Who Are You, and What Have You Done With October?
Its funny, how certain periods of time have a feeling to them: an unmeasurable quantity associated with the hours and minutes, like a massless weight dangling from the second hand of the ticking clock. This concept is easily noticeable when you think of the days in a week. The bleary eyed feeling of a Monday morning is perhaps the most widely agreed upon emotion on the planet. The stark contrast between the carefree Saturday and the looming dreadlines of Sunday would surely be detectable with a strong enough litmus test. Everyone can empathize with the schizophrenic nature of Wednesday, its morning feeling like an eternal temporal limbo, its afternoon rolling quickly towards Saturday. If time is the fourth dimension, then its feeling must be the fifth.
The feeling dimension is not limited merely to days, it appears in periods that are both shortened and lengthened. Perhaps the most current representation of this phenomenon of time-feeling continuum is the sensations of the passing of the months. The description of months passing is not altogether accurate, as not all months "pass" in the same way. The endless months of summer seem to pass all too quickly, the lengthened days bringing feelings of shortened time. Conversely, the winter months pass slowly, the shortened days bringing longings for the hazy days of August. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, in this case, our black sheep is October.
Advanced physicists have hypothesized for years about gaps in space and time. A further extension of this field of study brings to light a theory to which everyone can relate: holes in the time-feeling continuum. Case in point: October. Rather than the concrete emotions associated with other months, October exists as a contrarian force. Electrons have positrons. Matter has antimatter. Feelings have antifeelings. The eleven months have October. The elusive October bears such little feeling of its own that unless expertly scrutinized on a calendar, its very existence is often completely overlooked. October begins with the mourning of September, and finishes with the shock of November, with a yet unknown quantity existing between. Its as if November 1st awakens us from a month of slumber: the leaves are falling, the morning is chilled, a calendar is torn, and Christmas is close.
In hindsight though, October has a lot to offer. In the context of its timely siblings, its feeling is lost. However, when isolated under a microscope, it is teeming with feeling. Its days can feel pleasant, without the congestion of August humidity. Its nights can feel cool and peaceful, without the searing chill of December. Its events are associated with the feelings of new birth and approaching closure. Skates are sharpened by a biting north wind, bringing with them dreams about what may yet be. The World Series brings a sudden urgency to the seemingly inconsequential summer engagements, as dreams are held onto like a tree's grip on its final few leaves. Given the proper amount of consideration, October surely has its share of proponents. A random sampling of people on the street would surely choose to replace the cold winter days with October's warmth, or trade the suffocating July nights for October's chill. The problem then becomes not a lack of feeling, but rather a lack of reflection on the month's merits.
Whatever force it is that causes our collective loss of time, we may never know. Perhaps October's sand is just ever so much finer, so that it slips through the hourglass at an imperceptibly increased rate. What matters though is that our attention is diverted from our primary three dimensions, for all they can measure are the places and things that cause our ever increasing hurry. It is the newly captured continuum that matters most. October may be gone again, leaving nothing more than fallen leaves and the vapors of frosty breath, but I know it will come again. And when it does, I will be ready: armed with the knowledge that when all of the window dressing is stripped away, October possesses the only two constants of our own existence: feeling and time.
The feeling dimension is not limited merely to days, it appears in periods that are both shortened and lengthened. Perhaps the most current representation of this phenomenon of time-feeling continuum is the sensations of the passing of the months. The description of months passing is not altogether accurate, as not all months "pass" in the same way. The endless months of summer seem to pass all too quickly, the lengthened days bringing feelings of shortened time. Conversely, the winter months pass slowly, the shortened days bringing longings for the hazy days of August. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, in this case, our black sheep is October.
Advanced physicists have hypothesized for years about gaps in space and time. A further extension of this field of study brings to light a theory to which everyone can relate: holes in the time-feeling continuum. Case in point: October. Rather than the concrete emotions associated with other months, October exists as a contrarian force. Electrons have positrons. Matter has antimatter. Feelings have antifeelings. The eleven months have October. The elusive October bears such little feeling of its own that unless expertly scrutinized on a calendar, its very existence is often completely overlooked. October begins with the mourning of September, and finishes with the shock of November, with a yet unknown quantity existing between. Its as if November 1st awakens us from a month of slumber: the leaves are falling, the morning is chilled, a calendar is torn, and Christmas is close.
In hindsight though, October has a lot to offer. In the context of its timely siblings, its feeling is lost. However, when isolated under a microscope, it is teeming with feeling. Its days can feel pleasant, without the congestion of August humidity. Its nights can feel cool and peaceful, without the searing chill of December. Its events are associated with the feelings of new birth and approaching closure. Skates are sharpened by a biting north wind, bringing with them dreams about what may yet be. The World Series brings a sudden urgency to the seemingly inconsequential summer engagements, as dreams are held onto like a tree's grip on its final few leaves. Given the proper amount of consideration, October surely has its share of proponents. A random sampling of people on the street would surely choose to replace the cold winter days with October's warmth, or trade the suffocating July nights for October's chill. The problem then becomes not a lack of feeling, but rather a lack of reflection on the month's merits.
Whatever force it is that causes our collective loss of time, we may never know. Perhaps October's sand is just ever so much finer, so that it slips through the hourglass at an imperceptibly increased rate. What matters though is that our attention is diverted from our primary three dimensions, for all they can measure are the places and things that cause our ever increasing hurry. It is the newly captured continuum that matters most. October may be gone again, leaving nothing more than fallen leaves and the vapors of frosty breath, but I know it will come again. And when it does, I will be ready: armed with the knowledge that when all of the window dressing is stripped away, October possesses the only two constants of our own existence: feeling and time.
posted by sobe at
11:06 PM
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