Mohair sweater weather
Falling into fall
After an October that was balmy enough I could pretend it was still summer, autumn has definitely arrived. Daylight is soft and grainy; dusk arrives fast and early. Nighttime’s insect symphony has shrunk to a chamber orchestra of a few die-hard crickets.
And it’s cold! Like I-better-light-the-wood-stove cold. I’ve been bundling up, too. My late dad’s mohair jersey has several gaping holes so I splurged on a new hand-knitted one on my last visit to Cape Town (I won’t discard the old one for obvious sentimental reasons, but it’s not really the sort of thing to be seen sporting in polite company). The new one is endearingly wonky, lusciously double-knit with maroon threads from deepest Karoo; it feels like wearing a warm hug.
On a short fiction workshop with a beloved writing mentor a few months ago, I was introduced to Foster, an extraordinary story by the Irish author Claire Keegan. This week I devoured three more: So Late in the Day, The Long and Painful Death and Antarctica (published jointly in a striking, slim hardback).
Sometimes I feel as if the short story can be a little meagre as an art form — like tucking into a tapas dinner after a weeklong fast. By contrast, Keegan crafts stories that, in spite of their brevity, are rich, substantial and satisfying. Wow.
If you have any favourite short stories, please share them in a reply, or in the comments.
Definitely not much of a baby person (gimme two extra cats to adopt any day tho!) but I have to admit to being rather charmed by my new little niece. She suits my burgeoning dad-bod to a tee!
I’ve had to remind myself of something I’d written back in 2019 (remember those halcyon days?! lol) about spending time in nature without your smartphone as an antidote to news-induced despair. In a similar vein, David Siegel’s beautifully argued essay on Aeon about interludes — or “what it means to step away from it all” for a time — was very resonant.