Things are changing...the seasons have definitely turned, haven't they? That little autumn chill is here at last, thank god hallelujah - no more heat, please. I may regret those words once the reality of winter(i.e. no heat in my apartment) hits me but for now, I like being able to lay on my couch to read and not feel sweaty even though I'm not even moving. That's nice. To not stick to the fabric - that's a good thing. Yes, it gets darker earlier and the leaves are falling rapidly from the trees, I noticed that in walking around this weekend, the world has seemed to tilt a bit and so the wheel has come round again and I get that feeling that I used to get at this time of year, that new pencilsbookbaglunchbox feeling - this is really the new year, not January 1st. I get a little nostaglic for that, I used to love picking out a new Trapper Keeper and getting my pencil bag in order and buying new school supplies (I still love going to Staples by the way, all the pens and markers drive me wild) and getting notebooks color coordinated with my folders by subject.

Out with the old, in with the new, getting used to different teachers and subjects and schedules and this and that, time for pumpkins and squashes, Halloween candy, warm apple cider - all things Fall. I spent a good part of this weekend going through stuff, throwing out, redoing, cleaning, organizing, just trying to get all this "LIFE" stuff, this "ME" stuff, this junk cleared out and get it all together. I think I'm getting there...surely but slowly. So much for this Monday Musing - it's just me with my mind all scattered, compulsive listmaker that I am, thinking ahead at what I want done, how much I haven't done, how much time has passed, it's all passed too quickly and getting quicker all the time and feeling oh so very Willy Wonkaish, I have so much time and so little to do...

SCRATCH THAT! Reverse it...

To my favorite Octoberish poem then!

Who
The month of flowering's finished. The fruit's in,
Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth.
October's the month for storage.

The shed's fusty as a mummy's stomach:
Old tools, handles and rusty tusks.
I am at home here among the dead heads.

Let me sit in a flowerpot,
The spiders won't notice.
My heart is a stopped geranium.

If only the wind would leave my lungs alone.
Dogsbody noses the petals. They bloom upside down.
They rattle like hydrangea bushes.

Mouldering heads console me,
Nailed to the rafters yesterday:
Inmates who don't hibernate.

Cabbageheads: wormy purple, silver-glaze,
A dressing of mule ears, mothy pelts, but green-hearted,
Their veins white as porkfat.

O the beauty of usage!
The orange pumpkins have no eyes.
These halls are full of women who think they are birds.

This is a dull school.
I am a root, a stone, an owl pellet,
Without dreams of any sort...

I said: I must remember this, being small.
There were such enormous flowers,
Purple and red mouths, utterly lovely.

The hoops of blackberry stems made me cry.
Now they light me up like an electric bulb.
For weeks I can remember nothing at all.
- Sylvia Plath