Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Well, here it is October the First.  October and November together have always been ol’ Robbo’s very favorite months of the year.  There’s just something about autumn…..the signs of Nature giving over her summah frolics and preparing for the long sleep, the drawing in of the days, the steady deterioration of the weather….that I find both bracing and melancholic at the same time.  Indeed, I am seldom happier than when tramping about on a carpet of dead leaves on a 40 degree day with a steady rain coming down.  It’s a particular kind of somber and rueful happiness, if that makes sense.   (And even better, I can indulge in my sentimentality undetected because everybody else have got their heads down griping about the weather.)

Not that I’ve dwelt on the whys and wherefores of this sort of happiness to any great extent, but I think for me there’s a certain element of memento mori underlying and powering it.  And before you get the wrong idea and put ol’ Robbo on suicide watch, let me hasten to assure you that I don’t mean it that way.  What I mean is that all the sights and smells and feels of Nature’s annual decay puts me in mind of things beyond the cycle of mere worldly matters.  The mutability of this life reminds me of the immutability of the next.  So, as I say, it’s both melancholic and bracing.

(Baroque musick has the same, well, transcendental effect on me, not because of a sense of autumnal-like decay, but because I’ve always felt it to be an echo of the Musick of the Spheres.  I notice that I both listen to and play the Baroque almost exclusively at this time of year and furthermore that I play it better than in other seasons.)

This may not be an especially original thought.  On the other hand, I may be a loonie.  One way or the other, like Popeye, I yams what I yams and that’s how autumn makes me feel.

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