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 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.
