<br><br><center>*In daily life we never understand each other by complete clairvoyance nor complete confessional. We know each other only by external signs, and these serve well enough as a basis for society and even for intimacy. Mutual secrecy is one of the conditions of life upon this globe.
― E.M. Forster*
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*Autumn*</center>
<br><br>It's rare to be under thirty and be a lecturer at university, but here I am, thanks in part to Father Breton who promoted me and my writing success that earned me a residency.
It's a heady experience considering where I've been and what I've been, but writers can invoke poetic license and be granted a longer tether...
And who knows―it may someday turn into tenure, but I'm getting ahead of myself again. My bad, I'll do better because defying the gods just leads to nemesis and I definitely don't want to go there.
I've been there and bought the tee shirt and still wear it under my pressed suit as a kind of anti-hero superman.
<br><br>I can't believe it's September and life is starting all over again. Today I saw purple-bottomed autumn clouds and the temperature dips at night into the 50's―nippy, under a snow-white moon.
I should be happy but I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing comes easy for me and I don't expect this year to be like floating down a stream on flowery beds of ease...
More like a stick caught in the current being carried along wherever Fate might please.
<br><br>I taught a writing class in summer session that just finished.
It generally went well, with some exceptions―well one, to be precise―Autumn Chandler, a head-strong, opinionated, thorn in my side who sidetracks my discussions.
And sadly, she's beautiful and embodies all the fall colours her name implies.
Why can't beautiful women be invisible, like a perfectly painted wall, flawless but unremarkable?
Why do they invade our thoughts?
<br><br>I'm talking to my pock-marked friend, the Moon, who's come round the house to peer in my window and distract me from my thoughts...
Just like Autumn who not only disrupts my lectures but lately disturbs my dreams.
Her constant challenges keep me from sleep as I strive to devise some method to neutralize her effect.
And of course, because she's the last thing on my mind, she ends up in my dreams. It's not fair―there must be an answer I have yet to find.
<br><br>One day in writing class I thought I found a way to put her in her place.
I came up with an impromptu writing exercise that involved producing a detailed description of someone in the class based on the intangible essence of their personality and not on appearance.
As I suspected, most of the class struggled, except of course for Autumn. I watched her writing assiduously, with such ease and abandon I was certain she misunderstood the instructions and would end up being justly chastened.
I was wrong.
<br><br>I called time after twenty minutes and asked the class if anyone would care to share their creative composition.
One hand went up. It was Autumn's.
"I think I did this right, Professor Taylor, but it came out so easily I'm not sure I followed your instructions correctly."
Frank Murphy, one of the popular boys laughed and warned, "if it came that easy it must be wrong―I wouldn't embarrass myself, if I were you."
The class laughed and generally agreed.
"But perhaps you did it right, Ms. Chandler, I intervened, "all writing involves risk―it's when you're uncertain that you often write your best. Are you willing to risk?"
<br><br>The question hung in the air.
I knew I was baiting her, setting her up for a fall, but all failure is creative, I reasoned, and we learn from our mistakes.
But I was hoping to take her down a peg or two―she was just too damned confident.
And as I figured, she couldn't resist the temptation and I could entrap and humble her perhaps for the remainder of the session.
<br><br>But then she began to read.
*The person I wish to describe is confident and gifted, extremely patient but so kind I want to weep. I wish I could be so self-assured while remaining humble and be never cross but always ready with a word of encouragement...*
She continued on in that vein, her voice a barely audible whisper and the room absolutely quiet as it always is when truth is spoken.
When she finished, the class applauded.
<br><br>"I don't know who you described," Frank Murphy said, "but I'm certain it's not me. That person sounds more like god-like than human."
Again, the class laughed and agreed but to forestall further questioning, I hastily added, "as we agreed, we wouldn't embarrass anyone by disclosing the identity of the person described."
I then, ended the discussion by stating, "Excellent work, Ms, Chandler―you did exactly what was required."
I then moved on to a study of character and how to reveal personality through dialogue.
<br><br>At the end of class I expected Autumn to hang back and receive accolades from the other students, but she quietly exited the class with her head down.
It was odd behaviour from *The Queen*, as I inwardly called her, to see her sombre and withdrawn.
But the lesson showed me something about her―that once she got praise, she went silent. It was paradoxical and not at all what I expected.
I began to think I didn't know Autumn Chandler at all
<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>
<br><center>© 2023, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>
<br><center>[Photo](https://paperimages.tumblr.com/post/11933981119/ron-hicks-pensive-redhead)</center>
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