This is where I'm supposed to write about what it feels like to be confronted, unexpectedly, by the Irresolvable Past, which seems an inappropriate response now, given the circumstances, and besides, I don't do what I'm supposed to do anymore. Too old for it or something. But maybe I'm too old to even have an irresolvable past anymore anyway.
(A past. An Irresolvable Past. An irresolvable pasta.)
October has a history of being the most difficult month. Deaths and break ups and suicides and court cases; these things tend to fall in October. In light of that, it hasn't been so tough this year, and maybe it's never been as hard as I've told myself it is. Autumn by the ocean doesn't come with the same stinging cold. Wearing woolen hats here seems cute. I wonder why the pioneers chose the prairies to make their homesteads, if it was summertime then, or if it was just so cold that they had to stop and make fire or die. By the time it's spring again you're just so grateful that you don't think of moving.
There are things I'm supposed to be doing now. The position paper. The culture paper. Laundry. I don't do what I'm supposed to do anymore. I'm a bad driver but I'm not a bad person.
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