I love October. As far back as high school, I identified it as probably my favorite month of the year. (I say “probably” because every month is a symphony in a different key.)
This is the spooky time. Sunlight is fading fast. We are about halfway to the solstice. Uranus hovers below Aries in the midnight sky (assuming the incessant clouds give me a break). Seasonal decorations are coming out of upstairs closets. Scary black-and-white movies are coming out of the DVD cabinet.
Lots of firewood put up for winter, but much more to cut, and more on the way. A temporary glut, probably in advance of a long-term shortage. Economy is never more counterintuitive or more necessary than in a time of abundance. Joseph said that to Pharaoh, and I’m saying it to you.
This is a warm, humid, Septembery October. The Montauk daisies are in full bloom, the roses are still out, the nasturtiums and marigolds seem to think winter will never come. It’s warm and humid. I’ve been on the fence whether to put on the AC to cut the humidity, or light a fire to cut the humidity. The temp is just about fine; the humidity is nasty.
Above all, Halloween is coming. I’ve always loved this season. Since childhood in Gramercy Park, with Calvin Hampton as Frankenstein and Wolfman, I’ve been enamored of this silly, spooky time of imagination, scary movies, colorful fallen leaves, bags of candy, jack-o-lanterns, and all that.
The older I get, the less I lose interest.
Does that make sense?