"Autumn in Washington Square". Oh, it's perfect. It is sad, yet oddly content.
Like, I see this park in the middle of a city – there's a path and a grassy area and a bunch of trees…and all the trees are brilliantly colored oranges and reds. An old lady walking her dog. Kids soundlessly playing on the swings. And a man and a woman, just sitting on a bench. In love. Together.
It is a lament for the passing of summer. Sadness. However, on the other hand, it's a recognition that things are just beginning, that there is so much to come from the changing of the leaves and the cooling of the weather.
I've always loved autumn, more than all the rest. The way I see it, in the spring, everything is blooming and growing. Life is picking up speed. Summer has an incredible burst of movement and excitement and energy and heat before crashing and burning with that midsummer lull.
Then autumn comes, and we start to pick up the pace again, but never too much, only enough to get us ready for winter, where everything stops completely and just…dies.
Autumn is a great in between, the great divide. It's a time of great transformation and when, I think, the landscape is its most perfect.
It's for walking around in light jackets, kicking around the leaves and jumping in big old piles, for warm cider and quiet nights in the city. Ideal for living. On second thought, a year full of autumns and no seasonal variation whatsoever would be just fine with me.
I could live and die in the fall.