Fall is in the air. Despite the brief resurgence of Summer (marked today by highs near the 80 degree mark), the onward march of the seasons has come again, and as the warm, relaxing (or steamy and sultifying) days of summer move on to the cool and crisp (or bitter and frozen) nights of winter, we arrive at last at the in-between time.
I love Fall, for its vibrant harvest hues as much as for its tangy flavor. Fall is the time when the world breathes in, and holding … holding … holding, waits for the chance to exhale. I revel in Fall as the space between, symbolized by harvest holidays which presage the coming “death” of the old, before the birth of the new.
Just as the fabric between summer and winter stretches thin in Fall, so too does the one between this world and all others. Mysterious things emerge, and Fall is their time as well. Fall is a time for superstitions, for thirteen, for the beginning of the end of all things.
Superstitions, though, have to have their origins somewhere, as we hear in Russell’s submission to the Ringing entitled “Superstition“:
Turn to the horror of himself, look at deep within
He knows there is a growing burden, He is guilty
If he hadn’t done what he shouldn’t do, no problem,
But he had to; no one takes care of you but yourself….
Superstitions also led Jo Janoski to write in her entry “Thirteen” (subtitled “(Evil One and Three)”):
Wake to bleak day while storm clouds spit fear
Encircling overhead restlessly
In warning to avoid all thirteens.
Black smack you down one and three death spree
Evilness traversing neighborhood
Comes knocking while watching for weakness….
The number thirteen itself seems laced with magic meaning. Whether the number comes from the participants in the last supper, as Ozymandiaz reminds us in “The Thirteenth“:
About the circle sat the twelve discussing thirteen
(As, on a Friday, the Knights Templar were befallen)
And the one who completed this baker’s dozen sat
Like Judas to contemplate his fate just there outside….
or if it really is just a reflection of “A Dirty Dozen“, as we are reminded by Billy:
13 years they lived in sin.
13 sins each would commit….
we know that thirteen itself represents a magical age of transformation as we are reminded by Renee in “Thirteen“:
Thirteen is too young to be mature; you disagree.
The fabric of time, once so vast, now is restraining.
Live glows in fiery colors, producing awe, pain and
indelible dreams, shouted out in forced syllables.
and as Abhay also shows us in “A teen of thirteen“:
There was a time
When I was a teen of thirteen
Full of dreams and fantasies
Just waiting to win the world
This place of transition can be any place in the real world (as we are reminded by Katy in her piece entitled “triv“):
something just like
a tumultuous love affair
on the ring of moral
or they met
in a cheap coffee parlor
or maybe just in the microscopic world (as Bob, the Average Poet, reminds us in “Linked“):
Can electrons bear emotions through the ethernet?
I’m not sure if they do, but am confident to bet
that surges of compassion can transcend having met
creating connectivity no wire could beget.
or even in the world of the sublime and ridiculous (as Mad Kane shares with us in “Ode to the Segway Scooter“):
The maker of scooters called Segway
Has recalled them from road, walk, and hedgeway.
Their software’s quite galling.
It’s prone to cause falling.
Now lawyers have fresh “we allege” prey.
Whatever you do, don’t trust your senses in the in-between time, since, as Shirley of HouseMouse points out in “Hearts & Flowers“, you cannot trust them:
it’s not what it seems
the fortress of dreams
and coming apart at the seams….
And, once again, we return to the topic of superstitions, where I remind you in “Black Cat, Drat” that:
….For when it comes to superstitions, I just don’t believe ‘em
(though watch me as I hold my breath when I pass a mausoleum).
Nothing ever beats a little bit of self-protection,
just as long as I don’t indulge in any serious self-reflection.
And, just as suddenly as it began, the in-between time ends. For that is the nature of thin places where time stretches and then contracts. They move quickly by, trapping you in their eddies and whorls for a brief visit before their transitory path leads you onward…
Hope you enjoyed the visit to space between…
And the in-between time doesn’t end! Pearl offers this late addition to round out the 13th Ringing of the Bards:
im mute able
There must be some unifying theory
of psyche that ties the consensus paradox tight
explains how cooperative non-violence drives
boxing match sales, movies with blood capsules for actors
to spew on director’s command, gratification
rubbernecked, observing battles vicariously,
precariously tip, not towards bloodbath fury
but to tranquil, post-orgasmic calm.