The rainy season is upon us, the people under the skies and the pathos of Vancouver Island.
There is really only two seasons around here: the drier, tempered few days we call summer and the unending years that constitute each winter.
The light dampens, the spirit sinks and the plants first get sickened by rot and the die. Next year we, the eternal optimists that keep a garden in this wheather, will plant new ones.
The few that survive, the ones we call peremnials, are like old friends to us. The winter survival we shared, the little green the gave us in the dreary days, we thank them, and try to repay with care.
So, this is what I wrote last week, under the spell of the rain:
I am waiting for death – not mine.
The death of a garden we nurtured all spring and summer.
Autumn is here.
Winter is not death: it is afterlife.
With its dry air and the utter depth of its emptiness,
winter is a macabre heaven.
Autumn is the dirty, wet, muddled process of dying.
Muddy spring is the incessant fucking of two wild creatures in heat.
We are at the metro station, going south towards sterile,
but we will come out at the other end after a while.
Some trains have a circular route,