Friday Ephemera #63

Denny Hall, this Monday in the snow, the same building I posted a 1900 photo of last week.

Winter wonderland

It's been snowing almost nonstop since yesterday morning. I can't remember the last time we got this much snow before Thanksgiving. Perfect weather to curl up inside with a book. Or go to Narnia.

Nostalgia is a funny word

Something about sunny September afternoons makes me overwhelmingly nostalgic. I don't know why, exactly. I have much more to be nostalgic about in May and June, as those have always been my months for interesting happenings. There's something special about the light in September, though. It's bright but a bit chilly, and there's a certain brilliance to it. May light is softer and warmer, and less reserved to May.

I should be lying in the grass in a park in the Central District, or picking pears off the tree in the wonderfully chaotic Nova farm. Or collecting acorns somewhere. Part of it is the allure of back-to-school, but it's the September sunshine that makes me notice it. It was gloriously sunny last Monday, and wandering around the U District buying school supplies and questing for suspenders and running into lovely people I haven't seen for ages was tremendously pleasant and a little melancholy. I had to come home and stand around in my back yard listening to my favourite Beatles songs.

If nothing else, my autumn nostalgia has dispelled my summer mourning. And I'm super excited for classes to start again.

Fading summer

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.

Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go free.

Yesterday was Labor Day, which is kind of the traditional end of summer hurrah holiday, and tomorrow the Seattle public schools start, so this seems like an appropriate moment to wrap up the summer, even if I'm hoping September will be warm and sunny and I don't start school for another three weeks.

Wrapping up, for the moment, is a matter of looking back. I know a lot of people are looking forward to cooler weather and the associated cosy sweaters and hot tea, but I'm not quite ready to let go of my summer yet. I've had a pleasant summer, though I still feel rather destined to have imperfect summers. But I have got a lot done--remodeled a dress and a skirt and a t-shirt, made a blouse and a purse and a lot of jewellery, with pants and another blouse in progress. One of my goals for this summer was to steer my wardrobe to a more cohesive place, and I'm definitely getting there. I've also done a lot of reading and blogging, which is always satisfying. So it's been a pretty good summer.

Yesterday we made my favourite summer food, blackberry pie, with the blackberries we picked at my grandparents' house on Vashon Island. Blackberry is the best kind of pie. I can't imagine living somewhere that doesn't have blackberries.

The poetry, by the way, is "Autumn Day" by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated from German by Edward Snow.

Photos

Geraniums from my back yard, the Phinney Ridge Farmer's Market, random interesting vehicles. Summer is good.

Summertime is here!

Heat Wave

This has been the craziest year for weather ever. Oh, climate change. We had snow for a week in December, and now we've had a week of ridiculously hot weather. And by ridiculous, I mean record breaking. I live in Seattle. We are known for rain. We do not have extreme weather. And yet, it has been hovering around the 100 degrees mark. Wednesday, it got the hottest it ever has, at 103.

I've been swimming every day (sometimes twice), been to five different beaches, hung out in a friend's basement, eaten a lot of popsicles and ice cream, and in general managed to stay surprisingly cool. Still, one should not be able to walk around in shorts and t-shirt in the middle of the night.

What does one choose to read in weather this crazy? I've found watching TV makes it feel hotter, and I've no doubt some choice of books would have the same effect. Do you read books set in cold climates, or books set in the desert? Last summer I read The English Patient, and was glad I'd read it in summer, with its settings of Italy and North African desert. I'm inclined to think hot books are better for hot weather, especially if it's hotter there than it is here. Cold books just make you envious.

Of course, my current reading is England in fall and winter (Diary of a Provincial Lady and Marking Time), so I've not exactly chosen hot books. Diary of a Provincial Lady is at least rather short and sweet, which I am inclined to think is better for this weather. You don't really want page-long paragraphs, which leave you sweaty and gasping for breath at the end. Anything with short chapters, short diary entries, short sentences, seems preferable. Poetry, too, is good hot weather reading. I am inclined, again to turn to Michael Ondaatje, and read his poems. The Cinnamon Peeler is a book I've been halfway through for ages, and as it's poetry I could pick it up again at any time. The idea is very much starting to appeal.

