Autumn makes me feel desperate.

. . . like a squirrel. The World Series is blaring in the den, competing with the soft clicking of saliva that is the sound of a cat washing himself. I feel desperate. Winter is upon us. The studio is decorated for Christmas. That means only one thing: sixty hour work weeks, no free time, exhaustion, and the onslaught of poor health. Physically, mentally, spiritually, intellectually I am trying to fortify myself. Frantically, I stuff my brain with books, flit around without committing to anything, while I feel the aching need to write, the fear of not properly digesting the few afternoons I get to be outside. It’s coming, my brain says. It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming.

I have a poem about St. Gertrude knocking about in the back of my brain (the companion piece to this one about St. Benedict. . . I know I could easily write a whole series of poems about saints. . . they fascinate me.), and one about the Moro Reflex.

I am swallowing Julia Cameron’s memoir, Floor Sample, in gulps. She makes the writing life sound so. . . doable. The way that I know it when I am not so estranged from it. She writes Morning Pages. I want to write Morning Pages. I wish I didn’t need sleep, for this very purpose.

In the meantime, I took a trip home to the Carolinas weekend before last, and a walk around our neighborhood a few days ago. Here are some pictures, and here are some more.