(We Live Half at Night)

6:27pm on the evening before Thanksgiving- I'm listening to The XX and the sound of the dishwasher running in the kitchen of a house that is not mine.  I've lit three candles, placed them strategically around the room, and shut off all of the lights.

(November is the month after that in which I tend to think of him, but it is this month that he will be coming to visit.  This week, actually.)

I've been feeling protective of myself as of late. My life. My doings. My constructions of accomplishments.  Is this strange? It is toward no one in particular.

I've been thinking in mathematical terms, lately.  Summing things up.  Dividing things. Subtracting. (Not multiplying. Never multiplying. Some do. Carrie just had her baby today.)

Unrelated, I am thinking of what I had wanted, in a moment, for Thanksgiving this year.  Then, I simply stopped wanting it.  And here I am, in this warm house that is not mine, in candlelight and the reassurance of the dishwasher.

Upstairs, a conversation of smiles is being woven between a long distance sister and her brother.

-k.

title credit: part of a lyric from The XX
photo credit: Logan White

*****
Upon the suggestion of a film genius friend of mine, I recently watched the film Night of the Hunter (1955).  I read a bit about it first- German expressionist in style and, according to a number of famous film types, the film introduces Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), as one of the most memorable villains of all time. The use of light and shadows (and hilarious use of animals) is absolutely gorgeous.

If you get a chance, watch it.  If anything for the underwater scene of a dead body that is breathtakingly beautiful and unforgettably creepy.   Although I won't spoil that scene for you, I will give you a taste of some of the shadows here.