And so

I want to carve a pumpkin and wear a scarf. I want to drink cider and eat candied apples. As soon as I come back from New Orleans, I think I'd like to make this happen.

Fall was always my favorite time of year in Portland. I remember the first year I moved there the trees turned into fire. I went home for Fall Break, and when I arrived back in Oregon the trees were inflamed and absolutely vivid. I honestly had never seen anything like it, and I remember taking photos and photos of every possible tree and every possible leaf I could. I walked around the Canyon, and I specifically "got lost" on Ross Island while sailing a couple of times just to be surrounded. The weather was crisp, the air smelled like earth and fireplaces, and the colors... the colors. The hills, the mountains, the leaves were all the color of warmth. I bought an orange sweater, a brown shirt, and red scarf. I tried to become what I saw, and I tried to blend into the forest. Even in the cold of college, and the missing of home, I felt warmed by my eyes and beauty such as I had never seen. Mountains capped themselves in white and leaves tipped themselves into orange, all the while I stood placid, I watched, I waited. Then one day I woke up, and it had all fallen.

Not much to say

"The Intro" by the xx is on repeat, and I'm mindlessly reading through blogs as I wait for the pills to kick in. I feel something, but definitely not the weightlessly heavy feeling I love and can never explain to people who have never felt it themselves. And I'm thinking about how much I just really wish I lived in London, or how much I wish I could switch lives with the people who write these blogs I am so addicted to. And I'm thinking about how they write so well, how their lives cannot possibly be quite as great as the say they are. And I'm thinking that maybe they find their lives dull and somewhat unsatisfying the same way I do. And I'm thinking about how much I would love for them to write books so I could write my grad school dissertation on something typical like their "style." And I'm thinking maybe I could eve make some stereotypical, broad stroke to apply their "style" to the gay community as a whole. And I'm thinking it's probably just all bull shit.

He's running his hands through his hair, and he makes the funniest faces when he retells stories about things that either annoy him or have no significance at all-- though I guess enough significance for them to be retold. I am interested, but he is not necessarily interesting. There is something almost too predictable and logical about what I know of his personality, and I wonder whether or not I can love him, luckily though, I don't have to.

I play with my fork and look into his eyes, and something strange occurs. I tell him I was in a play at Rice when I was in 7th grade, and I ask if perhaps he was there at that time. He tells me that he had already graduated. And the truth of the age difference sinks in, but for some reason I'm okay with that, and I think he is too. Aside from those strange moments where we realize that our timelines are completely different, I think we're incredibly comfortable. A good match, maybe, but I also wonder whether I want someone a bit crazier?

He casually mentions something about his personal trainer, and how it's great to run the Memorial loop because of the "eye candy." This makes me more uncomfortable than the age, and I have to ask myself whether or not this 34 year old-- or maybe he's 35?-- is a sexed serial dater who just wants to add someone 10 years his younger to his repertoire. But that's okay, maybe, and I find myself being okay with so much more than I ever have ever before in my life. And you know what, that's okay.

Two nights before that date, I was in a club on the dance floor with a coworker, putting my hands under his shirt and being incredibly surprised at the chiseled abs I find. I am wasted, and I think I step on his foot a couple of times. Then I suggest we go back to his place and hook up, though I don't say this out loud. This guy is nice though, and I know I would regret it anyway; so instead I just go home and go to bed. When I wake up to a disappointing Sunday, I am walking the dog and notice that there's still a longing, and I realize the last time I had sex was in Austin with that frat boy, and that makes me feel a little excited but also a little disappointed with myself at the same time.

As I sit in bed and read, make stupid vocabulary quizzes, heat up some soup, I realize the longing is not really for the guy I went out with on Saturday night. It's not really for the lawyer either.