And it’s November

Self-explanatory, don’t you think?

I am becoming really unoriginal with my titles, aren’t I, when in reality the name of a good chapter really excites me, the quirkier the better. One of the first things I do when I get a book (after checking it has the requisite number of pages, you laugh but one can’t be too careful, I have suffered greatly in the past), is take a good look at the contents. To say I am disappointed when there’s no contents page, and worse the chapters are just named 1, 2, 3, 4 would be an understatement! Jasper Fforde has completely spoilt me. I spent a large part of my day lost in a good book (and chuckling to myself), which has chapters like Five coincidences, seven Irma Cohens and one confused Thursday Next.

Looking warily at me as if to say quit staring

A day of rest (mostly) when it rains like the world will end, with animals (the pigeons in my gully, and the garden lizard who temporarily seeks refuge in my window) for company, and me being completely content not opening my mouth (screaming inwardly in agony doesn’t count). Is this a trailer of how my old age is going to be? I am suitably numb from the painkiller I took after lunch, which allows to me write this, so I don’t miss another month. Sigh, I missed even my one update a month rule. Something substantial, something weighty I’ll post I think, and then I end up putting stuff (something half-baked?) on Instagram, a platform which I’m beginning to get disillusioned with. No, I haven’t been neglecting the blog, for what it would appear, a few paltry likes on the gram but for the community (and the ease because it’s been a while) and, of course, the instant gratification it offers. The friendships, the mateships I have built there, and how comfortable I am with them, is also what keeps me going back though I am yet to find a way to navigate the new world of reels. I’d better get cracking or get happy being irrelevant.

Oh August

Inside the park

You can’t have any of the seasons without the other seasons. All seasons exist within each season.

Ali Smith, The Paris Review, Art of Fiction interview

While I was thinking about the lost month of August where so much happened that I couldn’t read or write much (not complaining just stating a fact), September has whizzed by. I can see beautiful October flowers in the gully, and fall is in the air. I like Autumn because of the pause it offers before the chill of the winter sets in for good. The clear blue skies and twinkling nights means winter is irrevocably on its way. I could cry but I won’t because I respect unassailable facts. It’s already sock on weather as far as I’m concerned thanks to the unseasonal rain with a bit of the cyclone thrown in. I have trouble believing how fast (and yet excruciatingly slowly) 2021 has gone by. One can only hope that 2022 is better even though there’s no evidence backing it up. A girl can dream, right?

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Outside the park

Pictures never come out the way we expect them to, do they? I took this one after looking at the leaves wistfully many times because I couldn’t figure out the angle to exclude the tangled wires (the streets are far from pedestrian friendly forget being photographer friendly) though I love what they add to the photo. I love walking around my neighborhood but just sometimes I’d like to keep my illusions, and believe I am someplace else, far away from home.