à la recherche du temps perdu - sans Proust

One more day of August and the leaves are already starting to come down. Little yellow leaves among the green, tumbling gently onto the outdoor chairs. My woods are still lush, but this dead cluster, which hangs there all year 'round, suddenly became visible today. They are there when the rest of the forest is bare in winter and when the trees are green in spring and summer or red and amber in autumn. It gives me the creeps. The past - some of it mine - has come up to meet me these last couple of days. A confluence of events. The Kennedy memory I posted about yesterday. Then, last night I finished reading Bridge of Sighs - set in the 1950's in a small town in upstate NY- an exploration of the past of the town intertwined with the characters' sense of past and how they remembered it. I felt a sense of loss when I finished it. This morning, I opened a package and found my teenage self staring back at me in one photo and in another, my head thrown back in laughter. A wonderful gift from the friend who had taken them decades ago, had just found the negatives, and printed them for me. Visual madeleines, sent and accepted with love. Finally, this afternoon, Vicky Cristina Barcelona: Woody Allen's new movie. Funny, thoughtful, poignant, and extremely interesting. Not to be missed: the past is prelude. I am looking forward to September: for me, it is always a beginning.