Impending Nostalgia
Nov. 5th, 2003 04:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphThe small purple flowers of the sourgrass are pursed tighter than a church lady's lips, because the air is colder than the proverbial witch's teat. (I knew a witch, once. Her name was Linda, and her teats were anything but cold. I have no idea what the coiner of that proverb was thinking.) One would think that, given the wintry chill, the oak leaves would be getting more color and falling in great numbers, but it is not so. They remain brown, and the trees are hoarding them. It is as though fall had been put on hold, and is sitting there in an unheated room listening to that bad hold music and daydreaming, forgetting to go about its business of paving the streets with color. Or maybe fall is dead, and has been cryogenically frozen, a dumb look on its face. The other day, I passed by a pair of dying ponderosas, most of their needles golden brown. As I watched, the setting sun escaped the gray clouds and sent a shaft of light directly onto the trees, so that they flushed a vivid shade of red. It was the brightest thing I've seen in days.
As I'm not having much luck with the current November, I'm thinking I ought to indulge my nostalgia and spend the remainder of the month in an earlier November when I also didn't have much luck, but a lot more fun. It was before I began keeping a paper journal, and the memories are hazy, augmented only by a few words scribbled on random scraps torn from small spiral notebooks and by a few artifacts to which I have clung. I wonder if I could reconstruct that time from that scant material? I'm considering this in spite of the fact that I have two long bits of writing begun within the last year which I could be working on. But I don't have any feeling for those pieces at the moment. They actually go back even farther than the distant November which has begun to haunt me. It's as though I've moved past them again, in memory, and have to wait until I've dealt with the more recent events before the earlier ones can re-assert themselves. Sometimes the way my brain works confuses the crap out of me.
As I'm not having much luck with the current November, I'm thinking I ought to indulge my nostalgia and spend the remainder of the month in an earlier November when I also didn't have much luck, but a lot more fun. It was before I began keeping a paper journal, and the memories are hazy, augmented only by a few words scribbled on random scraps torn from small spiral notebooks and by a few artifacts to which I have clung. I wonder if I could reconstruct that time from that scant material? I'm considering this in spite of the fact that I have two long bits of writing begun within the last year which I could be working on. But I don't have any feeling for those pieces at the moment. They actually go back even farther than the distant November which has begun to haunt me. It's as though I've moved past them again, in memory, and have to wait until I've dealt with the more recent events before the earlier ones can re-assert themselves. Sometimes the way my brain works confuses the crap out of me.
