The cold autumnal rains have returned to NYC, which never bodes well for my mental state. I'm here to tell you, my friends: Next time someone tells you they suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, you cut them a little slack or I'm coming for you.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that I suffer from the aforementioned malady, but boy, I sure am affected when the quality and quantity of the light changes come autumn and winter. Of course, my feeling blah during those months might have more to do with the fact that I tend to be a lot less active, but I'm chalking it up to the light.
Betty Boop is a real spring and autumn kind of girl —— she's not happy unless there are piles of sweaters between her and the environment — but I'm find that, as I get older, I'm a greater and greater fan of summer. This passion for fewer and/or lighter clothes seems to grow even as my bulk, and thus my unwillingness to appear de-clothed in public, expands geometrically. Boys on the beaches of gaydom, beware.
Still, there's much to be said for autumn.
If nothing else, it offers the return of my favorite holiday.
But there's just something about the overwhelming feeling of turning that comes with autumn that still warms my heart. The arrival in the air of the chill, a greater closeness or humidity that — owing probably to the lack of heat — is far less oppressive... I dunno, it brings me comfort. There's a feeling of pre-ordained not-unwholesome rot. And there's the arrival of the puke berry.
I don't know what it's really called, but it's the fruit of some tree that greverywherehere around the Northeast U.S. I wish I were more of a botanist, or at least knew what the hell I was talking about when it comes to deciduous trees. But it's this sort of bile-mixed-with-meat colored fruit about twice the size of a cherry that plops on sidewalks all over my neighborhood which, when it begins to rot and split open, carries a distinct odor that reminds me a little too much of vomit. So much so, in fact, that when I smell it, I have to quicken my pace lest I end up hurling.
That was probably a little too much information. But you know what I mean.
In any case, even with the puke berries lain as traps for the unwary me, there's still that part about fall that I love the best: The light. It's heavier, somehow. Sharper. And orange-flavored, if you'll allow me that whimsy. And even if you won't.
I'm looking forward to taking lots of pictures with that light this fall. Wanna be in them?
I wouldn't go so far as to say that I suffer from the aforementioned malady, but boy, I sure am affected when the quality and quantity of the light changes come autumn and winter. Of course, my feeling blah during those months might have more to do with the fact that I tend to be a lot less active, but I'm chalking it up to the light.
Betty Boop is a real spring and autumn kind of girl —— she's not happy unless there are piles of sweaters between her and the environment — but I'm find that, as I get older, I'm a greater and greater fan of summer. This passion for fewer and/or lighter clothes seems to grow even as my bulk, and thus my unwillingness to appear de-clothed in public, expands geometrically. Boys on the beaches of gaydom, beware.
Still, there's much to be said for autumn.
If nothing else, it offers the return of my favorite holiday.
But there's just something about the overwhelming feeling of turning that comes with autumn that still warms my heart. The arrival in the air of the chill, a greater closeness or humidity that — owing probably to the lack of heat — is far less oppressive... I dunno, it brings me comfort. There's a feeling of pre-ordained not-unwholesome rot. And there's the arrival of the puke berry.
I don't know what it's really called, but it's the fruit of some tree that greverywherehere around the Northeast U.S. I wish I were more of a botanist, or at least knew what the hell I was talking about when it comes to deciduous trees. But it's this sort of bile-mixed-with-meat colored fruit about twice the size of a cherry that plops on sidewalks all over my neighborhood which, when it begins to rot and split open, carries a distinct odor that reminds me a little too much of vomit. So much so, in fact, that when I smell it, I have to quicken my pace lest I end up hurling.
That was probably a little too much information. But you know what I mean.In any case, even with the puke berries lain as traps for the unwary me, there's still that part about fall that I love the best: The light. It's heavier, somehow. Sharper. And orange-flavored, if you'll allow me that whimsy. And even if you won't.
I'm looking forward to taking lots of pictures with that light this fall. Wanna be in them?
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