Cold November Brain

The rain is back. Either this storm isn't as cold as the last one, or I'm becoming acclimated. It is a slow and steady rain, and there is no wind. When the car came by to deliver the morning paper, its lights illuminated the raindrops and the water shimmering down the gutter. This is the kind of rain I like best; relaxing and free of drama. It is supposed to continue through Monday. By then, of course, I'll be sick of it, but right now I'm enjoying it very much.

I spent much of the night looking through dusty old pages that now smell like the used book shops I used to haunt. I'm trying to summon the memory of the way that paper smelled when I wrote on it. I can't. More disturbing, I have come across references to things I cannot remember at all. I wrote that one night we went to a place called Pergolas. I can't remember a single thing about it. I think that it must have been a restaurant, but where it was or what it was like has left no trace in my mind. At the time I wrote these notes, I must have thought that they were sufficient to remind me of whatever I might one day wish to recall, but I was wrong. Even when they succeed, they do so minimally. So much detail is lacking that I grasp only the outlines of what I once thought worth preserving in words. It is both tantalizing and disappointing.

Worse yet, I have exposed myself to some truly appalling verse which I wrote before I came to the belated realization that I am no poet. I tried not reading it, but it was like one of those horrible scenes of disaster which rivet one's attention so effectively that it becomes impossible to look away, no matter how great the desire to do so. Well, maybe it isn't quite that bad. But, though it pains me to admit it, it is only slightly less odious than the work of Jewel. I think I'll shower again before bed. I need it.

Misty

There is a fine mist in the air tonight -- fine in both senses of the word --- and the world shimmers and glows though the moon is concealed by the clouds. Its light reveals the shifting patterns in the sky and illuminates the ground enough that I can see the pathways and the trees and the dampness covering them. Despite the chill, the mist and pale light lend a softness to everything, and I enjoy lingering outdoors, under my layers of shirt and sweater and jacket. There are few nights such as this in a lifetime, and I want to take in as much of it as I can.

The afternoon and evening I spent writing an e-mail which got out of hand. I have half a mind to post some of it, as it concerns the nostalgia I endure this time of year about which I have already made some entries. Maybe I'll rework some of it. Sometimes I have thought that writing about the past might make it more clear to me, but thus far it has only deepened the mystery. I continue to have no idea why I did the things I had no idea why I was doing. Or some such convoluted construction. I don't want to spend time trying to work it out right now. I want to go back out and watch the rare night. The nostalgia won't go anywhere. I've learned that for sure, at least.