Day Sixteen is Seasonal (part 2)

Seasonal (part 2)

The angle of the sun is wrong.

I used to explain to friends that I hated when the seasons changed, and summer would turn to fall, simply because, in my estimation, “The angle of the sun is wrong.”  Almost no one understood how in-touch with such things I could be, having grown up in a world of asphalt and concrete, tract houses and freeways, with the sounds of cars and trucks drowning out the birds, and most days, even the wind in the trees.  What no one understood was that, as a child of summer, and with the vastness of a west-facing shoreline only minutes from my front door, that I grew up, almost Druid-like, with a “bonus sense” for things like angles of the sun, and the coming of the morning light.

It still lives inside of me, in this place that, though it is an “island”, more resembles the inland of the San Fernando Valley to me.  The only way I recognize it as an island is to drive the 45 minutes or so, from the middle of it, where I live, to the north shore, or “The Sound”, which faces Connecticut, or the other way; to the south shore, which is the westernmost edge of the wide open Atlantic.  It’s not like where I’m from.  No hills or overlooks, which gradually descend from the inland heights, to the 200 mile-long stretch of beaches that run from Malibu to the Southern Border.

I remember my first late summer here, in 2022, when out of nowhere, I caught myself thinking those same words, “The angle of the sun is wrong.”  Even though it was like 90 degrees outside, even though the shirt on my back stuck to me like I was locked inside a sauna, I could still see that the autumnal equinox was damn near on top of us.  It’s like I start to see the whole world in sepia-tone, and the shadows, still hot like a sidewalk in August, seem unnaturally thicker than they should be, before late September. 

Which brings me back to why I’m wanting to take a two-hour nap at 5:03 pm, because I really don’t know.  Blame my advanced age?  Blame the fact that, though I have worked at every hour of the day and night, now that I’m on the government cheese, I hate sleeping in past sunrise, just like an old person?  Hell, blame my Druid ancestors, all I know right now is, this is the first time something Seasonal is having its “Affect” on me, to the point where it feels a little like a Disorder. 

And I’ll let all my friends, who are readers, know just how this turns out, again.  AFTER November Blog Season is past; when the shortest, darkest days fulfill themselves in the longest, darkest nights.  At the height of winter, when I make snow angels again, and wearing tee shirts while I do it has had its way with me, again.  But now, every hour of every day is the same.  Every hour is a writing hour, until the next post… and the next… is done.  Just as this two-part post is.

Done.

Talk to you tomorrow.