October Song in Jacksonese.

My life is emptier than it’s ever been, my affairs are in a state of disorder, and all attempts to square the raggedy circles lead only to brick walls through which there is no passing. Stress hangs heavy on the mind; apathy smothers the body and discourages movement. I ’gin to be a-weary of the sun.

Not that there’s been a great deal of sun to be weary of this first full month of autumn. The golden sun of October which normally dresses our ancient limestone walls and edifices in glorious mid-ochre is sadly missing this year. The sun this month has been often a weak facsimile, easily overpowered by slabs of dark grey vapour despatching their watery cargo to spit on everything that moves and everything that doesn’t. Land drains continue to run, decay falls in leafy wetness from the trees, muddy pools on lane and land show no inclination to retreat, and the autumn chill clings rather than nips. The animals locked in their fields under an ever-open sky attract my sympathy.

Maybe it’s appropriate that my reading of Hangsaman has reached the point at which Natalie Waite is about to enter her darkest and most frightening place.

She has an imaginary friend, you know. (At least, all things considered it is reasonable to presume that the girl Tony is imaginary.) I don’t even have one of those. But that probably isn’t such a bad thing because maybe it indicates that I haven’t achieved Natalie’s level of nuttiness yet.

And that brings forth a question that often occurs to me: Is it better to be strange but prey to mental disturbance, or conventional and broadly happy? You see, if Natalie were to submit herself to the soothing balm of psychotherapy she wouldn’t be half as interesting, would she? It’s a question that tends to dominate my thinking every time I’m out there among strangers.