November is penultimate, and everyone knows how difficult it is not to win. We trudge through the wet marsh of gloomy mornings, close afternoons of airless moods, only to find ourselves growing colder. A solstice cannot cause us to desist from fiery causes. Year’s end reminds us of our preference for impersonal moments–-when we say “this isn’t about me” and “let’s focus on you” as if anything can relish the other like we can our own selves. An Other summons a memory, a moment when we feel free to cartwheel over the mist of doubt, legs flailing, heart strumming a Jelly Roll rhythm–-knowing there will be an echo when shame wastes her time trying to slow us. We have no sense of pause except on those foggy mornings when we molasses over gravel, count to ten as we brake, breathe moist air and feel satiated.
(Image Description: A foggy image of early morning light that appears a gray-blue haze. A field is photographed, its tall wild grasses battling for dominance with one another. In the background a forest looms. In the middle distance, a loose gathering of saplings seem to spring from a single place to appear as one larger tree but they are missing the trench coat, so we can see they are several instead of one. Silly saplings.)