November 16, 1998
Falling (Leaves and Repercussions)


Working on it. I've just this instant gotten home from my second trip to California in as many weeks, and I still smell like airline food.  Let me unpack and unwind and I'll throw something onto the website. And you know the drill: click here to relive the wonder and splendor of that last entry ...


Later That Evening:

I came home to Oregon City today, after three days away, and the whole city looks like some kind of weird autumnal Mardi Gras went on in my absence. The trees are stripped, and the streets clotted with orange and gold leaves, thick as confetti.  The air feels tired.  Everybody is walking around hunched over, as though if they make eye contact "someone" is going to ask them to help clean up the mess. I hardly recognize the place.

The worst was coming home to The Tree House. I opened the curtains, and there was nothing but old branches idly fingering my windows: no more leafy shield between me and Binoculars Guy across the street. It's almost as though, suddenly, the whole world is privy to everything I do and think and eat and read and wear and drink and say on the phone and ...

(Oh wait. I have an online journal. Shit.)

I'm in love. What can I say? It's wonderful and terrible and miraculous and unplanned and predestined, all at once ... and it comes at a PRICE, as does anything this valuable ... and part of me wants to write about it but can't, and another part of me wants to write about it but has been delicately asked by committee to be "sensitive," and another-another part of me wants to write about it but is terrified of jinxing it by putting it into something as mundane as words, and another-another-another part of me says "What the hell? Let's tell 'em everything ... "

... but for tonight I think I'll just tuck my travel-weary selves into bed and dream about oranges and aliens and U-Haul trucks, and let the repercussions fall where they may.

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