October is the month in which decadence, beauty and the arts collide. In Mobile the month brings 21 days of perfect weather (some argue 15, but I’m an optimist). In October all of Mobile’s major arts organizations put on productions, and each weekend turns into an extraordinary celebration filled with post-show late night dinners, intermission gossip, standing ovations and green room photographs with costumed vocalists, dancers, and musicians. At least for me.

My first October of magic was in 2003. That year I discovered opera with Puccini’s “Turandot.” Hearing “Nessun Dorma” orchestrated live for the first time made me cry. It was also the time that I frequented the symphony, began my study of violin, and wrote my first articles for the campus paper. It seems like so long ago, but it was a wonderful month. My family and I spent every evening downtown taking in some show, and never made it home until after midnight, sweeping through the front door in couture, laughing about what had just conspired at dessert, or the cast party, or perhaps just backstage.

All of that is unofficial tradition now. The inaugural event was just last night, at MSO’s “Halloween Pops.” As I approached Saenger Theatre last night, the weather was perfect and the Saenger marquis glimmering. I reminded myself that this is a celebration so I put my chin up, smile on, and prepared myself for the beginning of a great next three weeks.

I fumble at celebrations and gatherings. I don’t like attending them, but enjoy their excitement. I hardly know enough people in town that the idea of doing something with anyone is attractive. My birthday (which nears) is always a mess: a fancy dinner where last minute reservations have been made. The evening proceeds as every Friday night does–conversation and steak with the family. Last year, we went to Café 615, and the same thing happened. I did receive lovely gifts: lots of Tchaikovsky recordings to add to my collection.

In my day dream world, my birthday parties are like photos out of NY Social Diary or Park Avenue Peerage, lots of swanky looking people holding glasses of champagne in newly bought party frocks from Saks. My sister somehow pulls off great parties each year, no party frocks, but lots of hip looking people. I’d never be able to beat her party this year: she rented out the VIP lounge at a local restaurant for an affair that began at 8 and ended after midnight.

This year, like I do every year, I said to myself, “I’m going to have a big bash!” But those aims were quickly murdered, as I recalled that all of my friends now live elsewhere. Including one of my best, who moved to New Orleans to attend Loyola as a vocal performance major (she’ll be famous soprano some day). Now I have no one to invite! And more importantly, who will go to the opera with me now!?

Being busy is no excuse for my lack of posts. I’ll be honest and admit that I really hate this blog. I hate my posts, I hate my phrasing. I can’t seem to keep readers, and think back to the good-old-days before July with my old blog that I actually liked to read.

When the arts events in Mobile pick up, hopefully so will the posts. In the meantime, I’m going to keep plugging along at this tepid pace and blog about whatever until a ray of hope appears.

My daily habits were interrupted twice today. Three times a week I settle with coffee and a copy of the New York Times, but it’s absence from the university hallways forced me to flip through an old copy of The Paris Review. As I re-read a memoir in the third floor break room, a girl sat near me on her cellular phone.

“Well, I really had fun with you these past…” she began to say. She was speaking to a male, I could tell it. “But, my family won’t go for it.”

I wondered what they wouldn’t “go for.” Was she pregnant? Was she caught into some blood war like “Juliet?” Immediately I stopped reading and started listening.

“My family doesn’t like that you live with your ex…they like got mad at me for being with you and not getting mad at you fa’ [for] that,” she said. I learned from listening that he lived in another time zone, and perhaps traveled while he worked. Perhaps it was their first time apart, since she went away to college. She told him to call her back, and unwrapped a honey bun to accompany her coffee.

I complain often to friends about my nonexistent romantic life–even as I near 23. It’s a subject I can’t let go off, nor get away from. In periods of appreciated solitude, something reminds me of a life portion that I’ve never experienced. And though the girl was near to tears, I suddenly wished that I was her. I would take it all, good and bad if it were offered to me.

At eleven I gathered my things, slipped a bookmark in the Review and started back to my English Lit class. I could hear her phone ringing as I exited the break room. He had called back.

Terry Teachout (Wall Street Journal) posted an excerpt from Howard Sherman’s blog. The two met for an interview, and Sherman noted something that I alsonoted while meeting Mr. Teachout:

He speaks exactly as he writes.

In fact, I wrote that very line down in my travel journal a few days after our meeting. I considered posting it when I recounted my trip, but thought that I was only imagining the similarity.

Today was my my first day of classes of my last year of school. At 8 a.m, I learned about deductive reasoning from an elderly man with a charming British accent, followed by an art history course at 9. For 18th and 17th century literature my teacher called my name during roll and looked up at me.

“I’m familiar with your writing,” she said. “It’s good to attach a face to a name.”

At 1:10 I was done for the day and unbelievably exhausted. Time flies, it’s cliche but true. It’s seems that an hour ago I was writing my first article for The Vanguard, and nervously attending Freshmen English 101 classes. Am I really approaching graduation now? I pose the question, but warn you not to confuse my nostalgia with saddness. I’m not much into academia, so I welcome the departure. If you ever hear me talking about grad school, I give you permission to ring my doorbell and slap me in the face.

I have been currently reading Strunk and White’s “Elements of Style,” The book has had such an wonderful effect on my writing, and I‘ve now been cutting useless words and fat from everything I pen. Even my e-mails are becoming more and more terse, and I now realize just how beneficial it is to write tightly.

When my former blog first left the web about a month ago, every person I met asked the same question: “Are you going to start it back up?” and for awhile I wasn’t sure.

When I returned back from New York (and the internship that caused me to delete the blog) the question loomed over my head as freelance jobs materialized. I thought a break from blogging would be healthy for awhile and almost considered never blogging again, but it was Terry Teachout’sadvice that got me back on the web–”Restart your blog” he said while we dined on dessert at “Good Enough to Eat.” When Terry Teachout says to do something, you’d better do it. So now I’m back, and posting will ensue…eventually.