Journal Entry Type #18: Fall Leaves

I’ve been feeling under the weather, which is a weird phrase, because now I’m trying to picture actually being under the weather.  Technically, we are as in the sun shines down on us and when it rains, we get wet.  I’ve been missing the four definite seasons: fall, winter, spring, and summer.  When I moved from the Midwest, I had them all.  The summers would be muggy, thanks to humidity although nothing like the East coast.  The winters would be cold where your nose hairs freeze when it gets to the -20 range.  The spring brings melted snow where your socks and shoes get wet and dirty.  The fall is what I miss the most, the trees changing colors, hot apple cider (not from a bottle), and the chance to see deer. 

I’m convinced “real winters” kill off many things that wreck havoc on my sinuses, but unfortunately dust is found everywhere on this planet.  I don’t get too caught up in the moon cycles, but today happens to be Friday the 13th and a full moon.  I’m not too superstitious and don’t really believe more crazies are out roaming the neighborhoods in any city with machetes and hidden knives.  Although I once lived in an apartment complex in LA where this guy did have a machete and was threatening people with it.  The fire alarm woke up me as the LAPD was lobbing tear gas canisters.  My roommate was already awake and counted 18 canisters thrown into his apartment through a balcony window.  He eventually came out and as it turns out, he wanted to be an actor.   Right city, wrong move.   There was also the serial arsonist who set the woman’s car on fire who lived below us in another apartment.  He was angry too but because the U.S. government had sent his mom back home to Russia.  By the time he was caught, he had burned, at least, 30 cars (I think).  Oh, the stories I have about LA.

Getting back to the crazies, most people who feel the need to kill somebody are done within the confines of their apartments and houses and intimately know the person.  It is rare to find a sociopath like Ted Bundy although they do exist.  While I was born into a highly dysfunctional family, there are things I’ve had to grapple with through the years.  It’s a step by step thing where I’m hoping by the end of the journey, I have come full circle as they say.  I haven’t finished my rewrite of my love story and while I’m going to be working on it this weekend as well as going to see the second part of IT, I had the compulsion to write a tentative short prologue a few days ago for my second novel idea.  I’m sure it will change many times over, but here it is below.  I don’t have much to offer besides enjoy your weekend.



When my father was born, his parents were overjoyed by his presence.  His birth meant his bloodline would continue.  His parents envisioned him to grow strong and wise.  They wanted him to marry a kind woman and have beautiful babies.  As he grew older, his face glistened from far away.  His smile could be seen across the room.  His parents could not give him much growing up, and this was when the bitterness formed.  He married a poor woman, practically stole her away from her family, but poor families were eager to have one less mouth to feed.  My father got his wife pregnant, four times, and each time his concern to her growing belly diminished.  By the time my baby brother was born, he had kicked her in the stomach, hard enough to leave bruises.  Long gone was the guidance he gave and the gifts he bought.  He was no longer the older man who protected the younger woman.  He was no longer the man she had married.  She had no idea what he would turn into, for the ugliness that lay beneath his skin, silently bubbling, was good at remaining hidden.  When it finally appeared, it burst through his pores, such an ugly thing, and this was when I knew my life would never be the same.


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