Reds Weather

Fall has come. Last weekend I heard the geese leaving town. It’s been a long summer. Up until the end of October, we were still up in the high 60s in terms of temperature. I’m still not banking on the change yet … I still feel that that thermometer might climb … but it’s feeling distinctly fall-ish now. I get to wear my fleece hoodies. And last night I finally broke out “the Nana”.

On Wednesday night I had plans to get together with Allison. We were going to hang out at her apartment and watch Away From Her, a movie she had seen and NEEDED me to see.

But back to the weather. Allison had left me a message on Halloween. There was a Halloween festival in her neighborhood, and she wandered through it – looking at the little kids in costume – how cute they were – how much her heart cracked at the earnestness of them – and it was a crisp day, blue-skied, a bit chilly – and she said to me, “It’s Reds weather!” I knew exactly what she meant! Allison and I love fall. It’s our time, our birthday season – but also, there’s something about that shift to chilliness, and grey days, and the turning of the leaves – that make us feel most like ourselves. We now refer to it as “Reds weather”. One of the things I love about fall is that it is vaguely melancholy at times – and unlike during the muggy hot months – where everything feels literal and on-point – it feels okay to indulge sometimes in melancholy during the autumn months. You’ve probably noticed I have a melancholy streak. I’m okay with it, as long as it doesn’t take over. In the fall, I feel like I have more space, to let that side of myself breathe, express itself. The bittersweet quality of life, the sensation of time slipping away, the nostalgia for the past … all of that comes naturally in the fall, and I can even enjoy it if I’m in the right frame of mind. I’m not talking about waking up at 3 a.m. and being confronted by the ghosts of all the things that will now never be. Those moments I could live without. But, as Allison put it in a recent email to me, there’s a “fuzzy sentimental melancholy” that can come with “Reds weather” … and unlike the muggy heat of August, where I feel persecuted by the world, where I have no space for anything because I am just dealing with the unpleasant realities of heat … Reds weather comes, and I can breathe.

It’s great: Kate and I were talking about this once. She feels the same way Allison and I do. Her season is autumn, and I loved how she put it: “There’s no irony in the summer.”

Yes! That is what I find so torturous about those hot summer months. I can’t find my irony. Has anyone seen my irony? A little bit of irony is what makes sadness sweet, rather than just terrible.

Allison and I were set to meet up at the subway stop on the corner of 48th and 6th. It was only 6 pm, but it was already nighttime. I had had a rough day, and was feeling harassed and persecuted. It was also day 1 of ye olde menstruation which just added to the feeling of dread. Later we were laughing – Allison said, “You’re the only friend I have where I can invite you to come over and see this really sad movie on the first day of your period and you’d be like: ‘YES!'” We stood on the crowded subway, holding onto the grimy poles – we were wearing our sweaters, our cozy clothes – and we caught up with each other, talking a mile a minute. We’ve both had a rough week. Being with her was like sinking into a warm comfortable blanket. I could give up the persona, the person who’s needed to fight with people all week, and defend myself, and be tough and strong … and just talk about my fears of what’s happening, my sense of upheaval, my terrible night of no sleep last week … and how I’m just trying to stay afloat right now. Just trying to not let the undertow get me. Allison understands. She always does. I also love that we are talking about such things on the F Train as it hurtles southward full of people jostling up against us. Life in New York. Private is public – it’s GOTTA be – since the majority of your life here is spent out in public. You can’t hold off on having that big conversation until you are in a private space … because that time may never come. Just have your deep conversation in the midst of a throng, and don’t be shy. Nobody cares. They’re all having big conversations with each other about life-shattering personal events and no one is paying attention to you. Go for it. Be free!

We got to her place, and were attacked by her joyful dog Oscar, who had felt, during the day, that he would never see Allison again. He loses his MIND when she walks in the door. And Charley the cat lies on a table, belly exposed, staring at all of us with contempt. But then of course I go over to pet him, and he reaches his neck up – butting his head against my hand, a clear message of: More, more, more, more.

Allison took Oscar out for a walk and I did my nightly ritual when I come home, grimy from the day in the city. Wash hands thoroughly, wash face, brush teeth, lotion smeared on, hand sanitizer … ahhhhhhhh. Despite the crampolas reverb-ing through my body due to it being day 1 – I started to feel like a person again. Then I lay down on Allison’s bed, on my back, and that was pretty much my position for the next 3 hours. Allison and Oscar returned. Allison joined me on her bed, we fluffed up pillows, got ourselves arranged – Allison then told me the circumstances around her first viewing of Away From Her (we both share a love for Julie Christie) … and of course didn’t want to tell me too much more about it.

