August is my month of plenty, not October. August is heat and more heat cooked and stirred and potted and canned into jar after jar on shelf after shelf. Heat for the winter jarred and warehoused against the cold.  Beans, corn, pickled this and that. Dried tomato and onion. 

Energy kept in the purgatory of my pantry to be recalled to the heaven (or hell) of my winter table.

Autumn for me is a peach.  The skin is September, the meat is October (my birith month, and the month of my conversion) and the pit is November (to be spit out as quickly as possible to get to December and Xmas.

I am glad and proud and delighted to know you, Lynn.  Thoughtful and skillful you are -- and imaginative and alive to senses.

Rick

Was that a random act of kindness? that compliment above?  I don't know how you do it--see the better side when there's not a better side to see.  But that's okay.  That's okay. 

One more week of August then we skin the peach of autumn, eh?  What a perfect notion--September as the skin.  They, september hours, often have a fuzz; a fuzz of rain to drive dove further south and confound the hunters dawn and dusk.  A fuzzy chill one night and fuzzy warmth the next.   A sense of holding in by by by a tissue skin, so easy to rip a tear, easy to bruise, easy, even, to leave ignored inside a bowl of time until flies are drawn to buzz the fuzz.  September as the skin of autumn has the colors, too.  Even dawns, often as not, have a quality of warmth tipped past prime in color.  Birth pinks tend toward more mauve as if an older dawn.  Not the same as dawns of spring.  September colors yes, more peaches in them, yes. 

And I'll give you the flesh for October.  But that haste to spit the pit of November as quickly as possible -- no.  Nope.  I say, if you take the pit to mouth it shows a bit of greed regarding autumn, a want to glean the least and stubbornest bits of flesh from what it was.  I say, don't spit at all.  What won't go down, remove and plant for another fall.  But in good time.  Take it slow.  That pit.  Take it slow.

I am delighted to know you, Rick.

Monday.  Not just any Monday but THE last Monday of THE last week of THE last August the year 2007 will ever know.  Someone asked me in an email just today if I thought much about time.  I sometimes wonder if I ever think about anything else.  Of course, THE last August of 2007 was also the FIRST August of 2007.  How strange it might be to have double months in any given year.  I know nothing of science.  By nothing, I mean to say "I know very, very little and what I do not know I understand even less."  But what would it take?  An extra moon, maybe . . . or an extra sun?  That would be tricky, an extra sun -- how could earth orbit two?  But, now that I go silly with just trying to write a few words of nonsense, I bet there are those solar systems out there in the universe somewhere that DO have two suns, that some sort of cyclical change over occurs that sling shots the planets one by one from their rotation around Sun 1 to rotate around Sun 2 and what comes of all this is not one August in a year, but two -- August One or August (a) or August I. or August Sr. and then, during the rotation about Sun 2, the month becomes August Jr.

Monday is a day for burying, for plumbers, for waiting for the homeless to come home. The lyricist knew what he was talking about when he sang the day blue. It's for waiting on other days and other months; for waiting on bills in the afternoon mail. I'm sure if the mail came in the morning there would be fewer bills aren't you? It's for spending the money you won't earn till Friday. Monday isn't the beginning, it's just the day after.

TIME - time is nothing but a booger flicked off your nose, a nuance of color, where clear fades to green with infection.   I have nothing else my friend, not even peas...and no carrots .. definitely not.

I liked it all the same, I did... I really did.. and thank you
I am alone and this - is how-  it should be . . . I am myself- without - words

I am tired.

(having spent the entire day ---- I have nothing to say ... thought I did - but don't.}

 ninety miles an hour without gas.... none... none, what-so-ever, and on, and on, and on,   

propellers green
to lips are pressed
but nary -
whistle
 sounds

Autumn obsession where I grew up was foo'bah (excuse me. . .  football).  And also hunting.  Ba-LAMM!   But then, to get back to your post, don't obsessions always go unsatisfied?  Isn't that their nature?  My hometown hasn't won a state championship since the early seventies, and they're just as obsessed as when they were winning them back to back.

