Friday 9/6/24
The air.
The leaves.
November.
Reading William Sloane's To Walk the Night.
Walking along the Chestnut Hill Reservoir on the way to a football game.
Sunflowers.
Apples.
Cider.
The harvest.
Ghost stories.
Shorter days.
John Clare.
Pumpkin patches.
New England.
The Halloween part of Meet Me in St. Louis.
Black and white horror movies.
John Grisham Atkinson.
Listening to live recordings that took place in autumn and imagining having been there and stepping outside into the fall air after.
Classic horror radio.
Stretch drive and playoff baseball.
The smell of decaying leaves in the soil.
The color of the sky.
Hammer horror films.
Seeing your breath.
Payoff running stairs in the Monument in terms of numbers and speed for all of that hard work in summer.
Going into the symphony when it's light outside, leaving when it's dark.
Trying to catch falling leaves.
Quiet late afternoon times in the museum.
Frost.
The added resonance to the song of the mourning dove.
Hearing the sounds of the kids outside for recess as I work on a story.
The washed-out green turning to soft yellow of a field.
Nick Drake.
John Keats.
Thoreau's corresponding journal entries.
Late Brahms.
The daily reminder to try harder, do better, and be aware of time for all that must be created and done.
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