October has been my favorite month for a long time. It makes me crave the east coast though, and the colors of the trees, the smell of wood smoke, and the crackling of leaves underfoot. When I was leaving work on Wednesday, I heard a drum-line practicing in the distance and I was filled with intense nostalgia for fall the way I grew up with it.
October is still my favorite month, but as an adult it has become inextricably associated with people I’ve loved (a very short list). This weekend, in particular, makes me think of how filled with anticipation and excitement I was a year ago on this day. What a wonderful feeling. And in a couple of more weekends, my mind will drift to other memories.
For the first time in quite some time, I have no plans this weekend. It is just fine with me.
It is supposed to rain, and I hope that it does.
I am making a stew, and the scent of it is filling the house.
I am writing on my bedroom wall because I was running out of places to put my words. I want to see stories and poems and quotes and lyrics—words, just words--all around me. This endeavor is infinitely more satisfying than the covert wall scribblings with magic marker from my youth.
Today I learned to give myself injections, and it was easy. All my worries and fears and hesitations…gone.
Tonight I’ll drink a glass of wine and sit outside.
Thanks to Bob, soon my feet will be documented in the Berkeley Folklore Archives.
That is about all.