Take a look around: that’s right, it’s Autumn. It’s something you just can’t miss; drops of drizzle insistently tap your hat while you stand waiting for an AM light-rail’ eldritch fogs flit like ghostly tendrils across the distant landscape of the West Hills; a fluffy squirrel startles another while rooting through swishy piles of wet leaves in search of fallen chestnuts, squawking and chasing each other as an invisible breeze pulls a golden leaf from a near-bare tree and sends it swirling, spinning earthward towards inevitable fate. Overhead, the yah-honk of a flying goose.
Here at Fort Saint Davids, we’re digging into our new digs, entrenching ourselves for the impending winter, building our bulwark with savory dinners, crimson wines, twilit walks among the damp evening smells of sweet laundry and smoky chimney, pausing to watch a crow on a telephone wire who is now watching us. The signs are all there, but what do they mean? Where’s the language for all of this…this…this Autumn? The words fail, and yet no one is worried. What would it even sound like if the words succeeded? Would these images, these sensations…these Autumns be superseded? Erased? Replaced? We’re fine, really, without the words. Fine, even, lacking the proper images, an acceptable recording, a believable simulacrum. Who needs it. The Autumn itself will suffice.