bluster

Someone asked me if I was obsessed with death.

He didn't say what he meant by obsessed.

I love this painting. Frida Kahlo's "Dream"

would be my answer. But, in the moment I

was tongue tied. Then the conversation turned,

as it does at dinners with people.

The wind is wild today and I'm waiting on a storm.

Bluster and blow-downs littering the back roads.

Power still on. It's fall. All kinds of rot -- peony

and mushroom. The dead snake. A tiny turtle carcass

along the shoulder of the road where I run.

The smells. Grapes ripen. The maple trees

are nearly past color to disappearance.

My favorite season.

frida

It's hot here-a heat weave,

I keep writing.

And it's Frida Kahlo's birthday.

In her honor this door and her words.

I would like to be able to do whatever I want behind

the curtain of "madness." In this way, I would arrange

flowers, all day, I would paint pain, love, tenderness,

I would freely laugh at others, but above everything

I would laugh at myself. I would build my world

that would be mine and theirs as long as I live.

Here

Stopped by the farm to pick up tomatoes -- the last of the season probably.
The place teemed with apple-picking families. The stand was filled with
'mums and I could smell the home made donuts. Fall is here. Leaves
are turning. It's my favorite time, October especially. I think
I've finally left summer behind, though for some reason it
took longer than usual to relinquish it. I'd still like one more sea
swim. I'm rushing through Frida Kahlo's diary (thanks Rebecca) so
that I can read it again. Amazing sketches, doodles, words, blots of
ink. Then onto other books. And to watching the fall climb
out of the skin of summer, shedding all that green.