Friday, November 7, 2014

November & The Swift Kick In The Ass

Dearest November,

You gloriously underpriced and underrated month. Easily swept aside as ugly or underwhelming. 

For those of us that Love your subtle magic you are potent. Let me count the ways...


The time in between times is always special: The winding of fall, the approach of winter but still not quite either. You are the lull between stashing plastic pumpkins and novelty vomit of Halloween and preparing for the madness of the winter holidays. It's simple for a moment.

A gentle, neutral time of the year.





This is the ideal time to nest and love up our dens and rabbit holes. No worries yet about who is or isn't coming to dinner, or panicking about the company party, or preparing yourself for your traditional bout of Holiday Blues...

Just quiet. Quiet, unglamorous, unbiased and nutritious comforts.

Which are usually pure unadulterated addicting magic in themselves.

It is the perfect time to be cool and composed and unromantically get rid of shit we don't need--mental and physical clutter. Maybe it's the wind, but sweet November makes it easier to be ruthless about our happiness.

You offer us a rejuvenating sense of detachment. And Holy Cats, could we use it.

November's gifts also appear as the uncanny ability to view the past year as a strange little film when you least expect it: all the things, all the people, all the places, all the miles, all the hours, all the conversations.

Then you begin writing the wandering script for next years Living art film. This nonchalant poker-faced month is the perfect time to think about our intentions, not in the sticky and somehow always oddly sad anarchy of a New Year's party.


And then Cherished November holds yet another brisk and enchanting offering: 

A Swift Kick in The Ass.

"Holy shit, it's NOVEMBER?! Where the fuck did the year go?!"

November has a beatnik coolness that asks us, So what do you really want to do? And despite it's devastatingly sexy aloofness, it tells us: There's still Time.

That last bit of the year? Make it count. Make it dessert. Fucking juice it and wear it as perfume. 



Thank you my fair and mellow November for your lingering sunsets, copacetic breathing room and plain impending weirdness.

Your mundane magic is what we need.


Your Admirer and Devotee,  







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