thisnewday

Years ago, I had an artist friend who observed that Fall seemed to be the most productive time for me as a writer. A while after he said that, he packed up the little car that he'd been driving (between his home on Otisco Lake and the Toyota dealership where we both worked in the city) and went to live the rest of his life somewhere in Florida.

I never heard from him again, but I've always cherished his friendship and remembered what he said. Remembered it through the many brutal Central New York winters that I've lived through since.

So now, it's Fall again and I find that I don't have much to say. I'm not sure what I should attribute that to. Maybe just the slowing down that comes with age. Or, to bring such a thought to its inevitable point, the narrowing of a life, the gradual diminution of hopes and dreams that comes near its end...

LPK
LiveJournal
10.13.2010