Not between summer and fall any more, but feeling the first hints of winter, even as beautiful leaves dance in the wind. Hard frost yesterday. Apple boxes leaving the orchards (reminding me how cold apple-picking can be in October). Sunrise dragging itself up far too late in the day--reluctantly, it seems. Indoors at 106 Waukazoo Street, the doors are back up closing off the unheatable gallery space, but the Fox Island show is still on view up front. Also, I have eight or nine remaining signed copies of Buzzelli's DEAD DANCING WOMEN, and today and tomorrow are Haunted Lighthouse days out at Grand Traverse Light at the end of the Leelanau peninsula.
Reading books about writing--is that a bad sign? Should one either be reading OR writing and not dithering about in between? I have returned to Pagnol (escape!) and am also (not escape) re-reading THE BOOK THIEF to discuss with friends reading it for the first time. Unsettled, though. Need to put myself on a strict schedule for a while to get through this between-times time.
Last Monday's warmth...al fresco dinner under the walnut and basswood trees, their leaves bright yellow...an oil lamp on the table, glowing on faces as darkness fell...friends laughing and passing plates, refilling glasses. It feels like years ago instead of only five days past. And in the midst of all that easy happiness, neither Jeanie nor I remembered to get out our cameras. The pictures are all in my mind.
With or without pictues, I promise here and now to have a substantive post up by late Monday evening or early Tuesday morning. It's the least I can do. No, it's a little more than the least, which is what I've been doing lately.
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