Me and my shadow.

I like this word: Penumbra

The word for shadow in French is "ombre" but sometimes that reminds me of "hombre" which is a Spanish word and Je ne parle pas l'espangol...

Penumbra. The word rolls off of my tongue and I think of mine. The fuzzy, not completely shadowy, part of me. This weather puts my heart and soul in the mood for penumbra, and tea, and reading for days while it rains, and huddling with friends in cozy corners to discuss the meaning of everthing.

Fall. A time for fantasy because of the penumbra. The searing sun of summer chases fantasy to its cave and focuses on the hyper-real, or surreal. When the leaves begin to fall and the days grow shorter, this is when fantasy comes stealthily creeping. When the rain falls for days, it is fantasy that keeps me warm and sane.

Last night, in a funk of moroseness, I sequestered myself and watched more The West Wing. When I realized that I couldn't go on without eating, I fixed a can of (god it pains me to admit this) reduced sodium Cream of Mushroom soup. Never in my life have I eaten something so tasteless and stale that was actually meant for consumption. I did not care. I ate the entire bowl and mopped up the last broth(?) with rosemary bread, a last vestige of my market bounty. Fall is coming, I realized.