I’m sitting on my couch at 4:30 pm, looking out the window at the last of the day’s light, faintly pink clouds streaking past the cathedral spire on Throop Ave, wind rustling dry, cracked leaves, still on the trees—because it is only mid-November! oh no we haven’t even gotten started—and I get Emily Dickinson in my head: There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons—that oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes—
Welcome to Lobotomy Season.
It comes in November and there’s nothing to be done about it, though every year I mount a valiant effort against it before I’m inevitably taken down by days that end too soon, colds that linger too long, a chill that always gets through. I lose my body under so many layers, until I may as well be a sentient coat rack staggering through the streets, with only the dog to guide me. But my mind dulls, too, and not in a summer fun Himbo way, when the body takes over and you’re moving too much for thoughts to stick, cuz you’re a graceful, good guy jock in a Linklater movie, captured in your best moment for a limited time. Not in a trendy “dissociating is the new feminism” way; not in a “Check out ‘Dead Inside,’ a new playlist recommended by Spotify!” way. I get heavy, foggy. I sleep in. I fight the doldrums with endorphins, try to sweat more, until I get walloped by some not-Covid ailment. I retreat.
I try to find seasonally-appropriate distractions, but they’re all lame-as-hell substitutions for actual good times. Like, I get really into taking baths, but what does that even mean? I dig the first few snows, mainly because the dog enjoys it, a wintry beast snaking through the frozen quicksand. Christmas lights and hot chocolate, they make me feel something. The thrill of fire pits. Bars with heat lamps, or actually letting myself burrow inside, pending the next omi’. An upstate weekend. Maybe actually going cross-country skiing on some Catskills trail, like I’ve wanted to. Last January, Rick and I watched all the Purge movies, which is a specific kind of indoor fun you can only have when there’s no better option. (The Purge: Anarchy is the best one btw.)
Lobotomy Season is here and there’s nothing to be done about it. You all know this. Emily Dickinson knew this. I don’t know why I’m telling you. There’s no leaning in, or fighting against, or mindfully accepting, or working around. There’s no hot take because it’s not good, actually. I’m trying to remember this tweet I saw (“Ok grandma, come on, let’s get you to bed,” is that what future generations will say to us when we try to Remember Some Tweets?!) that went something like “I wish they would figure a way out that isn’t through”, and yes. Me too. But until then, it really do be like that in the wintertime.