Ruminating on Cool Temperatures, on Fur

This weekend, the first spent in the confines and comforts of my own apartment in awhile, so it seems, the temperatures dipped low in the evenings. As is typical of mid-century apartment living, there was some malfunction with the heat in my building; I pulled a thick down comforter from my linen closet, wrapped it closely around my body to sleep. Chilled though the nights are, I still relish in sleeping with my windows open, fresh air cleansing my apartment and my lungs. It is said that one sleeps better in the cold; I believe this.  My sleep is more sound, more full, my dreams less tangled and obscure and unsettled.

The filmmaker and I went for a few brief drives into the farm country that engulfs the small suburban towns in this area; leaves have morphed to a spectrum of shades, honey, chocolate, gold, and bright, cheerful blood red. We drove with the windows down, a cold breeze greeting the moving car, running through my hair, across my cheeks. I spent the weekend wrapped in different flannel shirts, layered with cream cardigans and thick cashmere scarves, paired with new leather Frye boots. We bought apple cider doughnuts and various different cheeses, a personable and bold Italian red wine, foods that seem to taste the way the air does.

At the start of this season, I always want to warm myself with furs, a desire that then seeps into the winter months, an elegant homage to my fellow creatures, fascinating organisms that I share a walk on the earth with. Warm myself with nature. Skin on skin. For ages, I have sought a simple fur stole, to wrap about my neck, wear with my tweed blazers and with my thick sweaters, something vintage and soft. Something that smells faintly of another life, time, before I was born, still worn during these cooling days of autumn, when the sun grows shy and hides sooner and sooner, giving her excuses to the white moon. Worn perhaps by a young woman, like myself, a superficial shield against what is uncertain and unknown, foreign and wild in this world; worn perhaps by an older woman, a material piece of comfort in a place familiar and occasionally cruel. Worn perhaps by a wizened woman, herself worn and experienced, her face rife with happiness and sorrow gleaned from years of living. 

(image taken from The Pursuit Aesthetic)