home

five from the early dark and the sliver-moon

I didn't write yesterday because how could I. I always default to stunned silence. 
*
All the trees that matter are naked now. The trees that matter are the four nearest my house that shed enough leaves to make a hundred of those commercials where people jump into leaf piles. I'm nearly finished with the raking and every time I turn over a new clump of them I'm slammed with that vanilla-earth smell and I just love it. It wasn't much past four that the motion-detector light started flashing because of me. It's too early for this, too early. I am trying to have a better autumn attitude, but this is not something you can assemble out of a kit.
*
I've developed a bizarre fixation on roasted chicken lately, crisp shattering skin and salt and butter and thyme. Cold slices in the morning for breakfast. I remember the man who loved roast chickens in Amelie and I dig for the oysters. I don't think Myron knows they exist. Don't tell. 
*
It is impossible to have too many candles. It is impossible to have too much light when darkness is walking close enough to step on the heels of your shoes. I figure if you're old enough to decide what heals you, and if flickering yellow light in your immediate vicinity is what does it, then you strike a match. 
*
Leslie Jamison: We dismiss sentimentality in order to construct ourselves as arbiters of artistry and subtlety, so sensitive we don't need the same crude quantities of feeling--those blunt surfaces, baggy corpses. We will subsist more delicately, we say. We will subsist on less. You should read The Empathy Exams anyway but especially now, because I've mentioned it to you at the end of another day on this planet, because you are sentimental, because you are not.