The Autumn of My Variable Levels of Content
I’ve always lived in regions that provide explosive springs. In college on the Southwest plains of Minnesota, each April brought a single, torrential downpour that for me was a herald of all things vernal. Here on the Piedmont the successive blooming of fragrant vines (wisteria, honeysuckle…) make my eyes gloss over and strange feelings, nostalgic and primal, bring my mind to a complete stop. This I’m used to, expect, and enjoy. In a variation on the theme, I was caught off guard this past month by similar feelings, equal in strength but mixed in valence.
I sat outside on a cool afternoon off South Columbia, a stiff breeze swirling leaves at my feet and tossing the hair of passers-by. Sunlight, all the more noticeable in the brisk air, was full on my face. If I concentrated on the conversation or people-watching, nothing was out of the ordinary. But if my attention strayed I was quickly engulfed by an overwhelming swarm of fall-tinged memories. If in the spring these waves of emotion are tinged with joyful lust, lusty hope, and other warm fuzzies, now I acutely sensed despair, longing, and fear. Now too there was more immediacy, like a pair of hands clamping over my cheeks and forcing me to look. This continued as long as the sunny, cool, breezy weather did; a few days, and has not returned with the same ferocity. It’s not in my nature to leave anything unexamined, especially when it happens in my own noggin. Although I can’t comment on the unusual strength or duration of these reveries, I hypothesize that their unhappy nature stems from unhappy experiences I’ve had in autumns past. This brings be to another line of thought that I was going to save for a later entry but fits in well here; the characterization of aspects of personality as outside myself.
This was brought up by a friend of many years who noticed my (to her, strange) tendency to refer to aspects of my behavior and thoughts as separate from myself. The above example is a good one; I didn't think about fall memories as being particularly intense or negative before I was struck by the strong collection of emotions, it just happened. Similarly, most of my insights, writing, and even jokes* spring up without any mental work as I would define it. I consider anything that arises without my conscious aim as apart from myself. If you’re thinking, “coughdefensemechanism”, you’re definitely a smartass but probably right. Obviously, the concept of “self” is so complicated that to definitively divide it along this contrived line is laughable. However, it’s a line that makes life interesting most of the time, and helps me keep my bearings during some of my really rough patches; so for the time being I’m comfortable to live on either side of it.
*My humor often surprises me, which is why I laugh at my own jokes
I’ve always lived in regions that provide explosive springs. In college on the Southwest plains of Minnesota, each April brought a single, torrential downpour that for me was a herald of all things vernal. Here on the Piedmont the successive blooming of fragrant vines (wisteria, honeysuckle…) make my eyes gloss over and strange feelings, nostalgic and primal, bring my mind to a complete stop. This I’m used to, expect, and enjoy. In a variation on the theme, I was caught off guard this past month by similar feelings, equal in strength but mixed in valence.
I sat outside on a cool afternoon off South Columbia, a stiff breeze swirling leaves at my feet and tossing the hair of passers-by. Sunlight, all the more noticeable in the brisk air, was full on my face. If I concentrated on the conversation or people-watching, nothing was out of the ordinary. But if my attention strayed I was quickly engulfed by an overwhelming swarm of fall-tinged memories. If in the spring these waves of emotion are tinged with joyful lust, lusty hope, and other warm fuzzies, now I acutely sensed despair, longing, and fear. Now too there was more immediacy, like a pair of hands clamping over my cheeks and forcing me to look. This continued as long as the sunny, cool, breezy weather did; a few days, and has not returned with the same ferocity. It’s not in my nature to leave anything unexamined, especially when it happens in my own noggin. Although I can’t comment on the unusual strength or duration of these reveries, I hypothesize that their unhappy nature stems from unhappy experiences I’ve had in autumns past. This brings be to another line of thought that I was going to save for a later entry but fits in well here; the characterization of aspects of personality as outside myself.
This was brought up by a friend of many years who noticed my (to her, strange) tendency to refer to aspects of my behavior and thoughts as separate from myself. The above example is a good one; I didn't think about fall memories as being particularly intense or negative before I was struck by the strong collection of emotions, it just happened. Similarly, most of my insights, writing, and even jokes* spring up without any mental work as I would define it. I consider anything that arises without my conscious aim as apart from myself. If you’re thinking, “coughdefensemechanism”, you’re definitely a smartass but probably right. Obviously, the concept of “self” is so complicated that to definitively divide it along this contrived line is laughable. However, it’s a line that makes life interesting most of the time, and helps me keep my bearings during some of my really rough patches; so for the time being I’m comfortable to live on either side of it.
*My humor often surprises me, which is why I laugh at my own jokes
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