15 September 2005

I'm immersed in such a desperate, melancholic beauty right now. The sky is cloudy and profound, so lovely and sad that it makes my heart ache. I'm listening to the soundtrack from The Village, looking ahead to the dawning of autumn, the season of light, a time of camping and gloaming hikes, of Glo Balls and cabins, of profundity, of magic so great it can't really be pinpointed, only felt.

I miss Patricia. I want to share the autumn with her. We had such a magical weekend together - I've never felt such a deep connection. We listened to Brazzaville and looked out her window at glowing Mason Street, at the shimmering bay, at the broad hulk of Alcatraz, and held each other in twilight, and awoke in the wee hours and embraced, and ate chocolate cake for breakfast and walked through the city at dusk and lay for hours just talking and laughing. We marvelled at how right everything felt, how everything could feel both so relaxing and so exciting - it really seemed we had lain together before. I've not felt anything like this... It was heaven. She is coming out in early November, but by then much of the splendor of fall will have waned. I miss her, but will embrace that ache of longing, for that is what makes us writers. And, we agreed, we aren't separated in any real way.

Tonight, I will ride to the Town to meet Paul and Sophia for a movie, and hopefully get some writing done. I can feel magic everywhere, in everything. Can you feel it? Even if you can't, it's there, and it can feel you.

Autumn falls, silver, in tune. The scent of abscission drifts from the depths of forests, and soon lights will glow with new resplendence and the trees will fizzle with electric brilliance and it will be the time of ghosts.

And Glo Balls.


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