Autumn* is the Thinking Man’s season.
Summer is physically too intensive for up-to-scratch thought-making. Spring is too emotional. Winter is solely about survival – intellectually, all you can do is to think pithy metaphysical thoughts, kind of S.O.S’s, that may or may not help you get to a warmer place when you freeze to death.
But Autumn is thought-friendly – it doesn’t distract you with impudent bodies, naked smells, explicit colours – or imminent death. It gives you just the right colours, smells and temperature to walk long walks and calmly look at the thoughts you’ve rashly collected in the other seasons and make them as long as gossamer thread in Indian summer.
So the other day (the world was gentle, warm and sunny), I went for a thinking walk. But as fast as a brainwave, that Thinking Man’s pet, Melancholy, pulled me where I did not want to go and in no time I was in a cemetery of sorts.
The nearest tombstone (neat; and good architecture, too) said “Deutsches Niederschlesien. Starb unglücklich”. A few steps further, a grotesque and over-the-top statue dwarfed a tiny grave. I came closer and read beneath: “Your Love (expressed your way)”; then, next to an empty hole, another one announced: “Your Thoughts”**; at a far end, a simple plaque on a mass grave honoured “The Unknown - and Not Worth Knowing, i.e. Most of the Other Stuff”. The pet wagged its tail ran happily to and fro. It had a field day.
In despair, I turned my eyes to the middle of the place. There stood a breath-taking tower of a monument - grand, glamorous and awe-inspiring, at least for a moment. I ran to it in the hope that it could let me climb out of that dead end where I was dragged by my subtle beast.
When I reached it, a proud inscription announced: Humankind’s Own Achievement , and below, in small print : soon to R.I.P.; comes with a life-long guarantee only.
There was a spade against the tower and a post-it note stuck on the cold marble: “The structure is going a bit wobbly. Could you please - when you’re ready - support it by placing your body underneath? Thanks to your cooperation this monument will commemorate us eternally; or till the bodies run out.”
I gave an autumnal sigh. What was I to do? I cursed the treacherous season, stroke Melancholy, which licked my hand affecionately (a little darling, true blue) and picked up the spade.
Just before its blade hit the ground, something flew past me with a whisper: “look up” – and fell at my feet. I kicked it and, joined by dozens of others lying aroud, it made a deadly rustling sound.
Just before its blade hit the ground, something flew past me with a whisper: “look up” – and fell at my feet. I kicked it and, joined by dozens of others lying aroud, it made a deadly rustling sound.
But I did look up - and there I saw hosts upon hosts of leaves, dying joyfully. Trembling, they were sending their farewell message - and I got it.
So I threw away the spade, kicked the pet in the butt and - as the beast was whining, barking, laughing and blaspheming all at once - I mucked in, singing with the falling leaves an up-lifting mid-Autumn psalm:
[A song of ascents. For the director of music: to the tune of "Death is a Ticket ...#]
And look up.
The Next Season is colourful,
Your Future is bright.
*on warm days; on cold ones - forget your soul, just try to save your body.
**the grave couldn't have been completely empty?
#...- punch it with your life"
