1. Colors – My favorite colors are fire colors: oranges and reds and yellows. I can sit and stare at a campfire for hours, just watching the speed of the fire, the shifting colors from white through blue, into yellow, down to orange and finally to the simmering red of the coals. October is when, in the midwest (and I assume in New England, because I’ve seen pictures), we see the trees emulate fire. Ironic, somewhat, that the chief fuel for campfires would emulate one possible ending for itself, no? It’s been 7 years since I’ve seen it happen, and it’s well past time. I miss it terribly.

2. Smells – Wood smoke is one of my trigger smells. It sends me back to my childhood in Wyoming. We burned wood as our primary source of heat. That smell reminds me of the homes we lived in from 1982 until 1991. There were four of them, and that smell brings me back to it. Also, the smell of mulling cider brings along its own memory, this one geek-related. NERO-related, to be specific. The last October weekend event that we attended was CRAZY cold. We at Gypsy Camp had a HUGE kettle of cider, complete with mulling spices, thanks to Megs and Hallie. There were several hours of storytelling, laughing, joking and roleplay around that fire. People bundled together with each other for warmth and friendship, just for those few hours.

3. Tastes – Cider. Hot chocolate (with or without the butterscotch schnapps, and yes, Brett, I know that schnapps exists so that it doesn’t taste bad when you throw up). Candy corn. Dear god, the candy corn (October tastes of candy corn, much like April tastes like jelly beans). Those little peanut butter kisses with the dried up grainy peanut butter in the middle.

4. Feeling of the air – That crispness of mid-autumn leading into the bright sparkly days of frosty late October that signals the oncoming winter. The tension that the clouds hold, deciding whether it’s going to be spitting rain, stinging sleet or tiny snowflakes that they disgorge. October in Ohio, I feel, is going to be very different than October in California.

5. Sounds – Crunching leaves and honking geese come to mind. The sighing of the wind that always seems to be blowing. The laughter of children in the parks as they gather piles of leaves to jump into. Later in the month, there’s also the clump-clump-clump of the little demons running from house to house begging for the sugar rush.

6. Anticipation – It’s beginning to feel a lot like holiday season. Halloween is the gateway to the Foursome of Holiday Goodness. Halloween, followed three weeks later by Thanksgiving, then four weeks until Christmas, and ending a week later with New Year’s Eve and Day. All through October, I feel that build-up. It’s awesome.

7. Halloween! – Please. I’m gay. This is the homo holiday. We get to dress up to our most fabulous, and be whomever we want. There are fabulous parties, some with cash and prizes for costumes. It’s the best day of the year. Well, outside of my birthday.

Picture it: La Crosse, Wisconsin. 1996. Late September. Oktoberfest had just begun. I was heading to my friend Jeanne’s house for her O-fest Kickoff Party. It would be the first time that I’d meet her friends from growing up in Madison. There would be much alcohol (because, well, hello, Oktoberfest!), much laughing and much rockin’ the ganj (Mom, ignore that part!). It was one of the few times (of a total of three) that I’d smoke weed. It was a safe(ish) environment, and I was young.

I showed up at Jeanne’s and handed her two CDs, both of them Weird Al. She gave me The Look. She’s an alternative music kinda girl, and Weird Al was decidedly not alternative. “But it’s polka! And this is Oktoberfest! Just listen. You’ll love it,” I said. She put in ‘Bad Hair Day’. “Track five.” It’s ‘Alternative Polka’. She listened. And howled. “That’s AWESOME!” she giggled, as his parody of Nine Inch Nails’ Fuck You Like An Animal spent 20 seconds in the song. “Wait until Porter and Trace hear this.” An hour later, everyone was there, and she played this song and ‘Polka Your Eyes Out’ from ‘Off the Deep End’ for them. I stood there with a mischevious smirk.

This was my indoctrination into that group of people. It was also one of the defining moments of my relationship with her. We still keep in contact, but it’s been several years since we’ve seen each other. I desperately miss the time I got to spend with her. She was one of my best friends at the time, and I’d like to think she still is. She goes through a lot, but she’s strong and awesome.

I’ll forever treasure the memories: 3am breakfasts at the Country Kitchen (“Jeanne’s Cunt!” … oh, shush. You had to be there) across from her fantastic apartment. Rainy summer afternoons on her porch playing fast-and-furious Mille Bournes games and screeching at each other like howler monkeys. Getting drunk and high like only 20-somethings can and laughing like maniacs. I’m sure there were bad times, but somehow, they didn’t stick with me as much (well, except maybe for the whole Phil debacle, but that’s another story). It’s always the good times.

I need to email her and let her in on this post. She’ll get a huge kick out of it.

I crawled into bed tonight, pulled the covers up to my chin, and shivered. Then I popped out like toast, got dressed and sat down to write.

Tonight makes me realize what kind of wonderful we moved to. According to AccuWeather.com, it’s 53° outside, but feels more like 46°. This means that our cotton sheets will probably end up in the closet sometime soon, to be replaced with our flannel sheets, the ones with the little paw prints all over them. Leon has already thrown an extra blanket on top of the quilt as well, though I’m not sure why, as he doubles his body temperature the second he falls asleep.

Wednesday, on our way home from work, I was in a t-shirt with a sweater over it. The wind was blowing and Julian kept making fun of me as I shivered and cursed the cold. It’s going to be a long winter, and yes, I’ll bitch about it, but I’m loving every minute of it. It’s awesome, and I can’t wait to wear more sweaters, more pants, and get my hats, gloves and longjohns out.

