Category Archives: happiness

On smells

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I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On smells

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I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On vacation

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It comes around about twice a year: a moment when I don’t have to get up in the morning and go. That doesn’t sound like much, but after weeks on end of nothing but deadlines, meetings, and the rest, one really appreciates a little down time. For me, vacation is less about going to the beach, or climbing a mountain, or visiting a foreign country than it is having some time to myself when I can do what I want to do. This sounds a lot like complaining, but I’m not complaining. I love my job and when vacation is over, I’ll be right back in the saddle fixing problems, answering emails, and teaching class–happy, in other words. My problem, everyone’s problem probably, is that the day-in, day-out, stress of the routine starts to wear on the nerves after awhile. Breaking free of the office for a few days is, however, great for moral. Sometimes getting away from it all gives you that new perspective that will make everything easier when you return. That is why vacation is such a good thing to do. The daily grind can be a backbreaking routine that just sucks the life out of your spirit. Whenever I get the chance, then, I do something to break up the routine, and believe me, it makes everything a whole lot better. So this is my chance to catch a breath of fresh air, to do some things for myself, be creative, cook a little, take a long winter’s nap. I don’t need excitement or strange places, odd food or dangerous past-times. All I really need is a fresh log to throw on the fire and somewhere to rest my weary feet.

On vacation

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It comes around about twice a year: a moment when I don’t have to get up in the morning and go. That doesn’t sound like much, but after weeks on end of nothing but deadlines, meetings, and the rest, one really appreciates a little down time. For me, vacation is less about going to the beach, or climbing a mountain, or visiting a foreign country than it is having some time to myself when I can do what I want to do. This sounds a lot like complaining, but I’m not complaining. I love my job and when vacation is over, I’ll be right back in the saddle fixing problems, answering emails, and teaching class–happy, in other words. My problem, everyone’s problem probably, is that the day-in, day-out, stress of the routine starts to wear on the nerves after awhile. Breaking free of the office for a few days is, however, great for moral. Sometimes getting away from it all gives you that new perspective that will make everything easier when you return. That is why vacation is such a good thing to do. The daily grind can be a backbreaking routine that just sucks the life out of your spirit. Whenever I get the chance, then, I do something to break up the routine, and believe me, it makes everything a whole lot better. So this is my chance to catch a breath of fresh air, to do some things for myself, be creative, cook a little, take a long winter’s nap. I don’t need excitement or strange places, odd food or dangerous past-times. All I really need is a fresh log to throw on the fire and somewhere to rest my weary feet.

On getting up early

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Obviously it’s late, so this is not going to be pretty. I hate getting up early for anything, and I especially hate getting up early for either any early morning meeting or an early morning flight. For years I taught class at 8:00 a.m. What was I thinking. I love to stay up late and wrap the darkness around me as I write. Fatigue seems to release the creative juices, knocks down some of the internal editor’s walls, and let’s the imagination just wander aimlessly through the blind alleys of my mind. But if I have to get up early, I’m going to feel bad and sleepy, which is a horrible combination. I was not made for seeing sunrises. I was made for admiring sunsets. I know all of that stuff about the early bird, but I’m just not buying it. What a horrible metaphor, catching the worm and all. You need any worms? Not me. To sleep the sleep of the just plain tired and not worrying about the morning rush half hour is a great pleasure. Driving to work with all the crazies who slept too long and are now speeding to work is just plain dangerous. Between drinking their coffee, putting on their make-up, texting, eating an egg-whatever, and juggling the children, these people are just plain dangerous. No, it’s better to head into work after 8:00 a.m. and it’s even better when you head in after 9:00 a.m. If I can just sleep a few more minutes, drink another couple of sips of coffee, eat my toast while it is still hot, I am a much happier camper. Rushing around in the morning is for the birds, people who don’t plan well, and the frantic. I would rather not associate with that boiling morass of multi-taskers, and go to work in my own sweet time. This does require, however, a bit of discipline because otherwise no one would come in at all, sleep the day away, and nothing would ever get done. On second thought, that doesn’t sound completely awful at all.

