It was a long day -- the last of the year, according to Celtic sources -- but a quiet night. I rose early to accompany my mother on a couple of visits to a couple of doctors, and we lunched and shop between times, and I have new blue corduroy pants and a book about gnomes. Pumpkin muffins and lattés were had, chocolates were eaten, and the skin on my hands turned appropriately autumnal shades of red and orange from shirt-staining pomegranate-scooping and last-minute jack-o-lantern carving. I stayed in and reached blindly through fauxg to sacrifice offerings of fun-sized high fructose corn syrup to the small gods of the night, pirates and angels and half-assed t-shirts (behold, for I am the Hyphen Queen).
It used to be that this was the genesis of the new year, this womb-time of the earth.
I thrive on beginnings, you see. Fresh starts, clean slates, reinventions, changeovers. Raselhague, head of the snake, only sometimes I don't know if I'm devouring my own tail or if I simply have my head up my ass.
In any case, I've just created a NaNoWriMo account. I suddenly feel the need to fondle my Magical Stones of Perserverant Creativity, blessed with incense and intention, et al. Wish me luck. Or send foot-shaped vibes in the general direction of my dorsal side.