Summer ended in the Catskills. We left the city behind and drove north through the rolling hills to a farmhouse-turned-artists-space for a night of camping and "arting," as P. calls it. We tromped around the goldenrod looking at installations, met some lovely people, enjoyed a group exhibition and marveled at a field of grazing ostriches (also, dromedaries, llamas and sheep). Things turned Kubrickian later that night when we walked up a dark country road to what can only be described as a pagan variety show hosted in a church-turned-performance space called -wait for it- Church of the Little Green Man. Which made a night out in Joshua Tree look like an Amish quilting bee. And that's all I'm going to say about that.
P. left Sunday to make his way back north to Boston. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and listening to Emmylou Harris I went for a run. And then promptly came home, put on Chopin's cure-all nocturnes* and comforted myself the best way I know how, in the form of a bowl of fresh butternut squash ravioli. Which was, as anticipated, utterly, perfectly, devastatingly delicious. And just like that, it was fall.
*Listen to my favorite Rubinstein recording here. Happy fall everyone.