The tree is losing its foliage in a strange way. Brown leaves litter the ground, but those not yet shed are as vivid a green as ever. You wouldn't know how brittle, unless you touch, how comparatively sparse now, unless you'd seen their previous luxuriance. The next brusque squall, some moody November dawn in the next week or two, will bring on shocking instant baldness.
SUNDAY, 2 NOVEMBER 2008
The crunch quite gone, last night's rain left a world carved from sodden sponge. If I broke off the church steeple, wavering there in the blurred, mauve air, and poked myself with it, I'm sure it would be blunt and water would cascade from the tip. Nothing like yesterday's talk of sleep and dreaming to make you sleep and sleep and .... uh-oh, not now, I'll miss my bus stop.
SATURDAY, 1 NOVEMBER 2008
Up early on a Saturday to go and and hear a talk on dreaming and dying! My cynical side sees more than a touch of masochism, and a sad need to fill my life with something, anything, while my idealistic side goes gladly, seeks devotion and discipline, and admires the teacher. In the stark morning, frosted leaves crunching underfoot, my head snaps crazily between the two.