The cicadas are loud this year, aren't they?
Maybe they've always been loud. It's easy to forget these things. The sound of the cicadas seems, to me, both deafening and part of the background, as I suppose it must seem to anyone who grew up here.
It's the sort of sound you don't generally notice. Until you do. And then when you do it's so obvious and intense, you wonder that you spent even a moment ignoring it in the first place.
I like this time of year, these first chilly mornings.
Last year, I think I referred to September as the "emotional new year." For some reason, autumn leaves it's mark. It's something to do with the impending school year, that youthful determination to reinvent... to leave the husk of the old self behind.
Most of us spend much less time in school than out of it, but nonetheless, those early years seem to result in a kind of muscle memory. And come fall, we begin doing and feeling those things we did and felt a long time ago. We prepare ourselves. We stand in front of our mirrors, resolving to be something different this year. The fall brings these impulses to life. Maybe it's the smell of rotting leaves. Or the cicadas.
Don't get me wrong. The sudden summer, with it's heat and late nights and general wildness is fun for awhile, but isn't it a bit of a relief to put the blinding sun behind you? Won't it be nice to layer on a sweater again? To turn off the fans and listen to the silence?
It's lovely to live in a place where the seasons change so completely and dramatically. Having lived elsewhere, I appreciate it. It's nice to find, over and over again, that just when you've had your fill of something, something else is right around the corner. You don't have to will change forth, or chase it, or work for it. You don't have to do anything at all.
You just have to wait. And it comes.
Aw, man. It's already been a month. It's been a MONTH since my last post.
I should be flogged. Drawn and quartered. Banned from the Internet.
I am a bad blogger.
I don't have much of an excuse. I'm churning out three posts a week for work, which is kind of draining. And I had a sprained wrist and then a cold. And I went out of town. And blah blah blah. Like I said, I have no real excuse. I'm a stinker. That's all there is to it.
And even now, I have nothing to say. I saw some bad movies (you probably don't need to hear about that), I painted my bedroom (more appropriate fodder for the Chic blog), I watched some Weeds (but blogging about television feels derivative).
Even the trolls have been quiet of late (I'm looking at you, Helen).
Nothing. I've got nothing.
For the purposes of including a few photos and giving you something to look at, I'll tell you this much:
I keep having a weird, recurring anxiety dream about Vancouver. In it, I'm in the city, with nowhere to stay. And night is falling. And I have no money. Or I can't find a hotel. And I can't think of anyone to call because none of my Vancouver friends are my friends anymore.
No points for guessing what that's about. Too obvious.
In more upbeat news, Nate and I are going back to Cuba in the fall. The trip is booked and paid for. So that's something to look forward to. We're going to check out a pristine area where there's a turtle hatchery.
Oh, and the betta fish I bought my niece for her birthday in April has died. Poor little Bob. He bit the bullet. The kids didn't seem to mind too much. The baby said "Bob all gone!" and Kat said she'd rather have a red betta anyway. So I went out and bought her a red one.
She named it "New Bob."
That's all I got.
Vancouver image by Veeka Be. Turtle image by diko1967. Betta image by William Picard.