Last leaves

Somehow I don’t believe that those last leaves clinging to the trees are there by coincidence.

It must be something.



Or maybe it’s the other way around?

Maybe they aren’t strong enough to face their destiny and cling out of desperation. Too weak to let go.

Hanging on or letting go?

Which requires more out of you?



Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.

–Paulo Coelho

The last time I was single, I went out with this guy a couple of times. Drinks. Super casual.  He was a nice enough guy, but at least for me it was a totally friendly thing. Nary a spark.

At the time, I was blogging every day. I mentioned it to him in passing at one point, and he decided to read my entire blog from beginning to end. He asked me to make some changes to the web site so he could do that, and I added an archive that let him find posts by date.

At the time, there were well over 700 posts. It was a substantial commitment to make. Most of the people who actually know me haven’t read it. I certainly didn’t think that he would!

It was weird.

It was flattering.

Mostly it was weird.

Weirdly flattering?

Someone thought I was cool enough to spend a lot of time learning more about me.

We met for drinks once or twice in the interim. He reported his progress via IM. He commented about the writing, about the content of specific posts. He got to know me pretty well, if you can get to know someone by reading what they write about.  He was taking his self-assigned commitment very seriously. By the time he let me know he’d  finished reading every post, I knew he was not right for me as even a friend, and he said he was in love with me and he also knew I would never feel the same way about him.

He was a very nice person, but one of those sort of self-sabotaging, snake-bit people. Always getting in his own way professionally and personally. Always embroiled in some  crisis at least partially of his own making. Not very good at making choices for himself.

I think he even told me that he knew it would never work out, which saved me from having to figure out how to say it.

And I thought, well, yeah. Of course. That is exactly how love is, sometimes.

Love can be a bitch goddess who delights in nothing more than to kick you right in the teeth.

Love could have just not thrown me in his path at all.

Love could have given him something for his effort.

Love doesn’t work that way.

I think we have all had relationships like that, where we love someone knowing it will never work out. All the sparks in the world, but you can’t have a civil conversation. All the civil conversation in the world, but sparks are lacking. Balance in love is just as hard as it is with everything else.

That, and sometimes love is just whatever it is. Messy. Complicated. Simple. Strong. Fragile. Permanent. Transitory. Sometimes it’s something that’s right for a period of your life, and then you move on. Exactly what you need or exactly the wrong thing. It’s not equitable or fair. Generous. Cruel. Patient. Unkind.

It’s a lot of things, but it is not at all like a box of chocolates, even if you really don’t ever know what you’re going to get.

An imaginary conversation with my cat

I don’t think you respect my bodily autonomy.

That’s a big expression for a little kitty.

See? I’m a grown up cat, but you talk to me like I’m a baby.

Maybe that’s because I spend so much time cleaning up after you.

I don’t have opposable thumbs, you know.

No one forces you to lick the carpet and get hairballs that make you throw up all over the floor.

The carpet is very tasty, and you won’t let me go outside to catch mice or birds.

I’ve seen you with a mouse. You made no attempt to catch it.

I was studying it.

You had no clue that you were even supposed to try to catch it because I feed you every day.

Do you think you’re infantilizing me and forcing me into a childish posture I should have outgrown by now?

Maybe you should go outside right now and play in the snow.

What? In the cold! I hate having cold paws…

Grown up cats live outside all the time.

You’re just repressing me. Just like in that movie with the autonomous collective.

Monty Python?

You never think I pay attention.

You’re more than welcome to join an autonomous collective.

Will you drive me to the meetings?

No. You’re a grown ass cat. Get your own transportation.

Can I take the car?

Do you have a license?


Can you reach the accelerator and brakes?


Do you have gas money?

You never give me an allowance.

Take a bus.

Can I watch “the Little Foxes” after you go to bed?

I don’t think you should watch Bette Davis any more.

Why not?

It gives you dangerous ideas.

I wasn’t really going to drown anyone.


You have no respect for my needs as a cat.

Watch Animal Channel.

You’re repressing me again!

Take another nap, Kitty.