The Falling Leaves Drift By My Window...

Today I have no worry in the world.  My only stresser is this outfit.  I should've gone with the rust brown cardigan instead of the heather grey.  This hasty choice has me looking like I'm transitioning to spring, not fall.  It's a nail biter, I know.  I hope no one notices.  I doubt anyone in my present company will.  I'm surrounded by a lot of ladies who manage to incorporate bejeweled flip flops into their business casual repertoire.  A couple of them wear matching earring and necklace sets-different ones every day.  And this drives me bat shit because 1. I wonder how many of these sets one woman could possibly have, and 2. I wonder if they are stored in the Kohl's boxes they came in, in an underwear drawer, or if they are displayed together on a vanity like from a jewelry tree.  And what would happen if one of them took a chance and wore the faux pearl and rhinestone earrings with the enamel daisy necklace?  Would the pink, beachy themed hand-painted "It's 5 o'clock Somewhere" signs fall from every one of their office walls?!
But I'm not getting sucked into that negative line of thinking.  It's a partly cloudy 75 degrees today which means every white girl's favorite things are about to happen.  Scarves, boots, cuffing season, imaginary romantic walks in apple orchards, pumpkin spice everything.  Actually I want no parts of that last bit--it's become obnoxious and overdone.  Over saturated on a main stream media discovering transgenderism level.  Though I will admit to having a pumpkin spice chai before bed twice this week.  But I'm pretty sure that's redundant. And everyone in India wants to declare war on 'Merica right now--even the tourists.
Anyway, I am the most basic of all basic bitches and I don't even care, because this is my absolute favorite time of year. I'm already nesting.  Things are getting baked and roasted and I'm about to make cream of anything I can get my hands on soup. I'm looking forward to red wine and black honey on my lips. And on my table linen. Body hugging turtlenecks.  Smelling like fire. That there is a change in the wind, a slow purge, and an end.  I'd rather leave the muck of the year behind and watch it die than nurture it into a budding new life six months from now. It's not fresh and new, it's browning and on its last leg.  Just the way I like it.
And so it's that time of year again.  To sink down into the wool and leather, breathe in the smoke and spice, let the pace slow to a crawl, watch the leaves change and die and fall. To look straight through the trees at the blank slate grey of the concrete. And let it go.

#TBT

The waifish young girl with the delicate hands holding that so over it baby is not a waifish young girl at all. That's my Dad.  Which is reason number 9,803 why I will always be a daddy's girl.  That and just this week he brought me candy corn like I was ten.  I am loved.
And yes, as a matter of fact I do still make that face, but I don't have those PJs anymore.  Kinda wish I did.
Happy. Thursday.

Out On the Streets and You Could Hear From Inside...

I've always had a certain sixth sense about things.  Not in every situation, but often enough that I am aware of and trust it. Maybe it's just that I'm a little more observant than most, maybe it's the sloppy mix of Gypsy and Jew in my blood--I am named for a book of mysticism after all. And my dreams tell me truths about the people around me, give me a tiny glimpse of what might be about to happen. Deja vu happens to me all the time. I see places for the first time that I've already seen. I meet people I already know...

On September 11, 2001 I woke up early, I jumped in the shower, I washed my hair.  And the thought hit me out of nowhere--what if someone blew up the White House?  What kind of chaos would ensue? What would we do as a society? Why am I thinking about this in the shower on an early Tuesday morning?  

I had a roommate at the time, and as I stepped out into the kitchen I yelled to him, "I just had the most fucked up thought. I was thinking about someone bombing the White House."  I got no answer, but I could hear the TV from the other room. I walked in to find him pallid and terrified.  We watched without really talking, trying to process what was going on, and then word came that a plane had hit the Pentagon.  Too close to home, and too close to what had happened in my head an hour earlier.  

And then the dreams came. A little girl in a desert, about 4 years old I think, blonde in a pink flowy dress.  There were ruffles.  She stood alone, nothing around her but sand. Everything was sort of orange/yellow.  She looked right at me, and then turned to white dust. Anthrax.

It soon came out that roomie had actually been terrified of me that day.  It changed us.  My next Rolling Stone came with an American flag pin on the cover.  I had friends who got married soon after, claiming 9/11 put things in perspective for them.  Two months later my youngest nephew was born.  And my mother began her long, slow flirtation with death.  Life went on.  It still does.

I've known two survivors of the WTC attacks, and countless friends and connections affected in the city. I've observed moments of silence with the white noise still buzzing in my head. I brag that my Dad volunteered at Ground Zero. And I wait for the next mass hysteria, the next scene of human tragedy that will feed our insatiable appetite for carnage, and our need to feel connected to something.  And life goes on.

#TBT

All along I've told myself the point of this blog and most of my creative endeavors in my current life is to work myself through/hash out the struggles of my maturing, adult self. Well, I found an old post from about seven years ago. And interestingly enough, some things really never do change:


Current Listening: Rufus Wainwright
Hours of Sleep: 3.25

I came home early last night though I was having a lovely time with some of my favorite boys. I decided that Monday night was a good one to put the night life on hold and try to catch up on some sleep. I didn't. And the drugs don't work anymore.
People tell me I should write while in the throes of insomnia. And I do, but I don't think those people understand the complete incoherence that goes along with lack of sleep. Just because I'm awake doesn't mean I'm clear enough to work on a diabolical plan to take over the world like some genius artist cutting off his own ears. Actually, I'm usually not even clear enough to tie my own shoes even when I am sleeping well. So now we're looking at a rough schedule of what goes on in the middle of my nights when I'm not otherwise engaged:

12:15 ish: in fabulous bed that everyone I know is jealous of
12:45 ish: tossing and turning in bed that is becoming less fabulous
1:30 ish: reading in wretched bed
2:30 ish: reading on fabulous sofa
2:45 ish: paint nails, color: Cranberry
3:30 ish: sleep
4:45 ish: eat Froot Loops in embarrassing quantity
5:00 ish: watch The Patty Duke Show
6:00: hand wash dishes with newly painted nails
7:00: pissed at pretentious personality lacking local weatherman, flip channels
8:15 ish: bored to tears by the year that changed Diane Sawyer's life, sleep
10:00: call to schedule manicure for ravaged, suffering, newly painted/dish washing hands

So now with Froot Loop regret and stunning fingertips I am thinking of who I should see tonight and how late I could possibly stay out on a Tuesday. I probably won't make it through dinner...