So how is September turning out for you now that we're reaching the Equinox?

Rick

Just discovered the responses to an earlier post regarding Time and Mondays and dual suns with planets that slingshotted out of one orbit to cirlce like a revolving green pea, or peas, in another.  We climb on board the carrot, nora, and nibble out our chair and stare out upon or snooze the way through all that is or was or could'a would'a should'a maybe been.  If we're lucky, the plumber does come and the futon doesn't float out the sliding glass door with the la-z-y boy and somewhere, somewhere, there is a dry roll of Charmin.

Friday here and sara sidle from csi is safe and nick will be 3+ mos. by the solstice.  Equinox?  I think I blinked.

Hi Lynn:

I liked this so much that it's difficult to say anything. You've created a small universe as big as a novel - very full and rich. Thanks for sharing.

Best Always,
John 

I was sixty again when I woke up, but for some minutes or hours (you never know what time really is when you’re dreaming, do you?) I was more like forty and I was enough in love that I said Yes, I will marry you, although I can’t recall now, now that I’m awake, if we ever made it to the altar.  It was good though, the feeling of falling.  There is something I recall about that Love Fall and the safety, or the lack of Fear, that swells up to meet you and surround the place or places that you fall through so that you feel all of that like air cush-ing past and none of it, nothing, threatens.  Everything’s sweet, not so much to the taste as to the ear and the touch and maybe the sight; everything’s soft and there are no hard edges anywhere, not on tables or nouns; not on verbs either.

Do I recall the face of my dreamed fiancé?  No.  Well.  A little.  It was kind and round-ish and blue-gray eyes and features all pretty much normal.  What I mean to say is that the nose wasn’t crooked or hooked or thin at the bridge or Gallic, but just a nice nose neither too large nor too small; that the lips were average and hair brown with a little wave but not too dark a brown but a little bit darker than mouse-brown and the wave not so wavy as to be wiry but a curve to the hairs nonetheless.  The thing is: it doesn’t matter at all that I don’t remember much about the face in the dream or that the face in the dream belonged to a man at least ten years younger than the self I dreamed.  That self, like I said, was forty or so, not sixty, and that boy-man of the dream was thirty, or thereabouts, and kind.

His kindness is hard, difficult to describe.  I’m not sure I can.  I’m not sure the dream was long enough for me to “know” what sort of kind he was, or is.  I can write “is” on the off chance that in another dream he will return and isn’t really past tense for the duration.  On the other hand, how long would a dream need to be to “know” those figures I people them with?  A nano-second ought to be long enough to know all there is to know of those I make, I create. 

Have you ever picked up a rock, a small stone, one you can hold like a poker chip between a few fingers, a thumb, one you can let go of without feeling a loss for the letting go of, and felt, as you held this hard thing easily in hand that it wasn’t a hard thing at all but perhaps made of flannel? or sun-warmed silk? or chilled butter? 

This is what the dreamed kindness was like: a stone that was flannel and I could wrap myself inside and find warmth; a stone that was silk and somehow unwrapped me in a way that my nakedness was a beautiful thing; a stone of kindness that was malleable and fitted to me as I fit to it.

I was sixty when I woke up.  And I wasn’t in my own bed but traveling and in a strange bed in an in-between town.  The rates were less than cheap and the drape at the window was held closed against any stray neon light sifting in by a strapping together with a length of duct tape—a horizontal stitch of pliable silver in the shape of a slight frown.  I missed being forty again when I woke up in the room, but I was glad, real glad, for the dream and the sleep and the almost I Do.

"Monday isn't the beginning, it's just the day after."  So Lavonne wrote some days or weeks ago.  And now I find another Monday opened up for business, half the morning gone (more than half, but who's counting?)

I like that line, Lavonne.  In fact, it might make a neat challenge line for something longer, prose or fiction, or even just one-liners about what "Monday isn't" -- know what I mean?

Monday isn't [blank]

Monday isn't youthful, not like it used to be.

Good idea! You've started my cogs rolling!

Say:

Monday isn't half so bad, now that I know they're numbered!