fall
It is exquisitely subtle, but there is indeed an autumn in Southern California. Despite the fact that the highs are still in the 70s, the evenings feel pretty chilly. Like sweatshirt or light jacket chilly.
The smell of burning leaves pervades the crisp air, which, I suppose, makes sense since October is fire season. I always wondered what that smell was, but after the holocaust last year, I suppose it's the smell of the natural life cycle of chapparal.
When I was in the Midwest, the fall would always fill me with sadness and dread about the long, painful winter. The waning of daylight would send me into a tailspin of seasonal affective disorder. But, here, because of the eternal blue, cloudless sky and temperatures that rarely drop below the 50s even in the heart of winter, I feel myself more buoyant.
I'm not going to call it hope, though. It's been a long time since I've had that. ("Haven't had a dream in a long time/See the luck I've had would make a good man bad…" Thank you, Steven Morrissey. And Ferris Bueller.) Although maybe I wouldn't recognize it even if it bit me in the ass.
I might just start worshipping the Sun. Ra, Helios, Amaterasu, Mata Hari, Tamit, whatever you want to call him/her/it.