This is the story of the seasons.
Fall. It begins with warmth. It begins with the sun still happily shining. It begins with the trees green and the grass greener, what with it being the other side of summer. Friends greet one another. "How was your summer?" "I'm so excited for this year!" "Are you going to Reds?" Slowly, it chills. There's really nothing you can do about it. It just gets colder. Things are less immediate. Leaves fall, each a realization, a forecast of the coming chill. They cover the ground, their veins tracing a web of interconnectedness signifying nothingness. They begin to rot.
Winter. It is cold. And then the snow comes. Leaves, a sheet to a blanket, are covered in snow. In that icy prison, they decompose. People retreat indoors. It is too cold and harsh to venture outside. The snow makes a wonderland that most are too afraid to embrace. "I can't believe it's so cold out." "It's too cold tonight. I don't think I'm even going to go out." "I feel like I haven't been outside in a month." The winter in twilight is remarkably beautiful. For all its strangeness, it remains recognizable. Like a half-forgotten dream. Or a nightmare.
Spring. Again, spring comes, always slowly. The world flirts with the idea for a while. Should she or shouldn't she? She teases. She relents. All the oysters in the world cannot compare with spring's bursting blossoms. Clocks, freed of ice, start turning an hour earlier. Fall's leavings give the spring its potential. Marks of winter dot the landscape, embracing spring's vitality and becoming part of its beauty. "It's so nice out! Want to go tan on the Green?" "I can't wait for Green Key." "I love day drinking!" Joy. Hope. Expectation. Retreating into the summer of life.
Welcome to the fourth wall. That was a poem. Kind of. Style and substance. Substance and style. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not. Maybe it's just there apropos of nothing. Most things are. That's why we put them in boxes and shelve them. I guess some people find clutter annoying. I like throwing all my shit on the floor. Then I know where all of it is. It's hard to forget that it's there.
After my grandmother died, we had to prepare her things for the estate sale. There were so many boxes. Stacks on stacks on stacks. We took everything out of the boxes. Put them on the floor. Looked at them for a minute or two. Asked if anyone wanted any of the stuff. They usually didn't. Then we put them in new boxes and shelved them. Time well spent.
A few weeks later, those boxes were opened. The collection of lifetimes was exhibited on tables and trays. People came and looked them over. We asked if anyone wanted any of the stuff. They usually didn't, but eventually it all was gone. Those people took those things home. Maybe they used them. Maybe not. I'm guessing that most of it ended up in boxes. It's easier to forget like that.
That paragraph was one box. This is another. Is there continuity? Doesn't really matter. I'm on a deadline. Maybe it was about someone else. Maybe it was about you. Maybe it was about me. Maybe. I'll take it. I have a box-like frame, or so I've been told.
Time doesn't really move much. It's usually on the wall behind the lectern. I guess sometimes it stands still. And sometimes it flies when you're having a good time. And sometimes it's a-changin'. And sometimes it's money. But apparently none of that really moves it around that much. I still find it behind the lectern.
During sophomore summer, my friends and I set up the rope swing across from Gilman Island again. The administration had it taken down previously because it was dangerous. Ours was probably more dangerous. That probably says something about drinking too. We left the rope there. I was walking along the river the following fall and found the rope still hanging. I remembered standing on the bank with my friends in summer. It was the same.
Last winter I was in New Zealand, except that it was summer there. Does that mean it was my Winter term or my Summer term? But then I was here for summer, as well. So did I have two Summer terms? They felt so similar. But they were over 10,000 miles apart. Plus, it's usually tomorrow in New Zealand when it's today here. Or maybe it's yesterday here when it's today there. Things bleed. You too.
Living behind this paper is uncomfortable. That's why you can usually find me in 1902. It's roomier. I remember when I first started going there. It was some season. I remember laughing, talking, drinking, studying, reading, writing and learning there. But I have no idea how cold it was outside. I don't think it matters. I should think about it. Take my time. Tick tock.
