this sure isn't Summer

I knew a joy in Summer I cannot explain outside of context. I know that it remains safely in the pocket of my memory, as every day it fades further and further out of time and space. I could tell the stories; I could explain the smiles; but you would never be able to feel them like I did. Every artist creates something new, they cannot resurrect a dead thought into new life, only pay appreciation.

Where does reminiscing become melancholy? I believe the line is drawn right about where learning ends and longing begins. When the change of seasons strikes, it tells you nothing. You must speak to yourself how you are affected. You must speak to others through your actions, and you must not be afraid of how you change. You are not the only one changing.

It was the the start of my junior year of high school when I discovered Rites of Spring, a seminal band in my musical growth. The coarse guitars and fleet, pounding rhythms were not the vehicle I expected for their lauded introspection, but it turned out to be a veil which my ignorance needed only time to peek through. Now, when I listen to Guy's pained screams I can feel how much honesty is on display. I admire the haunting and caustic atmosphere they create. Listening now is a whirlwind of memories (standing on my parent's porch waiting for the bus, gearing up for a return to class while a cooled air settles over the world) and also newly grasped understanding of the message their lyrics convey. It feels like Autumn music, and Autumn has always been my favorite season. I experience something similar with Osker's Idle Will Kill. Though my memories settle on my tattoo of the album's title, my interpretation and appreciation is updated. The result of a newer and better self.





While I have begun to separate the year into two seasons, I respect more so the transitory periods of Spring and Fall. They are times of change. Now is the time for whiskey, hot coffee, and cinnamon. For the long sleeves of jackets and sweaters. For reassessment. My instinct is to think of hibernation, a pulling in of thoughts and emotions. Sheltering myself from the pains of the world. How easily we make ourselves vulnerable in the Summer. But in that vulnerability is where to find growth. That is one thing that does not need to hide under browned leaves and rain. Black pointed branches reaching for the greying sky, as the limbs of frightened children afraid to be left alone. The whistled warning of wind in an alleyway. Decorations of dead things. If you find yourself listening to nature as it settles itself into sleeping for the Winter, do not resign to let your memories die with its flora. Do not use the time of year as an excuse. As humans, we must shelter from the elements, but not from each other.