'Premonition'
acrylic on A4 canvas
end of summer 2008
The small hours. Sat cross legged in the living room. A cup of tea. About to roll a cigarette. Can hear the wind outside through the trees in the garden. A comforting chill. The windows are open.
Summer is gone. No matter how warm September is, I can never see any day in this month as being summer. Autumn is always my favourite season for a variety of reasons, though it is always preferable when followed by an unbearably hot summer, which we, of course, haven't had this year. Autumn is always the time of beginnings; school of course, and back in my twenties when I spent six years in higher education, the start of a new university year. I miss the rhythm of those days, the sense of welcome change, of life progressing.
No matter, it is still autumn, and there is still that clear light to enjoy, the odd way that the horizon seems to get clearer. There is still the sharpness in the taste of the air in the mornings. Even the nights drawing in (I love that phrase) bring with them an odd comfort; lazing in the house during those long evenings, listening to the wind in the darkness outside. Perhaps the rain. The rain is hypnotic in autumn. Tides run deep here.
Always this time of year brings memories, as if stitched tight into the deepening of the skies. Most of all the September of 1997. The autumn of that year is a pivotal point in my life. The second year of my English degree, living in London Road, Worcester. A tumultuous relationship with a girl I still wonder about now. Not that I hold any flame for her. I spent a lot of my time that autumn mostly unhappy, but I had never -and have never since- felt so alive. It isn't her, or the relationship, I remember at this time of year, but that time before -before she even returned from Norway where she had been spending that summer. I remember those days and weeks before we met up again (we had met a few times in the first year as friends only) with a clarity as sharp as these autumn mornings. I remember the blue of the skies - a more thoughtful blue than the bright vacancy of summer skies, and the sunlight softer, more welcoming, but most of all I remember a certain feeling - a kind of premonitory sense that imbues my memories of those days. I remember a phrase I had read somewhere of how beautiful the summer before a war is. Of course, this is only felt in hindsight - and those few September weeks before she came are imbued with a sense of both warning and nostalgia. At the time, of course, I felt nothing of this. We only know these things in hindsight only. I hope this autumn I feel as alive as I did that autumn (though hopefully without the attendant unhappiness). I doubt it though, but I still hope anyway.
As an aside, the painting 'Premonition', a photo of which can be found in the album 'Paintings 2008', is about the feelings of that September, of that sense of nostakgia, of that aura of premonition which can only be ever felt in hindsight.
It's 1:41am now. I suppose I should get some sleep, but I think that sleep might escape me tonight. I think I might lie listening to the wind, and the odd night-gull. I wonder if seagulls remember things? Ah, I'm rambling now. My cup of tea grows cooler as autumn #37 begins to stumble through it's infant hours.
Goodnight.
Summer is gone. No matter how warm September is, I can never see any day in this month as being summer. Autumn is always my favourite season for a variety of reasons, though it is always preferable when followed by an unbearably hot summer, which we, of course, haven't had this year. Autumn is always the time of beginnings; school of course, and back in my twenties when I spent six years in higher education, the start of a new university year. I miss the rhythm of those days, the sense of welcome change, of life progressing.
No matter, it is still autumn, and there is still that clear light to enjoy, the odd way that the horizon seems to get clearer. There is still the sharpness in the taste of the air in the mornings. Even the nights drawing in (I love that phrase) bring with them an odd comfort; lazing in the house during those long evenings, listening to the wind in the darkness outside. Perhaps the rain. The rain is hypnotic in autumn. Tides run deep here.
Always this time of year brings memories, as if stitched tight into the deepening of the skies. Most of all the September of 1997. The autumn of that year is a pivotal point in my life. The second year of my English degree, living in London Road, Worcester. A tumultuous relationship with a girl I still wonder about now. Not that I hold any flame for her. I spent a lot of my time that autumn mostly unhappy, but I had never -and have never since- felt so alive. It isn't her, or the relationship, I remember at this time of year, but that time before -before she even returned from Norway where she had been spending that summer. I remember those days and weeks before we met up again (we had met a few times in the first year as friends only) with a clarity as sharp as these autumn mornings. I remember the blue of the skies - a more thoughtful blue than the bright vacancy of summer skies, and the sunlight softer, more welcoming, but most of all I remember a certain feeling - a kind of premonitory sense that imbues my memories of those days. I remember a phrase I had read somewhere of how beautiful the summer before a war is. Of course, this is only felt in hindsight - and those few September weeks before she came are imbued with a sense of both warning and nostalgia. At the time, of course, I felt nothing of this. We only know these things in hindsight only. I hope this autumn I feel as alive as I did that autumn (though hopefully without the attendant unhappiness). I doubt it though, but I still hope anyway.
As an aside, the painting 'Premonition', a photo of which can be found in the album 'Paintings 2008', is about the feelings of that September, of that sense of nostakgia, of that aura of premonition which can only be ever felt in hindsight.
It's 1:41am now. I suppose I should get some sleep, but I think that sleep might escape me tonight. I think I might lie listening to the wind, and the odd night-gull. I wonder if seagulls remember things? Ah, I'm rambling now. My cup of tea grows cooler as autumn #37 begins to stumble through it's infant hours.
Goodnight.
