All of November is an unease. A startlingly warm afternoon, a landslide somewhere nearby, a fire that is still burning. I wrote it once before, a foretelling of what would come. How uneasy I am in November. Everything feels nearly unlaced, threadbare, about to go bad.
A nearly dead mouse in the walkway, a man calling for help over the sound of waves in the morning. Texts with bad news and sick dogs and the promise of something just about to break.
I read on the internet. I worry about things out of my control. Wait for something to step forward. Marie-Claire Bancquart says, “Exactly November. Everything in its place. And yet the unknown is nearby like and anxious bird.” She is right.
“There is a distinct feeling in November of having missed the party due to traffic, of having allowed the fruit to go to rot on the kitchen table. I keep on saying this. The two statements get after the same one feeling and they cannot be separated. It has something to do with circumstances out of your control, and being entirely at fault at the same time.
Like I said, all divided up on the inside. You are always more than one thing at a time. I just want to sit here and think about it. I follow all of my thoughts by saying, perhaps it is the season. But, that seems a strange thing to say in California.”
In a contrast to the electricity in the air is a peace in my body. How can these things live in me at once. I am always asking the same questions, just under different circumstances. The sea glitters impossibly bright and then sun sets and we say how lucky we are. But everything feels hanging on. As if we know things already that we cannot yet possibly know. They come to us in dreams of missed trains and awake at 2am.
I cannot know now what it is. But it is always predicted by November.