I have a confession to make. I hate, HATE, the way autumn rushes into Ukraine, like a guest who shows up to early – and already filthy drunk. The blue of the sky gets deeper, the wind has a damp undertow. Autumn here smells like mushrooms and earth and every single bad thing I’ve ever wanted to forget. It’s much more civilized in North Carolina, by comparison. Everyone complains about the heat well into September. Most of the clothes you buy during the end-of-summer sales can remain relevant into mid-October. And chestnuts and memories don’t come down to whack you over the head. At the very least, you can go on ignoring autumn for a good while – smiling at it politely, and nodding, and not really giving a damn either way.
At this time, I remind myself that Pushkin loved autumn. And then I think that he loved it because he was fundamentally batshit. Autumn itself is batshit. It gets under your clothes like a pervert on a dark stairwell. It’s beautiful in the way that pure white cocaine powder is beautiful. Autumn is dumpsters and graffiti and dogs getting wet in the rain. It’s inadequate footwear and dead moths.
Seasonal depression much? – You’re thinking right now. Probably. And terrible, terrible recollections dappled with yellow and browns leaves too. Some of it is just that strange alchemy of childhood, the little miseries that have been beheaded in my mind, rendered meaningless but no less ugly. And other, more concrete stuff. Dark rooms, groaning floorboards. That sort of thing.
My cousin has rather testily pointed out that I can easily bugger off to Amman, where I have very few memories, and where it stays hotter longer. But I don’t want the desert. Especially this year, with Ramadan being so early, and people fasting in the heat, and me being such a huge distraction n’ stuff.
I was with a TV crew from New Zealand yesterday (I don’t know if I made an ass out of myself talking about Ukraine, feminism, and boobs – but I probably did), and damn, New Zealand is looking pretty sweet right now. I have got, count ’em, ZERO memories in New Zealand. Oh, and Southern Hemisphere? Hello? It would be pretty ideal, to split the year into two hemispheres, and never let autumn find me. The vast amounts of money required for that are, uh, just a teeny hurdle.
I don’t know what it is about the year 2009 in particular (or maybe I do know), but goddamn. Goddamn! I suppose listening to country music doesn’t help. “Gone, gone with the wind, ain’t nobody comin’ back again,” and all that.