"No shadows, no stars..."
November. Tom Waits and I agree about November.
It starts slowly: it's only Wednesday now, and I saw the sun on Sunday. Only three days in the dark now, and I started feeling it yesterday. It's 10 miles between home and work, and the trip took an hour and a half tonight, wiping fog from the windshield every couple of minutes because the defroster quit working months ago. Not sure what will happen when it freezes this year.
November is the price we pay for July. November settles heavy and cold, a wet wool blanket thrown over the world and my body. Count the days. December and January are respite, before February comes cruel and hard and freezes from the inside, like a vodka shot straight from a blast chiller.
Yeah, winter is getting to me. I wondered whether it would. It's been a lot of years and a lot of headological change since last time I lived in a place with four seasons. I know, if there are four of them, November should still be autumn. To that I say: not this year.
Sunday night I rocked out at The Faint, corrected the great mistake I made in passing up an opportunity to see them five winters ago. It was a clear night and a night of bonding with Portland, knowing where I was going and being at home there, blending with the crowd, sharing a common joy, jumping on each other's feet, breathing each other's sweat, hundreds of strangers blending voices and swapping molecules. It was bliss and exhilaration.
It creates a great contrast to the November that has crept into my life in the past few days. No training on Wednesday nights. Gives me time to notice how alone I am lately. Once upon a time an online profile asked me for my hometown, and I told it "home is wherever I've most recently left." I thought I was being goofy, but every time I move it feels more true. I don't think San Francisco ever felt like home while I was there, but it sure does tonight.
It starts slowly: it's only Wednesday now, and I saw the sun on Sunday. Only three days in the dark now, and I started feeling it yesterday. It's 10 miles between home and work, and the trip took an hour and a half tonight, wiping fog from the windshield every couple of minutes because the defroster quit working months ago. Not sure what will happen when it freezes this year.
November is the price we pay for July. November settles heavy and cold, a wet wool blanket thrown over the world and my body. Count the days. December and January are respite, before February comes cruel and hard and freezes from the inside, like a vodka shot straight from a blast chiller.
Yeah, winter is getting to me. I wondered whether it would. It's been a lot of years and a lot of headological change since last time I lived in a place with four seasons. I know, if there are four of them, November should still be autumn. To that I say: not this year.
Sunday night I rocked out at The Faint, corrected the great mistake I made in passing up an opportunity to see them five winters ago. It was a clear night and a night of bonding with Portland, knowing where I was going and being at home there, blending with the crowd, sharing a common joy, jumping on each other's feet, breathing each other's sweat, hundreds of strangers blending voices and swapping molecules. It was bliss and exhilaration.
It creates a great contrast to the November that has crept into my life in the past few days. No training on Wednesday nights. Gives me time to notice how alone I am lately. Once upon a time an online profile asked me for my hometown, and I told it "home is wherever I've most recently left." I thought I was being goofy, but every time I move it feels more true. I don't think San Francisco ever felt like home while I was there, but it sure does tonight.