The leaves spindle to the ground. That means light a fire under my fanny.

Been feeling that autumn wind lately. It is the 1,2,3, jump! into winter call,colored quietly with the crimson and gold foliage that we never tire of, year after year. The past weeks have been off for me, with my sweetheart at Burning Man and my job taken over by the man. I having been filling up my days with painting the cabin, or apartmentish, stacking wood Phil Cheney cut, mucking the barn, and cooking for the family.
I see me phasing out the social wanderings up and down main street Marshall, and focusing on MY success at the land and in my life. See, I am beginning to feel the little nibbling of the writer again. I thought I had lost her forever, and was a little relieved, because I was frightened of her leanings towards isolation and wine to get the job done. Having come out the other side of this distraction we called life, I am OK with her now. She has matured a bit, and is mixing all the words and stories up in the mind like lottery ball, expectant of what will land on it's back first. It must be autumn again.