For a while, yes, let me freely acknowledge it, I was determined that the season must not come anywhere near my soul, that the configuration of clouds, sun, temperature and precipitation should have no bearing on my inner life. The season that I am referring to is winter and the anticipated effect is that of gloominess, despondency and an overindulgence of certain melancholic moods that will overexcite whatever tendencies I might have to reminisce.
Not that I fear my memories, I cross swords with them head on. Just that I wanted and want to escape that meteorological determinism that so often fattens the psychiatrist’s wallet during the cool seasons of the year. Not that I would mind a fatter wallet myself, to be perfectly honest.
Actually, let me talk about summer first, because this is where the whole line of thought originated.
There is something slightly pathetic to feel a compunction to run outdoors as soon as the clouds are of the caprice to let a little sun pass into the nether regions. Why? Why this heliophile sense of obligation as though the sun will never shine again? As though this were humankind’s first sunshiny day and we should rejoice in the simplicity of the warmth on our skin as though it were the very delights of paradise itself? Again, I do like sunshine, I’m not a fool, I do of course enjoy the lovely day out in the green or even in the grey of the streets and Lucerne’s cobblestones but. However, I do not feel a familial sense of duty for every last sun ray: if I want to go out and catch a breath of fresh in the lazy afternoon sunlight, fine, if I choose to stay indoors to cuddle up with DFW, just as well. Perhaps we need an inhuman point of reference to understand this quizzical human folly: the sun will shine another 5 billion years, relax, take it easy. There will be another summer in about five months. If you get to live that far. There you go. Perhaps we are afraid that the last thing we did in life is something other than basking in the sun but I wouldn’t consider that too be an all too frightful prospect. Not as distressing as dying alone, not as horrific as perishing in pain, by far.
The thing about the lovely summer of 2009 is that I spent a lot of time indoors with my shutters down, writing, in the dark. Now, it might sound odd at first, to seclude oneself in such a manner but my little room just heated up too unbearably whenever I let the sun inside. Thus, the shutters, logical. At any rate, at least I did not suffer the much more terrible fate of office workers who see the sunshine outside but must remain, for a living’s sake, desk-bound. Until such lunch hour as they can briefly jet out to get a snatch of daylight. Then repeat the same thing at 5’o’clock when sol is already dipping down low towards the West.
It makes sense [to me] that a similar type of thinking should apply to winter. There are all these enjoyable activities and now one should suddenly let them slip into the grip of melancholia, just because there’s a decline in general molecular activity, simply due to the absence of the sun’s idiot face? No! I decide to say No, so performance apparel help me. If my human rights are allegedly inalienable [and where are they anyway? Whenever I look inside myself I only see a jumble of unlinear thoughts and a sexual fantasy here and there] then a forteriori my inner life: sentiments, intentions, desire. These I want to wrest as far as is possible from the yoke of the meteorological conditions, not as a foolish, simplistic, modernist assertion of will over nature but rather to peel out the positive, inspiring, enjoyable aspects of the respective seasons.