Dear November,
You are a velvet pouch of rubies and garnets, of golden topaz and magical emeralds. I try to inhale you, deep into my lungs and into my spirit. Your breath of cool, night frost turns to fog in the early morning. Comforted by your crisp embrace, I drive along country roads with my eyes filled by beauty and my heart filled with hope.
my mum: We’re all going to hell together.
me: We’re not going to hell now, we’re safe here. We’re all together and it’s nice here.
my mum: This is hell.
me: Tell me what you grew in your garden?
my mum: In hell?
me: In Ohio, you had a beautiful garden and you grew lovely roses.
my mum: Oh the roses were my favorite, red and pink and yellow roses…
pause
my mum: I want to die.
me: I know mama.
in the morning i stand at the window, the steam from my coffee makes me squint—
i think about windows, portals, visions of dreams, of flying
away and above and beyond what we know, through fields of corn and poppy
riding on the back of pick-up trucks to watch fireworks and feel alive again
write something positive–
something about amber leaves
or silver cobwebs
the smell of books and brewing coffee,
or 3:00 am labyrinthine logic
write about her soft whisper
and long shadows on the bricks
as the sun sets on another long October day
“…there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air…Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful—Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels—a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those Byzantine churches…”
“Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry.
“And what is beauty?”
“Terror.”
“One likes to think, there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing, in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does, is a fool.”
All excerpts from the book, The Secret History by Donna Tartt, 1992
I want to write about the state of our political world, the injustice, the oversight, the ignorance—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about politics
I want to write about the state of our collective consciousness, the pros and cons of a hive-mentality, the necessity of it for survival as well as its potential to negatively influence culture—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about morals
I want to write about being a citizen of the world, how average people don’t immigrate for fun—folks leave their country, their language, their food, their families, their jobs, their homes in order to improve their lives and the lives of their children by prospering in a safe environment. There is a protocol for immigration, that is understood. There are laws to be observed in order for a society to function, all very true. But desperate people do desperate things. And if you’ve never been desperate in this life, count yourself lucky—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about empathy
I want to write about misogyny—the idea that in the year 2025 we still shame victims of abuse, we still use laws to control women’s bodies, we still base medical testing on males only, we are willing to vote for a convicted criminal rather than a black woman—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about racial and gender equality
It might be time to bring this little blog that is 11 years old to a close for now. I’m not sure, I’ll have to think a bit more upon it. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for making my writing public on this forum. I’ve always thought of the writing here as a bit of a respite from reality. But, I don’t know, I can’t quite work out if it’s shallow in the face of so much that is wrong in our lives or a testament to all that is right in my own (privileged) life, most likely a little of both.
I’ll leave you for now, with some images that I do blog about: a robin’s egg found in a potted fern, irises and my little sweet girl, Juliet. Be well readers, walk the world with as much inner peace as you can possibly acquire.
Driving down the road in the fog, early in the morning; the trees look like people waving gallantly as I pass.
Radiohead plays softly in the background—
“I don’t care if it hurts I want to have control
I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice when I’m not around”
The deer lift their heads and their tails, watch my progress silently. The air feels thick and heavy—
“Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want”
Windows down, the coldness seeps into the car on the edges of the whipping wind. I look across the water, bridge after bridge after bridge after tunnel after overpass after bridge. All these links getting us where we think we want to be.
“What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here
I don’t belong here”
The song ends and I turn off the music. Taking a deep breath, I roll up the windows and turn on the heat. The quiet feels soothing, the fog starts to lift.
I see my dog in the window and open the door to the smell of brewing coffee—a welcoming smell and a welcoming bark.
Lyrics from the song, Creep by Radiohead from the album Pablo Honey written by Thom Yorke
Spring arrives and the woods are damp, rich, earthy. You can smell it and almost taste it and certainly feel it—hopefulness.
“Looking back on this stretch of time, not just my days in Harrogate but all the years between the two Great Wars, I often think how fine it should have been. We allowed ourselves to believe evil had been defeated, as if evil never did raise twice….The very stars dimmed from the lights reflected on earth, and you could never do what I’d just done, escape from your ordinary life and fade away, undetectable.”
Excerpt from The Christie Affair by Nina de Gramont
my mum: “I watch the movie “The Pretty Girl” (Pretty Woman) every night, I’m always happy that they stay together at the end, they dated such a long time.”
my mum: “Why didn’t you tell me you got married?”
me: “Well, I’ve been married for 31 years mum.”
my mum: “I would remember that, if that were true.”
me: “Oh, well, I’ve been really busy, I forgot to mention it.”
me: “Why is your garbage can out mum?”
my mum: “Because it’s Friday and that’s when the garbage people come.”
me: “Today is Thursday, mum.”
my mum: “Today is Friday, Sylvia”
me after pausing and realizing she’s 100 percent correct: “Yes, today is Friday mum, you’re right.”
my mum: “I’m always right.”
on our way to the store, my mum: “Who sings this song?”
me: “Johnny Cash”
my mum: “Is he still alive?”
me: “No, he’s not.”
my mum: “Oh, that makes me so sad”.
on our way home from the store, my mum: “Who sings this song?”
me: “Johnny Cash”
my mum: “Is he still alive?”
me: “Yes, he’s alive.”
my mum: “I wonder what he’s doing right now?”
me: “I wonder too.”
spanishwoods 