Then we watched it. I was immediately riveted by it. The opening sequence – with the snow and the blinding sun and the couple crosscountry skiing … it’s understated, there’s barely any music (one of the great strengths of the film) – and for some reason, you can’t look away. It makes a pretty pretty picture, but there’s something else going on there, an elegiac echo … like we are looking at something that has long since past … Anyway, I’ll write more about the film later. It’s amazing and I highly recommend it. Sarah Polley, Canadian actress, directed it. She is 28 years old. It’s a movie about Alzheimer’s … and is absoslutely devastating. Without any “Lifetime movie of the week” mawkishness. It’s based on a short story by Alice Munro – and is apparently a very faithful adaptation (which Polley did herself). Seriously, she’s a phenom.

It kinda killed me. I was in tears during much of it. Allison and I had a great conversation about it afterwards. What we loved, moments we thought were perfect, scenes, moments, bits … the state of Canadian filmmaking … the quality of the acting which is uniformly terrific … how much we love Julie Christie … Our conversation segued into a talk about our lives. All good films will usually engender such a response. We talked about growing older, and our fears, and the portrait of love in that film – with all its complexities and betrayal … The lights were off in Allison’s apartment – she had a couple candles lit – the animals snoozed – it was a perfect cave-like atmosphere for truth, and honesty. Every time I see Allison it is like we renew our friendship. I am truly grateful for her. We were talking about love, our love affairs, the men who have hurt us, the men who have touched us. I mentioned E., she knew him, so we talked about it, and what it all meant, what it added up to, the unintended consequences of that night, our reactions to things … how we think we’re affected one way and then we realize, years later, what the REAL impact was … and I don’t know, I got all choked up. If I had let it out, I would have cried all night. That’s what it felt like. It wasn’t that that anguish had been there all along. I wasn’t walking around holding it back … but it was through our conversation that it started to come up. For both of us, about our own lives.

This is when the “fuzzy sentimental melancholy” can switch – with no warning – to paralyzing sadness. It comes up in the movie too – one of the best lines in the film is hers … I don’t want to give too much away, but basically – something happens during the film which plummets her into an abyss of grief. She cannot get out. She begins to give up, fade away. She lies in bed, paralyzed. She also has Alzheimer’s, so nobody is sure what is a symptom, and what is true … she is moving away. Her husband says to her, gently, “Can’t you try to let it go?” She says, “If I let it go, it will only hit me harder when I bump into it again.”

God, I know that feeling. God, I do.

I felt as we were talking, in her dimly lit cozy warm apartment, that I was being “hit harder” by something I thought I had let go. I had “bumped into it again”, after years of strolling around with no awareness of the loss whatsoever – and it was hitting me harder. I started to feel it again. I was glad I was there with her, and not by myself. I cannot stand when loss ambushes me, years after the fact. I feel I have no protection against such ambushes. I have done my best at letting things go. But nothing is ever gone forever.

And then came the miracle. At Allison’s suggestion, we got up and left the apartment and went across the street to the Irish pub we frequent (that’s where I won the Oscar pool. It’s also owned by the dude whose mother we stayed with when we went to Dublin. So going there is like going to someone’s HOUSE where we know everyone). It wasn’t packed, it was about 9:30 or so … and we sat at the bar, and we were out in public, and we talked more about the movie, and we talked about Katharine Hepburn, and books we’re reading … we laughed hysterically … there was one moment where Allison said, suddenly, “I’m so glad we’re friends, Sheila” and then we were hugging, I feel the same way.

The piercing sadness we both were tiptoeing towards – in her dark apartment – or the sadness that was tiptoeing towards us … diminished, dissolved … once we were out. It’s still there, it’ll always be there, it’s part of our lives … but in changing the venue – we got a bit ahead of it. It was a great choice. We somehow let it ricochet off us. I might not have slept that night if we had continued on in that original vein. I never feel judged for being sad by Allison – we’re not “sob sisters” either – that’s not our thing – it’s a completely three-dimensional friendship … but i certainly feel safe with her. To be wherever I’m at.

And so I went home that night, peaceful, and content. And aware, above all, of how lucky I am to know her.