It’s a grey day, much greyer than you might think, and I’m eyeballing the calendar and grateful for the upcoming downtime (“downtime” meaning that through the end of the month I’m “just” running 6 open mics, playing 3 gigs, 2 festivals, and hosting 3 guests for Live from the Lair). On the other end of the house a half-hearted cricket winds up, winds down, rethinks its Life choices and goes back to bed.
I can relate little cricket, I – can – RELATE.
I have sympathies for sacred spaces that I hold dear : Takoma Park Folk Festival, struggling forward in the rain today. I have every confidence that they’ll do a great job, and they’ve got a fantastic lineup this year (it was a good to see the printed “Grid” again) – but the rain will take a huge toll on attendance, and with that it’ll take a huge bite out of fundraising for next year, pinching a pinched organization.
Summer’s Farm, with its now-doubly canceled Sunflower Festival : playing there last Sunday was hot and sweaty enough that we weren’t TOTALLY looking forward to coming back today, but a week’s worth of hundred degree temperatures has killed most of their beautiful sunflower crop, and it seems to really add insult to injury that the weather breaks JUST as we’d have played today, but that they’d have had to cancel for the rain in any case…
And then up at Longwood Gardens, closed for days for a manhunt, catching a murderer on trail cams and now, though the fugitive’s moved on, they need to “assess the condition of the gardens” which sounds worrisome. I Love wandering botanical gardens and arboretums and part of the thought nestled in the back of my head is some level of hide and go seek – some level of “where could I make myself secret, where could I keep myself safe”. Now that little game has sinister overtones.
The low-hanging clouds outside allow me to build a mythology in my head : that summer’s ended and a cold, wet autumn’s come. If I get closer to my window I’ll see bursts of colour on the trees across the street contrasting with the leaden sky – and if I peer out the back I’ll see sodden leaves covering the year. The wind will pick up any moment sending dry remnants skirling and hurrying, and the cat’s attention will be drawn to the whirling chase outside. I can dream that if I go to the door and open it, we’ll get a blast of cold, toad-belly weather, pushing into the house…
… I can’t resist …
No, the air on the porch is fetid and rank, slow-moving. It sluggishly pushes past me and triggers the thermostat and our newly-installed, much-adored heat pump kicks into Life within moments after opening the front door, fighting back against the wall of dense, heavy, moist air.
Let’s not do THAT again.