On getting up early

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Obviously it’s late, so this is not going to be pretty. I hate getting up early for anything, and I especially hate getting up early for either any early morning meeting or an early morning flight. For years I taught class at 8:00 a.m. What was I thinking. I love to stay up late and wrap the darkness around me as I write. Fatigue seems to release the creative juices, knocks down some of the internal editor’s walls, and let’s the imagination just wander aimlessly through the blind alleys of my mind. But if I have to get up early, I’m going to feel bad and sleepy, which is a horrible combination. I was not made for seeing sunrises. I was made for admiring sunsets. I know all of that stuff about the early bird, but I’m just not buying it. What a horrible metaphor, catching the worm and all. You need any worms? Not me. To sleep the sleep of the just plain tired and not worrying about the morning rush half hour is a great pleasure. Driving to work with all the crazies who slept too long and are now speeding to work is just plain dangerous. Between drinking their coffee, putting on their make-up, texting, eating an egg-whatever, and juggling the children, these people are just plain dangerous. No, it’s better to head into work after 8:00 a.m. and it’s even better when you head in after 9:00 a.m. If I can just sleep a few more minutes, drink another couple of sips of coffee, eat my toast while it is still hot, I am a much happier camper. Rushing around in the morning is for the birds, people who don’t plan well, and the frantic. I would rather not associate with that boiling morass of multi-taskers, and go to work in my own sweet time. This does require, however, a bit of discipline because otherwise no one would come in at all, sleep the day away, and nothing would ever get done. On second thought, that doesn’t sound completely awful at all.

On a hypothetical snow day

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It is the eternal dream of all children, old and young, to get a day off from work and school because of bad winter weather. No, I don’t expect a foot of snow tomorrow, but it could ice up really good overnight which would make driving prohibitive, or at least very dangerous. Driving in snow isn’t easy, and you can slide around a bit, but driving on ice, well, just isn’t possible. If you have no friction between wheel and road, you don’t have any driving either–you just have lots of sliding, and sliding is bad in a two ton vehicle. The dream of a day off from the regular grind is more tantalizing than finding free money because even if you find free money, you still have to do something to enjoy it. A snow day is enjoyed by doing nothing more than staying home. You don’t have to get dressed, you can drink a second cup of coffee, you might take a nap or even read a book–watch an old movie, maybe. The hustle and bustle of December is stressful, but a snow day is a de-stressor, if such a thing exists. You can be completely passive to enjoy a snow day. No meetings, no classes, no problems, nothing to turn in, and since tomorrow is Friday, we would get a long weekend. This is way too good to be true. The freezing rain just hangs off to the west, shutting everything down in its path, but the truth is, nothing is falling in Waco. Oh, there’s a fine mist out there, but the ground is warm and the roads are still passable, so I suspect that my dream will not come true. Yet, wouldn’t it be lovely to get an extra day of vacation right when you most need it?

On a hypothetical snow day

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It is the eternal dream of all children, old and young, to get a day off from work and school because of bad winter weather. No, I don’t expect a foot of snow tomorrow, but it could ice up really good overnight which would make driving prohibitive, or at least very dangerous. Driving in snow isn’t easy, and you can slide around a bit, but driving on ice, well, just isn’t possible. If you have no friction between wheel and road, you don’t have any driving either–you just have lots of sliding, and sliding is bad in a two ton vehicle. The dream of a day off from the regular grind is more tantalizing than finding free money because even if you find free money, you still have to do something to enjoy it. A snow day is enjoyed by doing nothing more than staying home. You don’t have to get dressed, you can drink a second cup of coffee, you might take a nap or even read a book–watch an old movie, maybe. The hustle and bustle of December is stressful, but a snow day is a de-stressor, if such a thing exists. You can be completely passive to enjoy a snow day. No meetings, no classes, no problems, nothing to turn in, and since tomorrow is Friday, we would get a long weekend. This is way too good to be true. The freezing rain just hangs off to the west, shutting everything down in its path, but the truth is, nothing is falling in Waco. Oh, there’s a fine mist out there, but the ground is warm and the roads are still passable, so I suspect that my dream will not come true. Yet, wouldn’t it be lovely to get an extra day of vacation right when you most need it?

On American Pie

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You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”

On American Pie

Posted on by

You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”