Late Autumn

Thanksgiving night after THE most beautiful day in history with skies the bluest of blues beyond the color spectrum and the air of a pleasant dream.  I went for a run in the morning and didn't eat or even have water afterwards.  I picked up my mother and took her to C.C.s.  When we got there, I opened a bottle of champagne.  My mother and I finished it before dinner was served.  I found out that she had not eaten that day yet either.  But we held up alright and started no fights just sitting outside under a Tuscany sun.  The champagne gone, dinner came and I opened a bottle of wine.  C.C. was drinking Old Fashions.  We ate and watched the Lions lose to the Texans in a long overtime period, and then it was time to say farewell.

I got home as the sun was setting.  And then, though it had been a pleasant day, I began to miss something, the old intimacies I've known for most of the years of my life, and with the holidays upon me. . . I decided to quit it.  There are no holidays worth getting sappy over any more.  And I decided I'd not.  I'd rather do something I've not done before, something, perhaps, that is not really allowed.  I can feel all the old sentiment dribbling away.  First you're one thing, then you're another.  That's the way the world turns.  That's the way the cookie crumbles.  To every day, turn, turn, turn. . . and so on and so forth. . . .

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It is morning, almost, the sky just now turning, the silhouettes of trees emerging from the dark.  Waking too early, things much too quiet for a head full of snakes, I put on a jazz station in the background to ease anxieties and pains.  It seems to work here in the last month of autumn.