Look at all the poor dead grass in my back yard. It's like straw on the ground, it's so flat. The grape vine, tomatoes, and flowers are all flourishing, though.

Summer books (though not, funnily enough, The Summer Book)

I have a funny relationship to summer. Sometimes I love it, sometimes I hate it, but no matter what the books I read during summer become indelibly associated with this season. The Count of Monte Cristo is definitely one such book. I read it years ago, in seventh or maybe eighth grade, and I still associate it with summer. It's a fabulous book. For being a solid 1200 pages (please don't read an abridged copy), it is enormously readable and easily followed, despite the multiple simultaneous pieces of plot. And it has just about everything in it, romance and mystery and everything else. My favourite part was always where Edmond Dantes is in prison with the fellow whose name I can't remember, digging their way out and also learning all sorts of interesting things. Actually, my only specific memory of the time I was reading this book is that it was kind of grey and rainy the day I checked it out of the library, but nevertheless I associate it with summer. It's also, by being so big but also so little work, great for long summer afternoons.

Havemercy is also one of my summer books, I think, though I only read it last summer so who knows whether it will remain so. It's a fantasy novel involving giant metal dragons that have personalities despite being machines, and four different main characters who in various ways are all, or will be all somehow related. In my head the fantasy world of this book is all enormous blue skies and sandstone buildings, though I think this is not actually its setting. I read this on my way to and from working at Seattle Children's Theatre last year, waiting for the bus on the edge of a park in the sun, and in the back of the bus on hot afternoons.

I'm not sure why summer is so much more particularly associated with certain books than other seasons. It may have to do with Seattle's weather, which is pretty uniformly sunny and hot in the summer (at least in one's memory, not so much in actuality), but is entirely variable the rest of the year. The association is definitely with the sun and the distinct blue of the sky, and not with any other quality of summer.

For a few years I hardly read during summer (I can't for the life of me figure out what I did instead), but the past couple I've read a lot more, and this summer I'm especially devouring the books. It's nice to have time to read.

October goes on apace

I finished Johnny Got His Gun. I was disappointed in the ending, though I think this was more a disappointment in the way things turn out for Joe than in the way the ending worked for the book. I actually think it worked pretty well for the book--it furthered the sort of life-goes-on, nothing changes, here's one more story mood of the book, and pounded in the anti-war feelings. But it left me wondering what happens next. Does the new day nurse stick around and keep talking to him? Does his life ever get any better? Over all, though, I really liked the book. The style definitely appealed to me, and though it reminds me of Virginia Woolf it's much easier to read. I find reading Virginia Woolf to go really slow, although I do like it a lot.

I got home early today, which was really nice as I managed to finish all my homework by the time I would usually be getting home. I'm finally starting to feel like I have a little bit more time on my hands, which is extremely pleasant. I'm sure I won't feel like this by Friday, but it's nice while it lasts.

Look at that. It's fall.

My imminent death by textbooks.

I've been so busy lately that it gets to the weekend and I'm too exhausted to stay up late even when I don't have to be up at 7:00, which is very sad because staying holed up in my room with the muted gold lights and the debris of clothes and books and knicknacks, everyone else asleep, is one of my very favourite things. It's so cosy, especially in winter. But finally I've managed to have a weekend in which I don't have to be anywhere, and I didn't get up early this morning, so I can stay up late. It is immeasurably enjoyable.

I have to make a Renaissance costume for a ball in a couple of weeks, so I've spent most of the day sewing, fiddling with patterns, getting frustrated with patterns, and pricking my fingers sewing trim over all the seams. With any luck I'll get that mostly done this week, as it's really just adding to my to-do list, and though I enjoy it I'd love to not worry about it. Fortunately next weekend looks like it's free also, so this should get done then.

I'm looking forward hopefully to December. I'm very sick of having no time, being underslept and overworked, and not reading anything but what I have to read for school. But by December my community college classes will be over, and that will probably free me up greatly. Plus, by December I should be pretty much done with college applications, so while I won't have quit worrying about it at least it won't be on my to-do list. And apart from all that, it's one of my favourite months. It's winter at its best, before it gets grey and soggy and long.

I'm still reading Johnny Got His Gun. It's fascinating how much plot one can get out of a guy who has no limbs and can't see, hear, taste, smell, or speak.