Fall as in season. A mess of broken bones, slipping on leaves. “Don’t you wish the orange stayed forever?” Reds, greens, and golds. Autumn is the best season. X-rays though. Those are falls too. Climbing trees again. Falling off the bed dreams, falling in space…maybe floating. Those are the best dreams. Terrifying, but how do you compare space travel to anything you’ve ever done in your life? Raking those leaves. But maybe just leave them in their mess. Cinnamon and nutmeg. Pumpkin spice. Warm delicious drinks to take your damp soul and give it life again. Mulled cider. What even is bar culture? Where do I fit? Learning to fall. Down the stairs. Just accept it in the nanosecond it happens and relinquish control. You get less injured that way. Karate taught me that. Among other things, I guess. I wonder who I would be if I never took karate for all those childhood years? I’d love to take up boxing now. I just want to punch something in those big gloves sometimes. It would feel good. It would feel powerful. Princeton in fall would probably be magical. Falls lead to breaks. Bone or winter. Ha! Fall means the start of school.


Charcoal sketch by the fireplace. Low light, sepia-colored photograph with blackened thumb and forefinger. Crying tears, makeup runs, mascara turns Beauty Queen into Horror Show. Sleeping in it takes the mask, imprinting it on pillowcase and part of sheet. Hair Metal bands, Green Day circa 2004-5. Jack Dawson Titanic. Back to the drawing. My sweaty hands on homework, on any piece of paper, any book. Pencil strokes become distant watercolors, wet pen marks and the accidental hand gliding across. A+ with a vapor trail. B+ as cascading stars or something. Nothing’s changed except the knowledge that the letters don’t mean anything anymore. But back to the sweaty hands; Embarrassment, shame, don’t look at me. I’m afraid for anyone to look at me. Surprised when anyone remembers me. Don’t you know what it’s like to feel this way?


Circlet, bracelet, mandala. Connectivity. Your mother’s protractor. How does a tree trunk know to grow so round? I had to really think about what a circlet was. A crown of sorts. Skyrim vocabulary. A game I haven’t played in likely over a year. Golden bands. Seems ancient. It would make me anxious to have to wear it, whether jewel-encrusted or just plain. What differentiates a circlet from a tiara? Does it even matter in this increasingly democratized society? Ripples on a pond behold the lake in a similar fashion to the circlet, a crown, on the head of a princess, does it not? Nature rules all. That is one of the many secrets to life. Circles on dart boards, spheres in the shapes of oranges and globes. How did they figure that out? What a marvel. I wonder how heavy a circlet would be? Probably weighted. A sure way to get a headache. Golden curtains, royalty.


Peaches are golden goodness, true nectar of the gods. Sticky, sweet, juicy bites. I like my peaches sliced, maybe with a dash of cinnamon. They’re best alone but also great in jams or pies. The best peaches this summer came from the Livingston Farmer’s Market. My mom would bring them home and I could easily eat a pound. Another great memory of peaches includes this past summer, when I went to the beach with Cass and Marie. We went to Seaside Heights and had a wonderful day. I had brought sliced peaches (from the Livingston Farmer’s Market) as a snack. And we shared the juicy fruit. There is nothing like the cool, sweet nectar of a peach dribbling down your throat and chin in the summertime; The heat of the warm summer sun, the taste of salt in the air, ocean waves crashing, gulls crying out. Summer days like that are why I’m glad I grew up in New Jersey and nowhere else. Out of season peaches are traitors. Previously frozen peaches are traitors. There is nothing worse than a mealy peach, or one stuck to the pit. It is so frustrating and disappointing when you get a peach like that. It’s probably one of the reasons why Farmer’s Markets are superior to supermarkets.