I’ve been enjoying reading Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell—
“Then he asked, had it not been a seismic shock to be uprooted from Papa Song’s and transplanted into Boom-Sook’s lab? Didn’t I miss the world I had been genomed for? I answered, fabricants are not oriented to miss things.
“He probed: Had I not ascended above my orientation?
“I said I would have to think about it.”
Autumn is on its way, our happy-sad season that promenades the dark of winter, but a beautiful sunny day today after several half-hearted rainies. Things on lists grow impatient, as does my mailbox for checks instead of bills. Ah, August! Shortest long month of two moons; wreaker of havoc, harbinger of shifting air, light, time—
And here is an explanation on my title:
Snufkin, having broken camp, from Moominvalley in November.
“Early one morning in Moominvalley Snufkin woke up in his tent with the feeling that autumn had come and that it was time to break camp.
“Breaking camp in this way always comes with a hop, skip and a jump! All of a sudden everything is different, and if you’re going to move on you’re careful to make use of every single minute, you pull up your tent pegs and douse the fire quickly before anyone can stop you or start asking questions, you start running, pulling on your rucksack as you go, and finally you’re on your way and suddenly quite calm, like a solitary tree with every single leaf completely still.Your camping-site is an empty rectangle of bleached grass. Late in the morning your friends wake and say: he’s gone away, autumn’s coming.”—Tove Jansson