One of the few perks of November is the beauty of the leaves changing colors. However, with this beauty comes the inevitable release of ethylene gas, and the "fall" portion of autumn. Unhappily, this means the smell of rotting or incinerating leaves if they're not taken care of in a timely fashion, and it rains, such as it has here. Rotting foliage is definitely an effluvium. I must admit though, it's definitely a pretty sight to see green grass and hills carpeted skillfully with the bright earthy tones of reds, browns, greens, and oranges.
Against the gray cloudy sky the flaming bushes and trees absolutely make their mark in the world, whereas in the spring and summer they simply blend in with the rest of the scenery. That's the beauty of November, if of course you're able to ignore the seething cold that seeps in between your gloves and your fingers, chilling your wrists and fingers mercilessly.
One of my favorite brothers recently lent me his biography of Nikolai Tesla, one that I've been bugging him to let me borrow for months. I feel slightly guilty, because he hasn't entirely finished it yet, but he was still gracious enough to lend it to me. That was several months ago, say about six or so. After reading the first fascinating chapter, I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't picked it back up again, but he hasn't asked for it back either, so I suppose it's all neutral ground. :D
Yesterday happened to produce one of the most notable creations in my culinary experience. I started to make bread, normal, bland, white bread, when I conceived the notion to add some flavor to it, and make it a bit more exciting. So... I added some yogurt... and some jam... and some other flavors... and boom chief! The result was strawberry flavored sweetbread, with a crust that was more amazing than any nasty Pillsbury concoction could have produced. The batch made two somewhat gigantic loaves, both of which were consumed in a timely fashion. Don't get me wrong, I have no problems with that. But I strongly feel as though the Beatles continuously lie to me as they hum "strawberry fields forever..." because that strawberry field lasted little more than a day and a half. No hard feelings though.
Really all the ramblings of today come down to is loneliness. Books are great company and all, but sometimes non-fictional people are more interesting and enthralling than fictional characters. In the past when my parents have come home to all of the lights lit, with the stereos playing, and the tv's on noisily, they're astonished at my behavior. Of course it's just so I feel like there are other people there, but they don't exactly understand that yet.
Anywho, I suppose I'll be off to copy down some belated history notes for the worst class in the history of horrible classes. Wish me luck that The American Pageant doesn't eat me. Cheers!
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