“it’s Monday, October 5th,” and with that gusts of damp, autumn nostalgia overtook and swept around me for a moment.
When I was small, seasons and time were a part of the atmosphere; they pervaded the people around me, the furniture around them, and the space between all of these. In October, for example, everything was invariably fully saturated, dripping, pregnant with impending autumnity. Each one of the senses was continuously innervated by October itself, which seemed to exude a subjectivity and agency of its own.
Now, the seasons fall away behind and around me and I hardly notice them.
It is autumn, 2009.
Why do I spend most of my time not realizing that it is autumn 2009?
I am home ill today and would simply have gone about my business, grading papers and responding to email. Thanks to the essentially anonymous voice on NPR telling me the date and time, for a moment I feel fully present.
This feeling will no doubt fade before the hour is out, and I will be left with a vague sense of ennui about modern living.