Autumnal

It has been (it will be) one of those times—eight distinctly different client projects, all on short and pressing schedules. Ballroom dancing lessons not just with Jean but with his gorgeous wife and partner Iryna, who remind me as gently as two uber-talented Belarusian dancers can that I sometimes look like a man when dancing, sometimes like a clown, and (creme de la creme) sometimes like a male clown. I start working in the deep dark, stop working in the deep dark (after an entire day has passed), and I have read nothing more than last week's NYTBR, this week's Newsweek, and that fascinating bit on John Stuart Mills (The New Yorker) in I don't know how long.

I am literature starved. I feel my vocabulary dissipating. Do not ask my point of view.

So that it came as an utter surprise to me yesterday when I, in a dash to somewhere, let my gaze drift off and up then pinch upon the lit-up colors of some fully decked out maples. You know how it is—the first heralding trees of the season, the beginning of that show.

I always miss my mother at the change in season. I think, But if only she could see this.