there is a tree right outside m.'s window that changes a different color everyday. at first, it was small budding leaves. i don't remember what color the blossoms were anymore, or if they even were a color. all through the summer, they were great, thick, green things; sturdy and sustaining for the occasional blue jay or brave squirrel who traversed the narrow ledges that surround the ground floor patio beneath this window, and didn't care whether or not julian schnabel lived right next door.
all the neighbors opposite his apartment keep their blinds down year-round, which we take as license to drink in this meager view all day and all night. so what if people see us walking around naked? frankly, the exhibitionist in me gets a secret thrill out of that prospect, while i think m. simply doesn't think about it. if it's dark out, and all we can see are our reflections, then other people can't really see us, right? i have to remind him that this is not the case: if the room is lit up from the inside, *anyone* who's outside can look in. still, the blinds stay open.
now, the tree is slightly golden, starting from the tips of the leaves and moving inward. according to familial lore, my first cohesive phrase was "hot trees," which, apparently, was meant to indicate the bright redness of autumn leaves. to me, red meant hot, therefore, the red trees also had a temperature. throughout the years, this infantile observation has seemed increasingly poetic and accurate (are those contradictions?). the way trees change from green to gold to copper to auburn to carmine to gone is not unlike an ember in a fire, sparking, burning, smoke. this tree, then, outside m.'s window, is warming. it has become a resting place for fat brown birds i don't recognize who perch unmoving a pleasant distance from each other on the sturdier branches, and tiny flitting sparrows who never stay for long.
there is an excitement and sadness to autumn that is not present in other seasons. the air is cool and the sun is shining, and wool tights and warmer coats are necessary. but one can still go outside and appreciate a sunset or a cigarette without loosing feeling in your fingertips. it is a time of bundling, preparing for the debilitating winter to come, when we have no choice but to stay inside, away from the stinging cold for months on end, missing cozy autumn and with nothing to look forward to but violent, torrential spring, and thick, heavy summer. autumn, with all its dying and preparation, carries a sweetness of passing the others cannot. i cannot wait to see how m.'s tree changes, chronicling all this change with its colors.
all the neighbors opposite his apartment keep their blinds down year-round, which we take as license to drink in this meager view all day and all night. so what if people see us walking around naked? frankly, the exhibitionist in me gets a secret thrill out of that prospect, while i think m. simply doesn't think about it. if it's dark out, and all we can see are our reflections, then other people can't really see us, right? i have to remind him that this is not the case: if the room is lit up from the inside, *anyone* who's outside can look in. still, the blinds stay open.
now, the tree is slightly golden, starting from the tips of the leaves and moving inward. according to familial lore, my first cohesive phrase was "hot trees," which, apparently, was meant to indicate the bright redness of autumn leaves. to me, red meant hot, therefore, the red trees also had a temperature. throughout the years, this infantile observation has seemed increasingly poetic and accurate (are those contradictions?). the way trees change from green to gold to copper to auburn to carmine to gone is not unlike an ember in a fire, sparking, burning, smoke. this tree, then, outside m.'s window, is warming. it has become a resting place for fat brown birds i don't recognize who perch unmoving a pleasant distance from each other on the sturdier branches, and tiny flitting sparrows who never stay for long.
there is an excitement and sadness to autumn that is not present in other seasons. the air is cool and the sun is shining, and wool tights and warmer coats are necessary. but one can still go outside and appreciate a sunset or a cigarette without loosing feeling in your fingertips. it is a time of bundling, preparing for the debilitating winter to come, when we have no choice but to stay inside, away from the stinging cold for months on end, missing cozy autumn and with nothing to look forward to but violent, torrential spring, and thick, heavy summer. autumn, with all its dying and preparation, carries a sweetness of passing the others cannot. i cannot wait to see how m.'s tree changes, chronicling all this change with its colors.
