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November 1

November always used to be my favorite month. The month of fogs, and mist, and shapes in the dusk that change and disappear as you stare into the grey air.

There’s NaNoWriMo. Always a good month to write, sinking into ideas without some sunny distraction. So – some various thoughts on voice and voicelessness. At this time, not to have a voice seems a contradiction. Everyone, supposedly, can talk. But for those who have spent years being silenced, especially in an abrupt and brutal fashion, how does one ever regain the trust to speak?

Or perhaps trust is not the issue at all. Waiting for that safe, soft spot – and if it’s never found?

It’s funny when you lose trust in something. Or someone. How does it happen? Is it all at once, or is it a slow eroding away of things that you thought were true? Or maybe it’s just the acceptance of something that started with normal imperfection, but tipped over the edge at some point. When? Does it even matter? When every day has its moments of normality, moments that could stay in place, seemingly forever, that they were so fixed – and then not wanting to question too much, in case the surface chipped away, like a small stream or a rain storm suddenly can become a torrent of water, or truth, and everything is swept away before it. And if one test question, like an experiment, suddenly reveals all the fault lines like an x-ray, how long do you stand before the result, watching, before you slowly walk away to record the results?

What happens then?

Once seen, can’t be unseen.

The full moon was supposed to be full of twists and the unexpected. And so these days have been, with the bright, mysterious light of an electric moon dancing in and out of the cloud shadows, hurting the eyes when you look up and the clouds suddenly part. The unexpected – although it may be that the universe is not yet finished with her surprises.

Is this time all about finally maneuvering around change, like a pedestrian in a crowded street? A quote from the controversial Seneca the Younger popped up on Twitter. I went and looked for the original Latin. I’m not that keen on having Goodreads or Twitter, for that matter, give me education.

errant consilia nostra, quia non habent quo derigantur; ignoranti quem portum petat nullus suus ventus est

For meaning, not translation, it could be saying – There is no energy that will move us properly if we don’t know where we are going.

But we may live in a time of drifting, where aside from certain key truths, we know nothing. No – that can’t be right. Because we find those key ideals from the conflict that throws us from side to side, in a storm that seems to have no end. We want wind – but not too much. We want sun – enough to grow. We want cold – enough to purify and to appreciate what it is to be warm.

Or maybe just to look out the window and wonder.

November 2, 2020

All anyone can think of is tomorrow.

Please vote. This is not a time to sit on the sidelines.