October again, and again the weird sense of displacement, the feeling that things are slightly off. It is, after all, the eighth month, number ten. The slippage in the numeric portion of the calendar points, for me, at the somber anniversaries on the march in this part of the year, at intercalary chaos in general, at some vague dread of having lost track somehow and being too late.
For some reason September never brings this feeling on. Even though it is seventh and number nine, I hear the element sept- as if it came from a Proto Indo European root meaning colored leaves, summer's end, night frost, wood smoke and had nothing with sevens to do at all. Maybe it is because I habitually confuse sevens and nines anyway, or because the smell of new books tends to soothe any worries about the coming autumn, or because no terrible ill has ever befallen me in September.
Nonetheless, I like October and always have. But it makes the needle skip, gives a little jolt, makes me want to try to race to catch up with the things that are gliding away.
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