Nights of indoor stuffiness are becoming longer. Evening darkness encroaches on our bleak daylight day by day; according to my Warwick Academic Year Diary, now we are only minutes away from a four o’clock sunset. As I set out to do my laundry in the nearby laundry room, my feet slip away in the grass-turned-into-mud.
Shiny, robust Autumn has come to an end. What was healthy grass is now just a surrogate, a cover up for fields of sticky, streamy, underground mud. Fogs penetrate the country. The only variety of weather is provided by a sad drizzle that occassionally comes and then goes.
I notice my struggle to get up on time is getting more difficult by the day. My lust to leave the house is diminishing, in short, the forces that I always resolve to prevent from encroaching upon campus existence once more prove stronger than me. I get lost in studying: Vichy France. I fall into the classical trap that professors set us which is to unconsciously filter out timeless, classically tragic dilemmas of historical materials.
To collaborate or not collaborate? Is the direct result enough reason to justify it? For the moment I try to fight off my emerging gigalaiskus (an Estonian word recently coined in our flat which means something like super-tiredness) and to ignore winter’s inevitable coming.
On the photo a lake in the Dartmoor national park in Devon, where I went climbing last weekend.)