Our yard is blanketed by debris from the neighborhood trees. Multicolored leaves form a carpet punctuated by the crooked fingers of shattered branches. Sad brown palm fronds litter the walkway, and the seed pods full of berries that Sophie likes to put in her mouth litter the ground. The air smells alive. The plant odors mingle with the aroma of saturated soil to produce the intoxicating smell of autumn. Mist hangs in the spaces between the surrounding hills. The clouds above pass on, and the temperatures drop. Tonight there were hints of frost on the lawns. My breath billowed around my face.

On friday we visited the midwife. I heard our child's heartbeat for the first time. There's not a whole lot of things better than that.

Later the same day, Matt and I went and saw Inkboat's performance of Onion at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. It seemed to me to be about a writer who observed from a distance but never got involved, his editor (or publisher) and a couple who were either characters in his writings or consumers of his writings. Onions, which seemed to be a metaphor for books, were thrown about with enthusiasm. Or were they a metaphor for human souls? Or were they just onions?

Jen and I, during a rare childless moment, saw Frida earlier today (or yesterday) and it was quite excellent. I'm not going to do a review of it here, but it was great to hear (and see) Lila Downs at several points during the film. The brothers Quay also took part.

cds listened to while seeing my breath: Heavy Load "Full Speed at High Level", Hellhammer "Satanic Rites", Hellhound "Ice Age", Idiot Flesh "Fancy", and Sigur Ros "( )"

now: Popol Vuh "In the Gardens of Pharao/Aguirre"