It was August. I posted a list of food I have eaten. I closed my eyes and now it’s November? It’s time to start getting ready for Thanksgiving and being thankful when somehow I missed September and October and blinked and missed the riotous oranges and reds and yellows of the trees in the city and outside.
It was fall but it felt like winter, been gone a couple months, felt like a year
It got cold. I can see my breath in the morning and have a harder time justifying leaving the house for work in a wet ponytail. Well, clothes and a wet ponytail. It’s time to start putting logs on the fireplace and sipping cider in front of the crackling flames. Forgetting the utter lack of a fireplace down here and my general aversion to hot cider after the first 4 sips.
Every fallwinter I make a mulled cranberry cider. I throw unmeasured amounts of heady wintry spices, lemon juice and sugar into a pot and simmer it until it’s thick and syrupy and my college roommates and friends told me I made the house smell like Christmas. But it doesn’t quite smell like Christmas, because the smell of snow is missing from the mix.
Even though I’ve never had a white Christmas. California is prone to 80 degree Christmases and last year, my first Christmas On My Own, was too mild. There may have been a snowy Christmas in Chicago when I got a Play-Doh Dr. Drill and Fill and my grandmother taught me to make snow angels.
It’s coming out too stream of consciousnessy, but I don’t want it to. That’s not why I sat down to poke this blog awake. I started a tumblr, but I’m still trying to get the shoes to mold to my feet. These shoes fit already.
I have the gooey feelings of excitedsad that happen during this time of year. The ones I get during the scenic shots of The Spitfire Grill but more. I’ve got my toes on a precipice and I’m leaning forward into the wind. There’s exhilaration and a little bit of fear but I keep muttering platitudes to myself .
Jump and the net will appear.
Leap of faith.
I want to write a song but I don’t know how it goes. But it’s there. There are many of them there. I just can’t hear them though. So I knit and watch reruns of House and swim along the current of Twitter and Facebook updates.
But my guitar has been sneaking out more.
I know this is annoying to read; it’s fairly annoying to write. But there are many words that are blocking the exit and if I get them out it may be just the ticket.
That’s just the ticket, he said accentuating the words with a swing of his arm. He adjusted his newsboy cap and walked off jauntily.