A little loopy, perhaps, the day after the party, but the Happies sat for a formal family portrait.
The heat this weekend must rival that at Burning Man. We're roasting around here.
Summer is ending; fall's taking its place.
Crops are ripened; the harvest begins.
The annual cycle of plants makes our slower, more complex existences seem like tree rings. We age, wrinkle by blotch, losing hair, gradually teetering toward earth. Writers do not always age well. Some write their best stuff when young; others hit their stride in middle age. The occasional writer who hasn't lost his mind emerges in old age with something resembling wisdom.
We are not a culture that values our elders. Getting old can feel like running into a brick wall, just like writer's block. "There's less and less to say." (Bob Dylan)
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