And sails of rust. Autumn glides across the horizon at night. The light snap of crisp air that lets you know summer’s almost done.
I’m battening down the hatches for the year. Hermitage begins. I’m done with the outside world for a while. Unless it’s in real rooms with real people – Alesund, Amsterdam, York and Utrecht beckon in the next two months. Hermits walked into towns all the time – that’s how you knew they were out there.
And so I turn back to my journal, to test my thinking and assemble my ideas. From Brian Dillon’s ESSAYISM, again: “The mythology of the ascetic fragmentist, living his most productive years like a penniless student in Paris, nursing his aphorisms…”
And, once more, this one, as a bookmark for the journal:
Montaigne, who writes in his essay ‘Of Practice’: What I write here is not my teaching, but my study; it is not a lesson for others, but for me. And yet it should not be held against me if I publish what I write. What is useful to me may also by accident be useful to another. Moreover, I am not spoiling anything, I am only using what is mine. And if I play the fool, it is at my expense and without harm to anyone. For it is a folly that will die with me, and will have no consequences.
Autumn always feel good. Summer is nice, but autumn is me.
(Robert) Burton called melancholy ‘the rust of the soul’
Sailing in gold and rust towards the quiet waters and the good light.