turn the page

The turned page I am referring to is the calendar, the one on the wall with images of sunlit vineyards and the darker one in my head and along my veins. I welcome its turning, its flip into September, with promises of cooler weather, falling leaves, lighter branches. My August was stormy, tempestuous, and laden with hollow anxiety. (How was yours?) August is gone. It is so yesterday. Its self-inflicted wounds are already scabbing over, hardening, waiting to fall off so that new skin can be brightly born. September song: shed, shed, let go, let go, tweet, tweet. Say farewell to thunder and rain and prepare for wind and snow and sleet. Welcome the gently falling leaf floating in the dusk offering Vesper prayers with no incense but weary sighs. Hello, curled redbud leaf now yellowed still partly heart-shaped settled on yesterday's lawn tomorrow. Greetings, September.

Wipeout

Lest anyone think I am snobby, what with blog posts about the serial comma and Soren Kierkegaard and Marcel Proust and gerunds and dangling participles and Bloomsday and [enough, already, with the freight train of conjunctions, dude!] what-not, I hereby report I just finished watching Wipeout.

Love them thrills and spills.

I was really rooting for Aprl Robles, who would've been the first female winner.

She did okay with the big balls.

It was the finale that did her in.

Such is life: big balls followed by the climax.