As I write this, October has already chewed up and spit out eight of its days.
Eight.
Slow. Down. Please.
I love this time of year. Cool, crisp air. Zero humidity. The colors that explode in the treetops and then drop to the ground with glorious flare. But given the events of THE CIRCUS over the last two weeks (all rings are aflame, the air burns with singed poodle hair, and this poor Master of Ceremonies has nearly had a straight-up mental breakdown—at the very least my first full-blown panic attack), I haven’t been able to truly enjoy these early change-of-season days.
And now eight of them are gone.
And so is an hour of my life.
Last night, the hubs and I declared that we would not give in and turn on the furnace despite the freeze and frost that would occur while we slept. We know as soon as that time comes, we become spoiled to the heat and there goes hard-earned money on temperature control. Hard-earned money that could be better put to use buying parts for the new-to-the-Hubs-midlife-crisis jeep. Or a writing retreat. Or cat toys. Anything other than the gas bill.
I hate paying for temperatures.
(We also play this game in the spring, but the weather usually wins out quickly. I can always put another quilt on the bed. However, there’s only so far one can go when one is hot and hot-flashing.)
Despite not turning on the main heating source, I am not against using a space heater to take the chill down a notch.
That is, if I could find the good heater.
One of our mini ones is about to give up trying. I think Malachi has spent too much time with his hind end near the fan and is clogging the heater’s innards with his shedding.
The other space heater is shaped like a radiator. It’s big. And on wheels. It gives off a subtle, calming heat. Amara loves it. Puts her toe-beans right up to the edge and goes call cat-in-a-coma. I don’t have to worry about fur clogging anything, as there is no fan.
But I can’t find it. Anywhere.
I have looked in closets. The shed. The garage. Behind furniture where I know I would never store a heater. Closets again. Shed again.
Racked my brain: Did someone borrow it? Did I donate it to one of the adult-ish children?
Do I vaguely remember this big one on wheels giving up this past spring and chucking it to the dump?
I can’t remember.
But I should be able to. It’s big. And on wheels, for crying out loud. How does one lose such a thing or forget the event that led to it no longer being on the property? I did find a newer, small mini one. With a fur-sucking fan. I don’t remember buying that… Hmm. Maybe the radiator one did blow up.
One loses such a thing and/or erases such happenings from memory because of THE CIRCUS; I know this. But I digress.
I shall forgo the search and shop for a new one. Or make do with the two little ones. But today is gorgeous, and I need to be outside in it before the skies gray, the snow flies, and the trees droop with ice.
I need to further clear my head from the events of the last couple of weeks so I can focus on forward momentum. Calm my inner Circus Master. Let a few of those flaming circus rings just… be. Some yellow-haired clown in a polka-dot jumper will surely come around with a foaming extinguisher and make a show of dousing the flames.
Mainly, I need to consider how to write and create and play with words and worlds and settings, all amid utter life chaos.
I met a great group of local writers last weekend at the Cambridge City Library author signing. It was an excellent experience that has Little Miss Muse and I hopeful.
It gave us a lot to mull over, from ideas to events to networking.
Participating basically wrote a permission slip for my little purple-winged imp and me to play and dream in the middle of the giant plot hole that is life. Turns out this particular plot hole is a big one. With wheels.
So I’m off to walk and ponder and enjoy the day before October slips away and Little Miss Muse discovers I’ve misplaced her purple suitcase full of bottle rockets.
The big one. With wheels.
