Fifty Shades of Ochre

Regardez vous, you most delicious reader you, if you’ve stumbled here resting puritan orbs where I’d welcome prurient sight. Those of Summer might avoid this one. Those of Winter might not see. And those of Spring might need to come back later.

The moon tonight is round and full, brilliant, glimmering between whisps of clouds like a white-cotton panty shot in front of the nudie-tent at the fair. She grins down through the crispening air at our seeming nascent sensuality. She is older, she’s seen more and seen it more often. Relax, good old Luna is not so quick to judge.

Spring sets all the birds and bees to buzzing and baiting, all the ovine beings to bleating, all the youth to reeling and feeling and feeling and feeling. Some speak of Spring as an aphrodisiac, the time of lovers. Their math may be off. I’ll not judge them.

Spring, I’m certain, is (if you’ll forgive me the use of complete assertion and assurance) just the unwinding, the final release of intemperate blood open to wallow in the warmth of the outdoors once again. Spring is the youth card in the Tarot deck, naive. Summer, a little older, more masculine, more extreme, likes to drip and seep. Winter, well, we’ll get there eventually. We always do.

Autumn likes to fall.

Right now, as the nights cool and sharpen their nipple-tipping touch, bodies know where to find their warmth and comfort. In their deciduous burlesque, all around us Nature adorns and drops her seven veils in a dance so maddeningly slow motion as to seem a tableau of almost nefarious temptation. While Dionysus prepared for his final fling I’d like to believe that Pan is just oiling up his pipes, but it feels wrong. I could be mistaken, but I think Pan is a summer cavorter. I can see that goat-stilted wild man at home in the ochres and oranges, rutting madly among the fallen leaves, steaming the air with more than his stink, but his brand of laughter is suited more to a humid green, I fear. This bothers me more than it should. Pan should encompass more of the feminine for me. Truly nefarious should be more far-reaching, all encompassing. To borrow a phrase, I’m just saying.

Truth be told, as the digits sink in Fahrenheit or centigrade, dear old Priapus (oddly enough, associated with bees; is anyone taking notes?) stirs at my altar. The chilled, star-filled nights with the moon waxing and waning and waxing again lead me more to the satyr-like rompishness that colors the serious only in youth or secrecy. And I wonder: youth and secrecy; are they dependent or do we open more in age? Bah, another blog…

Autumn. Even that word, with its erroneous ‘n’, speaks of an attempt at seduction. Nudity is heightened by obscuring. Salome didn’t drop that last veil to reveal (forgive me the steal) the peachfish. She knew, like dear Luna rolling majestically feminine around the world, that nudity is not the real reason for the burlesque: anticipation. Trust the myths, I say. Veils dropped are knowledge gained. Autumn knows the build to nudity and to play the game mischievously. Red and gold and orange, moister, somehow, than her counterpart of Spring, Autumn paints the face of our sub, un, and conscious with a wide sweep of cold air, putting to pasture that goat god stink that hung around so many secret pools, nooks, crannies, and crags of summer weather, revealing not the peachfish, but that profound desire to connect while the world spins in a fashion completely unbecoming to one smaller than Gaia. Venus is appreciated, but her volatile and rather vulpine glow belies her attempts at the very history of her name. She has no fall. Half a shell just doesn’t cut it here, I fear.

Ah, this weather stirs in me the parts that might be shamed; the taboo thoughts, the romp and laughter, the hot-tub nights, fires at twilight, and the confusion of love that I do so love. The soldiers of Summer, so long at the door, have retired to their weary beds. That cherubic innocence of Spring is now aging in that self-same wonder of that perilous moon (“Luna, Luna,” morosely intones that man with his lantern; he’s not worthy of her as Luna allows, she does not acquiesce without longing) dusting our dreams of what the man in the moon might really be doing there. Autumn, in its abeyance to the natural (what isn’t?) role to the (again) masculine decimation of Winter, welcomes the curves of your body, the edges of your desires, the folds of your psyche, the itch of your sexuality, and the twitch of seemingly limited and limitless humanity.

Carve your pumpkins, mock those evil spirits (they’re all human, by the way), give your thanks, but relish in the seasonal spin of Gaia’s Mardi Gras, the ancient party before the lent of Winter. Go love. It’s a great season for it.

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