for taking the time out of your day to read these dumb little posts of mine. Before I head back to the small corner of my apartment where I huff glue, I’ll take this moment to say Hey, if you liked this post and want to read more like it, feel free to subscribe! And Hey, if you liked this post enough to buy me a cup of coffee, consider going paid! Rumor has it I might be starting paid-subscriber only posts next week 👀… Possibly with a book review 👀👀… But not the book you might be thinking of 👀👀👀…
Until next time
xoxoxoxox
Briffinriffinriffin
i sighed dreamily at the end of this
this just felt like fall