Halloween Haunts

It's Halloween evening. The house still smells of this morning's bacon and waffles, and even though we've long since cleaned up the splatters of grease, the aroma still lingers just at the tip of the air. It's quiet outside now, but the leaves should be crunchy underfoot. Hopefully soon will come the stomping and rustling of  kids in costume, bags in hand, coming to gladly take our candy. Having lived in a city for 15 years, our recent foray into "the burbs" has been hard, but there are some things a quaint rancher has over a downtown turn of the century row house.  Chief among them is the promise of trick-or-treaters. We wanted to give them all the Halloween experience we could, so we decked out the front porch in a cemetery and spider theme this year. Fun for kids and also to pay homage to the onslaught of arachnids the wet hot summer brought about. Since we're new to living this far south, we weren't prepared for the massive mosquito attacks which lured the webs out from under decks or inside sheds. The moths who flew miles to our porch lights stood no chance against their predatory intelligence and tenacity.

Some webs we broomed weekly only to have them back up the next night as if nothing had happened. We nicknamed one little guy Leo, after a prominent homeless man back home who built shanties in the alleys out of old milk crates and various pieces of discarded refuse. Even though the police would inevitably find them and tear them down, Leo always rebuilt, as would any homeowner left picking up the pieces after a storm or a devastating fire.

The spiders here are like small crabs. We blow on the webs or gently throw leaves just to watch them scuttle from end to end, desperate for peace and stability. I guess our purposeful destruction of their homes is mean, but part of me likes to believe that beauty anew can come from loss. Part of me also likes justification. It's just as well that I give them a reason to start over and fresh as I've tried to do many times myself and am doing  again now.

First Time

I am female. I do not roar. I squeak and sometimes eek out opinions when no one's looking. I am not a teenage girl. I am not a middle aged woman. I do not hate my body. I'm not trying to sell you my American art. I am bipartisan. I am agnostic. I do not have political or religious views to share. I am in my thirties. I love food. I thrive on art and culture. However through no conscious fault of my own, I do not allow myself to delve into the finer points of either of these pastimes that I have somehow considered staples and motivators of my life. I am middle class. I am working class. I am an academic. I can fit into any categorical pinhole if given enough leeway. I like to doodle little birds, robots, and sometimes giant carrots with legs. I love to photograph nature and the banal. I do not consider this deep.

I live in a place where too often the things I do and say are but shadowy glimpses of what I actually think. Yet I believe that applies to everyone at some given time or other. I get very jealous of people. I have empathy for others. I am often sweet. I can be mean. I cry when I see something sad. I cry when I see something happy. I always cry at weddings. I've never cried at a funeral. 

I'm not entirely sure of the purpose of this  blog other than a structured outlet for a journey I plan on making. Through art and food, I plan to rekindle whatever it is I think needs rekindling. Perhaps my words will circle back on themselves as I write them, and whatever I think needs doing will get done. Perhaps...but for now, this is my first time...