And the cold makes the best sleeping weather. Time for some hibernation!

At PSG this year, I was involved in a ritual that was made of a series of challenges. One of the ones that stuck with me the most was a lady pirate who challenged me with ‘What masks do you wear?’ I vaguely remember some verbal sparring with her, until I got to the meat of the answer, which earned me, surprisingly enough, a gold coin. I finished the ritual and finished my week at the event.That question still rolls around in my head at times.

What masks do we all wear? It’s an appropriate question, what with Samhain (and her twin sister Halloween) just down the hall a bit and through the door on the left. Physical masks are about hiding who we are to pretend we’re someone different. Not all masks, however, are physical.

Samhain marks the end of the spiritual year for many of us. It’s one of the great festivals and more often than not, it’s also the most somber. It’s one of the nights of the year when the Veils (between life and death, the corporeal world and the non-corporeal, between Faerie and not) are thinnest and sometimes shredded altogether. It’s also a time where we can remove our masks, examine them more closely, and re-evaluate them to discard those which no longer work for us and those which need some updating.

So to return to my lady pirate’s challenge, what masks do I wear? They are all very fluid. They change from person to person.

I wear the mask that my friends expect to see. Some see an employee. Some see the spiritual side. Some see the class clown. Some see the craftsperson. Most see the thornier side of me, but accept that as well.

I wear the mask my family expects to see. They see the oldest son, the oldest grandson, the oldest grandchild. They see the boy I once was, even though he’s hidden so far back in my personality that he rarely comes out. There’s just no convincing a mother or grandmother that he’s not really there, though. Some of them see a huge disappointment. Those are the ones for whom I wear the mask, mostly, so that they don’t see the inner side of me to see the hurt they cause.

I wear the mask that the world expects to see. They see a gay pagan, and I encompass all that those words convey, good and bad. They see a customer in their store, an administrative assistant behind the desk of my office, a guild member with a pair of pointy sticks and some string. This is probably the least flexible mask.

The biggest mask that I wear, however, and probably one that most people I know share, is the Internet. It’s easy to be anyone you want to be when you don’t actually look someone in the face to say it. How much would we not say to people if we were sitting there with them, or how would we say it differently?

How many masks do you wear?

After I got my hair cut last night, I also made some definitions to clarify. Evidently, my sense of humor isn’t coming across as well as I expected. In asking friends if I came off as upset when I made that post, I was told that it was my ‘dry gay humor coming out — so dry it needs more lube!’ I think I’m mostly okay with that. It does, however, make me wonder where I went wrong with the people who were unsure of my intentions.

It’s no great secret to anyone that, even though I fell in love with the bay area, I quickly lost the rose-colored glasses. For me (and let me emphasize and reitterate that all of this is FOR ME, as in my point of view and my feelings, and that your mileage may vary), it became a downward spiral of anger, bitterness and exclusion. It’s a great place to visit, but there’s no way that I’ll ever live there again.

I’ve also spent far too much time in this world to start harboring regrets as well. There’s no possible way I could ever regret the decision to move there. If I hadn’t moved there, so many of my friends wouldn’t even exist in my life. So many of my life experiences (including realizing that I’m hysterically funny on stage and, ironically, play the straight man in any comedic format incredibly well, and I probably wouldn’t be the world-class knitter that I am) wouldn’t have made me who I am today. And really, that doesn’t even touch on the fact that, had I never moved to the bay area, I never would have met my husband, nor would I be in Columbus with my tribe today. My life would be drastically different, and I’m not about to regret the person I am. Ever.

Because I’m a damn good person, really, and I plan to stay that way. I have been getting much better with laughing at myself and not taking myself too seriously. I’m trying to change some of my less personable traits, but that just continues to get easier and better. I’m a work in progress and, gods willing, I will always be a work in progress.

Sometimes, though, I feel a little stalled. I can feel a build-up of Possibilty coming up behind me, ready to push me forward. Some of it is spiritual, some of it is personal, some of it is career oriented. Almost all of it, though, is positive. Not all of it is easy. In fact, most of it won’t be easy. Things that are worth it rarely are.

And I’m okay with that as well.

Am I still angry? Yeah, more often than I’d like. It’s hard not to be in this political, social and economic atmosphere. There’s a bumper sticker I see on a car every morning on my way to work that says, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention!” Sadly, it’s more true from my side of the fence than from the other. Do I let it rule me? Not nearly as much as I used to. Next year should be interesting, in the Chinese proverb curse meaning of the word. Here’s to election years! *clink*

Hell, at this point, I’m not even sure where I’m going with this. I could totally get more fluffy, though. I need new pix! I like BP‘s peanut butter chip cookies! More martini glasses would be AWESOME! I have a kickass present to send to someone kickass in Pakistan that will make her squeal so loudly that it will shatter glass in California!

Yeah, that’s the extent of my fluffy right now. Well maybe not.

My World of Warcraft main character started annoying me. They’re nerfing on of the warrior powers (Weapon Mastery) by taking away the immunity to Disarm effects and making it a percentage. So I started a couple of new characters, both warlocks, both named Seraglio. One is a cute little gnomelock on Garona, the other is a dirty hawt blooflock on Proudmoore. I’m LOVING them so far, but I’m sure it’ll get more difficult as I go along. The power difference is beyond amazing.

(Randomly: the punctuation keys on a computer keyboard are not decorative. I don’t understand how some people got out of the 8th grade. Seriously.)

So, lady, does that constitute enough blogging for you, then?