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Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Fiction, continued

She sprawled in the darkened back seat of the sedan as he veered through the narrow, familiar streets. In the rearview mirror she could see him check on her from time to time, but they did not speak. His crumpled hat lay on the seat beside him.

She watched the town blur by and wondered if her journey was ending or beginning.


Sometimes there just isn't much to say.

Saturday, November 26, 2005


We arrived on dry roads, dark and quiet.

But by morning the white had fallen thick and comforting, and as we celebrated I felt insulated by nature's blanket, keeping us warm and safe inside.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


Naked fingers raking the sky.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005


I've come to expect this crossing to present a character or two. Maybe it's the proximity to the library, gathering place for literati and oddballs alike. Maybe it's just my morning luck (and I do mean that honestly) to encounter society's eccentrics there.

The man I spotted yesterday was a throwback to an era unsure. He could have been a transplant from 1968, a late-in-the-game Beatles admirer in a rust-colored, doublebreasted, straight-leg suit with shiny buttons. His lapel presented a scattering of buttons of uncertain message, half-hidden behind a wide collar. He wore hipster ankle boots; he tucked his long straight hair nervously behind his ears.
He did not belong here, and he seemed to know it. I hoped for his sake that he was meeting friends somewhere.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


I've driven the same route hundreds of times. Every morning I pass the same coffee shop, the same library branch, the same theater.

Yesterday, for the first time of those hundreds, I saw a secret plaza, a small fountain, an oasis of greenery and brick. It was not a hidden garden; I'd just never glanced that way before.

It made me wonder what else I've not noticed in my rush through life. I pledged to slow down, to notice small beauty, to find joy in undiscovered places.

But this morning, intent again on speed, I lost the small garden. It was gone as completely as if I'd never noticed it in the first place. I hope that tomorrow I can find it again.

Friday, November 11, 2005


When I was five, I would build towers of blocks in my parents' family room - in the middle of the rug, the most inconvenient place imaginable - and dance around them, chanting imaginary songs about the number of days until Halloween.

I would make paper-link chains in the colors of fall and remove one every day until Thanksgiving, when I would enviously watch my father and grandfather savor the prized drumsticks and boast that I could eat as much as they could.

When the snow began to fall, I would hang my advent calendar and make a ritual of marking each day's passing by opening the tiny doors.

Something about autumn still awakes in me an awareness of time, ticking away, and makes me determined to enjoy every moment. Like a child, I'm still giddy with anticipation and I marvel at the way nature charts the passage of time for us; the nights growing longer and colder and the mornings' new frost.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Everyone else is doing it...

In no particular order, my favorite cover songs.

"Ring of Fire" by Social Distortion
"Smooth Criminal" by Alien Ant Farm
"Fever" by King Creole
"Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps" by Cake
"I Will Survive" also by Cake
"Gin and Juice" by the Gourds
"Come Together" by Aerosmith
"Only the Lonely" by Chris Isaak
"One" by Aimee Mann

Saturday, November 05, 2005

Hotel view

Friday, November 04, 2005

J. Crew colors

Yesterday I went for a long drive. The trees along my way were an explosion of gold, rust, peach, garnet, sage. The sun glinted off the heathered road, and the bare arms of the birches gleamed like silver.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Vampire pumpkin

Possibly more frightened than frightening.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005


We bought a huge bag of candy; I carved a pumpkin to light the room. We waited all evening for the first knock, but no one ever came.