This is the ninth year I have watched that tree shed its leaves.
As of tomorrow, it will have been one full month since I finished writing "Antedivulian Homesick Blues" and one month since I've written anything. We came home from Manhattan on the 20th, and there was all that proofreading (Agents of Dreamland and Dear Sweet Filthy World) and there was the election. Now, it's aftermath of the election and the attendant uncertainty. I'm in mourning, as are so many others. But I'm still alive, and I have to keep writing, because there's nothing else in this shitty, broken, wicked world that I can do.
And Leonard Cohen has died. This year is determined to take everyone I love. Cohen was one of the people who taught me the meaning of poetry and song, and there is a little bit of him in everything I have ever written.