Hunter Moon Hurricane

October is almost over.  Was there a full moon last night?  If there was, it’s known as a “Hunter’s Moon” or a “Harvest Moon.”

For some strange reason, I woke up this morning thinking of one of my farmer friends.  Earlier this year, he lived through a devastating barn fire that changed the course of his well-intentioned farm plan.  I remember first learning about the fire and then reading his own thoughts about it; it struck me that he ended his blog post with a quote from one of my own favorite authors, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.  It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

The Great Gatsby is part of the “learner’s permit” of American Literature.  Everyone reads it once before they can drive the bigger works of literature.  It’s a stunningly sad story and the language is exquisite.  The movie versions of this novel are mostly pure to Fitzgerald’s intentions.

It’s Sunday and the remaining October brew in my tea cup is cold and bitter; I won’t drink it.  I’m feeling a little bit like old F. Scott today, worn out yet pointing my boat back against the current.  It’s raining leaves outside and the weather puppets say it may also rain airborne precipitation, like a hurricane.  My father tells me there will be plenty of leaves to rake and my mother says The Motel will open for such festivities.  As they say in the common parlance, “it’s all good.”

I’m going to rest today and think about “beating on,” into November.

You rest too.

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4 Responses to Hunter Moon Hurricane

  1. The land where Proust never strayed says:

    In carrier aviation we call it a commander’s moon–even the old guys can see the carrier at night when it’s out.

    It was out last night, bright, and the air was damnably crisp. Half the leaves are gone, and there’s no sun today, only the steely gray onset of English winter. We rolled the clocks back last night, now the dark looms upon us even worse than in Maine. It’s warmer here, thanks to the Gulf Stream, but it’s darker here, thanks to being another 500 miles further north.

    Still, there was good bacon for breakfast, a pot of espresso filled the cup that cools at my side (my well-worn tre-tasse pot now sits to the side of the stove, replaced by the heavy sei-tasse pot I found at the thrift shop), and I must get up and do something. Pluck the last apples from the low tree out back, drive to the base where the really good bacon is on sale (for US stuff, that is, Wright’s applewood smoked, but no comparison with the Lincolnshire pork five minutes by bicycle over the county line). I should eat some of the eggs on my counter, but I’ve been off eggs lately, I will probably throw some potatoes into the bacon drippings thick on the bottom of the iron skillet with some onions, enough to put some heartiness into me.

    It’s damnably cold for my old bones, my knuckles ache in the morning. The autumn damp sets the cold deeply into my joints. Along the walk to the trees my all-white cat (named “Bianca” for obvious reasons), is perched atop a stump that was cut, oddly enough, about four feet off the ground. She looks like a white hot flame atop a candle. She, too, despite her recently grown layers of fur, finds it a bit too cold, too soon.

  2. Zane says:

    Bloody Hell, I drove all the way to the base and the bacon was all gone, they still haven’t stocked any fresh cream, all I got were a few cans of coconut milk and some kleenex.

    Should have stayed home.

  3. The land where Proust never strayed says:

    Fresh cream is what’s needed for coffee. Coconut milk is excellent anytime.

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