The Turning

So I wake up and think, I am gonna ride to the beach! Then I look outside and notice that it's cloudy and threatening rain.

I go and put on some good music and make some mediocre coffee. (Sorry, Stumptown; I know you mean well, but you just can't compete.)

By the time I'm back at the computer, cup in hand, it's pouring outside.

I am desperately trying to remind myself that I like riding in rain. But I know that at least some of that has to do with wearing a lot of Gore-Tex, and I also know that there's a burgeoning hole in the inner thigh of my Gore-tex pants.

And then I think about the impending winter. I like riding in winter. There's something bracing and adventurous about it, and I always forget that the streets get less crammed with wobbly and/or obnoxious cyclists, and that it's quiet when it snows, and that I get to imagine that I have the world to myself.

It's interesting, that phrase - world to myself. I use it a lot.

What's odd is that last night what I wanted more than anything was to not be alone in my apartment, in this city full of weirdos doing weird things weirdly right in front of my wheel.

I am always astonished to find myself getting lonely. I think I should be beyond that, immune. It's true that I enjoy my own company. It's true that I like to have space. It's true that I've lived alone so long it's impossible to imagine comfortably sharing a place with another human being. It's true that I don't think I ever want to be married, and I'm certain that I don't want children, and I don't like the fact that I'm currently friendly with my neighbors. I know that sounds weird.

I need a lot of space around me, and I often can't get enough, so how can I possibly ever feel lonely? That conundrum deserves another cup of super-sugared espresso.

In the process of obtaining it, I discover that I've forgotten about the oatmeal I put on the stove, which happens pretty much every time I make oatmeal. And which also reminds me of fall. I don't eat oatmeal in summer, so the fact that I felt like making it today suggests that my body can feel winter approaching. And I've been knitting a little bit, at night, too.

I don't know what to say about winter, except that the feeling of impending winter has a particular flavor to it - a kind of melancholy that is both enjoyable and like a faint bone pain. It feels like loneliness, in fact. Standing on a windy headland, loneliness is beautiful. Sitting in the apartment on a humid Saturday night, it feels like living inside a crinkled piece of tinfoil - loud and stale and too-shiny.

Every time I look out the window now, it's raining harder and harder.

I get up and think about eating that oatmeal. I like winter, I think. I just have to find my way back to it.