'The man of autumn,
Behind it's melancholy mask,
Will laugh in the brown grass,
Will shout from the tower's rim."
~Wallace Stevens
Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays Prose
For some strange reason, I don't feel as lost in the weeds as I have in the past. What is that about? In 2017 I sure thought Trump was going to kill us all in a random act of nuclear to human annihilation. That didn't happen, of course, but come to find out I was pretty fucking accurate with my assumption. I don't know if I felt relief or not to find out, that several of his national security advisors, worried about that possibility too. Vindicated? Yes, maybe it's vindicated. But still, the years followed and the fear grew, ending with this year's surreal pandemic mismanagement, which brought a whole new level of terror. But here I sit tonight. I know he's performing his tricks on stages across the mid-west, and his adoring fans are there to cheer him on, and catch Covid-19 for his, and the herd's benefit, but I don't feel dread. I feel like despite his threats, stomping his feet, and bloviating of regurgitated bullshit, it's all going to work out. Decency, will make a comeback. Folks will take voting seriously. I am beginning to believe my own bullshit about autumn being the great corrective. Like November 3rd, 2020, will be one of the best days of my life.
Am I wrong to feel optimistic about November 2rd? Am I ridiculous for that? Am I setting myself up for a terrifying fall? I don't know, but I'll get back to you on November 4th. I'll be the woman who is once again lost in the weeds, or perhaps I will just be a lady walking on a beautiful autumn path, with leaves falling all around her. So many leaves, that she happily jumps right into big piles of them, just to finally see all the colors of a year. Her year.
~Carly
Stockton, California
October 18th 2020
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