autumn, the finest time of the year

i love autumn. it's one of my top four favorite seasons. seriously, it really is my favorite. after the madness of heat (i often sympathize with Meursault from a specific scene in Camus' L'Étranger -- more on that in a minute) the slight chill and fresh breezes are welcome, even though they may be harbingers of death.

and that's the sad part of autumn. not the hibernation (little deaths) of plants and running about in shorts... the insects often must die. particularly my favorites. some hibernate but disappear from my world... and others do not. like the preying mantis. i saw one yesterday, injured, but whether by aggression or cool temperatures i do not know. but she limped, struggled, and when i attempted to move her from pavement to shrubbery 'put up her dukes' and prepared to fight. she was beautiful, with wings that would not close and mid-section legs that would not work. i moved her to the shrub with my sheets unfinished songs bundled to make a firmer tool. she held on but dropped as i moved her to the vegetation, requiring further prodding on my part to attempt to right her. i know it may be a futile effort, but i wanted, and hoped, that if i just set her up into a defensible position she would make it. even through the winter.


now, about Camus. the only thing i really remember from The Stranger was the scene where he kills 'the arab.' i don't remember that they had interacted before. i remember no details, save something about his mother, and that one scene, where he is driven mad by the heat. perhaps i was driven mad by the obtuse writing and truly connected to the work at that point. but often, when the heat is so hot, so humid, and i have been without respite even at night, i remember that scene.