there were two rather large foxes having a faceoff on the sidewalk in my neighborhood a few nights ago. we pulled over, they were beautiful. i live in a city.
october owns me. that lighttime sky falls deeply, gently, like a poem, all day long. sunrise/sunset/sunrise/sunset weave the hours, a heavenly standoff, the horizons flush then fold then swallow us, eyes first. and you can't tell me there aren't more spider webs in october. that there isn't a sense of big shifting, color, and how the light articulates the ending of each leaf. that memories don't make themselves more available, and that there isn't something wild in your torso.
i have been trying to determine when the day begins and ends. i have always been an early riser, i have never liked missing anything. this time of year creates some kind of biological mix-up. i have a hard time waking up. i miss everything. i spend the day chasing each color of the sky, reminding myself over and over again that it's just another year ending, and not my heart breaking.
i was telling someone the other day that october gives me the urge to pull over and hug things. i think i said it in a way that didn't make me seem entirely crazy. i followed up the statement with examples of what i meant: like the light coming off of a spider web, midday shadows, the greens and yellows, reds, and oranges, or how the heat feels just how you would imagine the sun would design a fall line of jackets...so, if i had escaped crazy at first, with my commitment to explain further what i meant, i definitely went all in.
but the truth is, all i have ever wanted to do for the month of october, is write. i have been trying to get my story straight when i am knee-deep in a conversation and i start pouring out my synaptic thoughts about emotional seasons and what i think ending means. i have been trying to find a way out of talking at all because if there were ever a season for writing and not talking, well...
meanwhile, the world does not usually condone an awkward phase post-adolescence. so, i will continue to search my mind mid-conversation for the "right" thing to say. i will do my best not to reveal my constellate thoughts about how we all act as though we are strangers while we are anything but, or ask if we can survive the infinite imbalances we straddle, or wonder how morphos butterfly wings can be so divinely iridescent and then made into earrings? i will try and write enough until november comes and restores just enough order to my mind so that i can rest these raging non-sequiturs until their faithful return, next october.