American Fez

The Historical District at Hallowe'en

Thick evening fog extinguishes the hissing gas lamps; the steady clip clop of a horse-drawn coach on wet cobblestones; his face disguised as a pale moon is reflected in dark pools of rainwater. He might be Dracula or Moriarty or Mr Hyde on one of his benders, or just some anonymous, nefarious, top-hatted figure wrapped in a swirling cape. And she? I guess she's supposed to be a spectral harlot in blood-stained low-cut crinoline, doomed in death to wander the streets she walked in life, soliciting custom from the mustache twirlers who emerge from the mist when the ghost tour trolley stops.

Ah yes, the pantomime phantoms of Victorian villains who never were, haunting anachronous city squares in between minor roles at the local Rep. If you have nothing better to do with your time, the ghost tour is fifty bucks per person, including obligatory complimentary hot apple cider. And a shuffling queue of zombie tourists boarding the bus obviously have nothing else on their itineraries tonight.  This is must be the meaning by audience participation. I had not thought death had undone so many from out-of-town. 

All cities, even relatively modern developments, have their historical districts now, if only a square mile of old mill buildings featured in sepia-tinted archival photographs at the library. Where shoeless children once crawled around pistons and cogs there is now retails space on the first floor, artist's studios above, a fair trade cafe and craft brewery tap room. There are live rock bands at the weekend and food trucks and maker markets and, of course, the ghost tours come out at night and the grave is anything but silent then

But actually there were no shocking murders recorded here, no lovesick suicides, and nobody condemned for witchcraft for the historical district simply is not that old. In the nineteenth century, if you died here, you died of malnutrition or festering diseases or from being mangled in the machinery or just because you were poor. And those would be the real ghosts who haunt this place, but remain invisible because nobody wants to pay to see their mournful, ragged, unromantic apparitions. Instead we have a sold-out parade of classic Hallowe'en costumes waving from a carnival float. Won't somebody please dress up as a sexy Karl Marx this year.

To And From Autumn

Autumn announces itself from the treetops as God's paintbrush drips rustic colors across the skyline again. Overripe reds, antique yellows, even waning oranges and some splashes of eleventh hour greens briefly stain the foliage, before these chameleon leaves finally fade into withered and terminal brown. Soon there will only be whitewashed nothingness as the tree branches become spindly black silhouettes cradling armfuls of snow. Meanwhile, we must endure a period of flannel-clad pumpkin zealots stirring cider with cinnamon sticks while hoarding Mars Bars for Hallowe'en.

And there will be mandatory apple picking, enforced corn maze wandering, compulsory Pilgrim Father impersonating, obligatory basket weaving, required gourd collecting, involuntary cornucopia arranging, and everyone must submerge themselves in heaps of freshly raked leaves providing hours of fun-filled seasonal decay for the whole family. If tuberculosis had not killed John Keats then the increasing commodification of this 'season of mists' would have sent him into apoplexy.

For in modern times, the poetry of Autumn is mostly rewritten as sales patter prose. Those mists are extinguished with orchard scented air fresheners and mellow fruitfulness is coated with milk chocolate. To find inspiration from a cyder-presses 'last oozings' you will need to pay for a guided tour of the orchard, featuring complimentary hay-ride and souvenir tankard. But at least the changing color of the leaves requires no entrance fee, and remains an experience still unencumbered by a gift shop or downloadable soundtrack narration. Overripe reds, antique yellows, even waning oranges and some splashes of eleventh hour greens, enjoy them before God replaces his paintbrush in the turpentine.

Drawing Down The Moon

Every day, whatever the weather, Janice wanders into work wearing chunky purple socks of Himalayan wool stuffed into oversized sandals with full-grain leather straps and a heavy-duty buckle. So I always wonder how her unprotected feet remain laundry fresh and bone dry after a rush hour thunder storm, especially when I'm decanting an inch of rainwater out of my waterproof boots and wringing my own sodden socks out in the men's room sink. She doesn't even bother with an umbrella. A lightweight silver hoodie is her only concession to a torrential downpour, and that looks like it might have spent hours baking in the desert sun rather than draped around her shoulders in a virtual monsoon. There must be a trick to it, I'm sure.

Janice will point to her pentacle earrings while claiming to be an "urban witch." I think this means she tosses unpaid parking tickets and nightclub flyers into her cauldron instead of mandrake root and eye of newt. But if those are the ingredients of an enchantment to prevent her getting wet, then it's a sabbath well spent because the hocus-pocus is definitely effective. Maybe if I agreed to engage in "skyclad" dancing by moonlight she might cast a similar spell for me? A New Age solution to an old age problem: I'll worship the Horned God for a few minutes every week if it means I can walk through parking-lot puddles like a ghost through walls. 

But having seen Macbeth more than once, my fear is that when I encounter Janice on the blasted heath we call our break room, she'll predict I'm getting a promotion. I can't really see myself murdering my immediate superiors for a private executive office further away from the toilets, but you never know what you're capable of until the opportunity arises. And, let's face it, a premium parking spot right next to the front door would be an easier way of keeping dry in the rain than cavorting in the nude and chanting gibberish.

The other alternative, of course, is organizing a company-wide witch trial accusing Janice of bewitching the weather to make sure we all get drenched while she stays dry. But are we really going to burn her at the stake in the conference room? Indoor bonfires are surely frowned upon in the building code. We could sit her on a ducking stool in the courtyard fountain, of course, but the pipes are clogged and the basin collects nothing but dead leaves the janitor never clears. So much for turning the workplace into seventeenth century Salem. Oh well, maybe I'll invest in knee-high rubber galoshes and a matching gore-tex parka, if they're black I might actually look like Cotton Mather.