09.30.10

Pleasant is underrated. Take this night. Just shy of the witching hour it is not sublime. Not breath-catching or particularly jarring. But. The breeze is strong and audible. Fall is moving in piecemeal—patient and courteous. The leaves, it seems, know in their veins, their souls, that their change is less than 48 hours coming. Their dance upon bending branches is a thing to behold. They hold to the bend. They immerse themselves, rubbing against one another in a celebration of a season well spent. It is pleasant. I feel nearly guilty bearing witness to what seems a private moment. I am a voyeur on my own shrine of porch. They share, I tell myself, bittersweet farewells. And like reverse butterflies they are destined to a death of brilliance. Of blood reds and heaven hues. The colors of fall. They know that in the stead of flight, they one by one will drift and feather to light upon a brittling ground. And their blanket will awe. The dance is not a resignation but a revelation. The acquiescence is noble and proud. It is beautiful in a way things nearly never are. A better man, perhaps, would avert his eyes. But we take our pleasures and magic wherever we can find them. And the hours before true fall are indeed magical.

I am too selfish to not watch.

09.30.10

“No offense,” I said to the three foot Praying Mantis who’d taken over my section of the porch. “But you guys creep me the fuck out. Please leave now.” And from there I urged the arrogant little alien on her way.

Yeah, those things just get to my quick. Like tomatoes or Rosie O’Donell. I think maybe it’s because they appear so self-assured and seem smarter than me. Just look at one of those fuckers close and if you doubt for a moment they are plotting to overthrow the world then you are dumb as a bag of hair. I suppose it could be they’re just looking for their next dinner date—wondering all pouty why they are so often lonely. But I think there’s more to it. Like maybe they are on the secret scout team; telepathing our comings and goings to Xbox or Ramadan, or whoever the fuck is in charge out there. I mean they look like every alien autopsy photo I’ve ever seen. Could be more sinister even than that.

Granted, they’ve never done wrong by me (other than looking like they do). But I’ll be Goddamned if they’d share my lunch counter. I don’t mean to sound all bigoty. I don’t. It’s just they make my skin feel all inside out. And, really, they shouldn’t be eating their men. That doesn’t do much to curb my attitude, you know. I’ve known regular women that do that and I know to stay clear. Like I do with tomatoes and Rosie O’Donnell.