I’ve been having that anxious, at ends, nothing-is-quite-right feeling for some time now. When in truth, everything is better than it has been for awhile.

But my brain never has paid much attention to black and white facts.

I had been blaming my coffee; I’ve taken it back up in earnest with the temperature recently plummeting. And I’m glad of it, make no mistake. but then I got to thinking. I haven’t written anything in quite some time. So I decided to write.

But it’s a mine field. Nothing feels like a safe topic. Do I pour my guts out and make myself cry? That would be stupid. Do I slash someone else’s guts out and hope I make them cry? That’s not very nice.

So I’m just gonna start, innocuously enough, with fog.

Fog is appropriate for these -ber months. I prefer it only in October, though, when it’s setting you up for the spooky holiday at the end of the month. And it just occurred to me–wouldn’t it be nice if ALL holidays fell on the last day of the month? That way, you’ve got the enitre month to prepare and celebrate early, if you wish. You don’t have to keep up with if it’s the first Monday of the month, or the third Thursday, or anything else. It’s the LAST DAY OF THE MONTH. And that way, if you’re partial to say, 4th of July, you can celebrate it all month without it being rooted out by Columbus Day or something. I, myself, like St. Patrick’s Day rather well, and feel that it is overshadowed and frowned upon by the Valentine’s Revelers. (Of course, that’s not true at all, but I’m not ready to engage in debate on Christmas decorations in homes before Thanksgiving. I love decorating for Christmas, and it IS a lot of work for only a month, but I don’t start early anymore because I love my fall decorations almost as much).

But back to the fog. I read Sean Dietrich’s column religiously, and I often think of him when I’m writing. Or when I’m thinking about writing, I should say. Because I haven’t been writing. See, Sean is pretty good. He seems to keep it on the surface for the most part, but there’s quite a bit of emotion in his posts. You just have to be open to it. He’s not going to go into a big flowery description of the love he feels for his wife, or baseball, or Alabama…but he will tell you how her cornbread is the best he’s ever had, and he can spout off statistics for a number of Major League teams and their roster for any given year, and how big the mosquitoes are in his backyard buzzing around Thelma Lou’s head. Thelma Lou is his beloved bloodhound, by the way, not his wife. Sure, Sean is slightly repetitive, and mildly boring to some, but I like him. But I also sympathize with his readers that have written him to say that perhaps he should come up with some new material.

I get it. I do. He romanticizes the South because he can’t help it. He writes about the things he loves every day and it just happens to be the same dozen things. He has a small-ish life, and he’s content with that. Not all of us are jet setting to the South of France and wine tasting in Tuscany every few weeks. Some of us just want to lay on a porch swing and drink sweet tea all afternoon. Oh, I forgot. It’s fall. Some of us just want to sit around a campfire and drink hot chocolate half the night. I’m not even high-brow enough to desire a fireplace and red wine. What? Nobody says high-brow anymore? Fine. Cultured, then. It’s obvious to me you can’t please everybody with your writing. Look at Stephen King! He’s definitely not everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s got his {massive} following. Just like Sean D. People will read what they want to. I guess y’all are wondering if I’m ever gonna get around to it, but I warned you my mind is all atwitter.

There’s a fly aggravating me. Shouldn’t he be dead by now? Heeheehee. That makes me think of someone else that should be dead by now, due to his lifestyle.

Hmm. Fog, was it? Back in the spring, I missed a good picture. I thought about turning around to take it, but that would have made me late for work. It was Dr. Lyle’s cows, placidly grazing on a hilltop behind a barbed wire fence, fog surrounding them, while the sun rose throwing sherbet light over it all.

Or maybe I romanticize cows.

There was another time, a gloomy October day a couple of years ago. It was one of those days where it had rained off and on all day, just enough to make it dank and dismal. I was coming home the scenic route and the fog laid through this holler wispy around the edges. The trees had shed their leaves and were black and had that Sleepy Hollow quality, growing over the road, branches reaching for each other and making a tunnel. It was just the right amount of creepy. But I was also glad I didn’t live in that stretch of backwoods.

I’ve got a tiny sliver of glass embedded in my thumb. I noticed it last night- that uncomfortable feeling when I bent it at the knuckle. I should have gotten it out then. Now it’s gonna take more than scotch tape to remove it. I’m thinking one of those Biore strips for blackheads will suffice.

I wish I knew more about the Heavens. I really would like to be able to point out more constellations. As it stands, I can rarely find the Big Dipper. They all look alike to me and I can find points everywhere.

Well. I’ve just checked my word count and I’m right at 1000 about a bunch of nothing and that’s plenty for y’all to suffer through. I do hope you’ve found a respite from your day through this, if nothing else. Maybe you’re feeling fortunate you don’t live inside my head (you should). I wish I had some deep seated inspirational words of wisdom to share with you. But it’s me we’re talking about. All I can tell you is go forth and do your best to stay happy, at whatever cost.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy