On the smell of burning leaves

This is a nostalgia piece, and normally I hate nostalgia because it conjures a false image of the past that never existed, but this topic might be a little different because it has to do the master of memories, a strong evocative smell. When I was a kid, we had huge trees around our house, so we also had a lot of leaves on the ground in October and November. We raked the brown and yellow and red leaves into enormous piles which at some point we would burn. Today, of course, you can’t burn your leaves without the police and fire department showing up to raise hell with you, and to be honest, it is air pollution. Having an open fire on your property or in the street is totally illegal. Back in the day, if my memory serves me right, back in the sixties, we would burn our leaves each fall, and an almost magic smoke would fill the air. Both acrid and sweet, the smoke had an incredibly rich smell which evokes for me other times and other places, people, seasons, short days, crisp nights, bare trees, incipient winter. The fallen leaves, the burning leaves, were announcing the changing season. I was so much younger then, younger than anyone really has a right to be. When I accidentally smell that smell today, the memories just wash over me like a huge unexpected wave. That nostalgia plumbs the depths of innocence as you warm your cold hands over the flames of memory. Sparks fly up and away in the darkness, children smile and watch the flames, chatting about nothing, but the bonds of those times are strong even though all of that–the burning leaves–is gone, up in smoke, a mirage lost in the past of another lifetime, another country. They say the past is a place to which we will never return, but the memories conjured by those potent and pungent smells assail us in ways we cannot ignore. The burning leaves of our pasts are still there, still burning, and the poetry that we wrote then, inspired by those people, places and events, will always return us to the past when we catch just the slightest wisp of smoke.

On the smell of burning leaves

This is a nostalgia piece, and normally I hate nostalgia because it conjures a false image of the past that never existed, but this topic might be a little different because it has to do the master of memories, a strong evocative smell. When I was a kid, we had huge trees around our house, so we also had a lot of leaves on the ground in October and November. We raked the brown and yellow and red leaves into enormous piles which at some point we would burn. Today, of course, you can’t burn your leaves without the police and fire department showing up to raise hell with you, and to be honest, it is air pollution. Having an open fire on your property or in the street is totally illegal. Back in the day, if my memory serves me right, back in the sixties, we would burn our leaves each fall, and an almost magic smoke would fill the air. Both acrid and sweet, the smoke had an incredibly rich smell which evokes for me other times and other places, people, seasons, short days, crisp nights, bare trees, incipient winter. The fallen leaves, the burning leaves, were announcing the changing season. I was so much younger then, younger than anyone really has a right to be. When I accidentally smell that smell today, the memories just wash over me like a huge unexpected wave. That nostalgia plumbs the depths of innocence as you warm your cold hands over the flames of memory. Sparks fly up and away in the darkness, children smile and watch the flames, chatting about nothing, but the bonds of those times are strong even though all of that–the burning leaves–is gone, up in smoke, a mirage lost in the past of another lifetime, another country. They say the past is a place to which we will never return, but the memories conjured by those potent and pungent smells assail us in ways we cannot ignore. The burning leaves of our pasts are still there, still burning, and the poetry that we wrote then, inspired by those people, places and events, will always return us to the past when we catch just the slightest wisp of smoke.

On a frosty morning

It happens so seldom in central Texas that a frost is worth noting. As a child in Minnesota, frosty nights were an everyday occurrence from September to May, but in the central Texas usually you can count them on one hand. A frosty night is a sign that time is passing, that the seasons are moving on, that another year is passing. Alone with one’s existential thoughts revolving around the nature of human purpose, a frosty night dashes reason and shreds any hope that one actually controls their own destiny. One is assailed by nostalgia and wistfulness for other times and other people when things seemed simpler. All of that is, of course, an illusion that keeps one from living more fully in the here and the now. One just tends to push all of the bad things into the back of the memory closet and leave them there. Frosty nights were made for warm jackets, maybe a hat, gloves. The problem being, of course, that more than eight months have gone by since I needed any of those things, and now I have no idea where they might be. One gets used to the heat, at least a little bit, and when it’s gone we complain bitterly. I don’t mind the cold, and I also find the cold a nice change from the monotony of the daily heat which is so common here during the year’s middle months. It is November, however, and if there is frost on the grass in the morning, I will be surprised. The heat seems like it will always be with me. On a frosty night you can see a million stars if you dare venture out, your breath condensing in the cold air as if it were so much strange smoke. The clouds are gone for a moment, and the heat of the day is drifting off into space. The stars, in their frosty heights, foreshadow the million tiny glittering ice crystals, ephemera, that will cover the lawn in the morning, shining coldly and brightly as we all go off to work, unable to stop and admire Nature’s handiwork. Grandes estrellas de escarcha vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba.–Lorca

On a frosty morning

It happens so seldom in central Texas that a frost is worth noting. As a child in Minnesota, frosty nights were an everyday occurrence from September to May, but in the central Texas usually you can count them on one hand. A frosty night is a sign that time is passing, that the seasons are moving on, that another year is passing. Alone with one’s existential thoughts revolving around the nature of human purpose, a frosty night dashes reason and shreds any hope that one actually controls their own destiny. One is assailed by nostalgia and wistfulness for other times and other people when things seemed simpler. All of that is, of course, an illusion that keeps one from living more fully in the here and the now. One just tends to push all of the bad things into the back of the memory closet and leave them there. Frosty nights were made for warm jackets, maybe a hat, gloves. The problem being, of course, that more than eight months have gone by since I needed any of those things, and now I have no idea where they might be. One gets used to the heat, at least a little bit, and when it’s gone we complain bitterly. I don’t mind the cold, and I also find the cold a nice change from the monotony of the daily heat which is so common here during the year’s middle months. It is November, however, and if there is frost on the grass in the morning, I will be surprised. The heat seems like it will always be with me. On a frosty night you can see a million stars if you dare venture out, your breath condensing in the cold air as if it were so much strange smoke. The clouds are gone for a moment, and the heat of the day is drifting off into space. The stars, in their frosty heights, foreshadow the million tiny glittering ice crystals, ephemera, that will cover the lawn in the morning, shining coldly and brightly as we all go off to work, unable to stop and admire Nature’s handiwork. Grandes estrellas de escarcha vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba.–Lorca

On the chance of rain

There is a 40 per cent chance of rain this weekend. Living in Texas, however, has made me skeptical. Rain keeps the planet green, but in Texas rain is scarce and comes at a premium. I know that predicting rain is a rough business, especially when you are dealing with the weather two, three, or four days out. The further out you go, the more accuracy goes down. Talking about the weather a week from today is just pure fantasy. I have often thought that predicting rain during a drought is bad luck. I love rain, but living in Central Texas or Madrid means that I seldom see rain. My summers are full of plenty of sunshine and warm weather. When the weather man or woman comes on the television with promises of liquid precipitation I almost always respond with a great deal cynicism, you see, because it so seldom rains where I am. Umbrellas go to my house and office to die of boredom. Mother Nature scoffs at me and taunts me by dropping a half dozen drops on my car while I drive to work–just enough to mess up my clean car, but not enough keep the grass alive. Or I drive through a downpour on the way home only to find that at my house it never rained at all. In Texas, a chance of rain might mean that the searing climate might moderate for a couple of days, that the cracks in the ground might disappear for a few days, that you won’t have to water the grass for awhile. The chance of rain is only too often a mirage, a dream, a hope unfulfilled. Day after day of 95 and sunny, though pleasant, is also boring in the extreme. The smell of wet earth floating in the air is a primitive smell that provokes all sorts of childhood memories of dark warm late-summer thunderstorms. A chance of rain might ruin your picnic, or make driving difficult. A chance of rain could mess up your hair, or cause you to cancel your tennis match. Funny, but I can’t remember the last time rain made me change my plans.

On the chance of rain

There is a 40 per cent chance of rain this weekend. Living in Texas, however, has made me skeptical. Rain keeps the planet green, but in Texas rain is scarce and comes at a premium. I know that predicting rain is a rough business, especially when you are dealing with the weather two, three, or four days out. The further out you go, the more accuracy goes down. Talking about the weather a week from today is just pure fantasy. I have often thought that predicting rain during a drought is bad luck. I love rain, but living in Central Texas or Madrid means that I seldom see rain. My summers are full of plenty of sunshine and warm weather. When the weather man or woman comes on the television with promises of liquid precipitation I almost always respond with a great deal cynicism, you see, because it so seldom rains where I am. Umbrellas go to my house and office to die of boredom. Mother Nature scoffs at me and taunts me by dropping a half dozen drops on my car while I drive to work–just enough to mess up my clean car, but not enough keep the grass alive. Or I drive through a downpour on the way home only to find that at my house it never rained at all. In Texas, a chance of rain might mean that the searing climate might moderate for a couple of days, that the cracks in the ground might disappear for a few days, that you won’t have to water the grass for awhile. The chance of rain is only too often a mirage, a dream, a hope unfulfilled. Day after day of 95 and sunny, though pleasant, is also boring in the extreme. The smell of wet earth floating in the air is a primitive smell that provokes all sorts of childhood memories of dark warm late-summer thunderstorms. A chance of rain might ruin your picnic, or make driving difficult. A chance of rain could mess up your hair, or cause you to cancel your tennis match. Funny, but I can’t remember the last time rain made me change my plans.

On being

Sometimes just being seems so simple, but there other times when being seems paradoxically hard. I find that daily heat of summer in Texas to be both simple and complex: one really doesn’t need to do much more than drink water and stay in the shade in order to get by, but is there more to life than just getting by? The question that poets and philosophers have wrestled with since there have been poets and philosophers is both complex and simple, but it also might be irrelevant. Life often has the meaning that we are willing to give it. Most of the universe seems to be dedicated to the simplification of complex systems, of dissipating energy, of searching for equilibrium, all of which seems to run contrary to the hopes and dreams of most people, who are busy building castles in the air, planning for the future, stashing away a pile of nuts for winter, hoping that things will get better, all the while forgetting about the importance of being in the here and now. Perhaps being is more a state of mind than it is a physical action or a series of objects. As Voyager 1 drifts out of the Terran solar system, one wonders about both the expanse that makes up our universe and the loneliness of an ancient computer that continues to power the middle-aged satellite, which still listens to radio commands that take over seventeen hours to reach it. Sometime in the future, around 2024, its nuclear power will run out of fuel and the lights will go out, but it will continue to drift, quietly through the vast black vacuum of space. The satellites mission was simple, and its very existence unquestioned. It has no fear of its end, no consciousness or self-awareness to complicate its mission. People are not satellites, fairly unaware of their futures, completely clueless about whether anything they are doing is right or correct. We second guess or plans, misunderstand our motives, trapped by ambiguity, confused by chaos, blinded by prejudice, bias, and relativism. Yet, that is the paradox of being. The world is not simple or easy to understand. Multiple correct answers to simple questions make navigating life a much more complex proposition than just a simple walk through a park. Medieval writers often compared life to a pilgrim’s journey to some holy site. I think that this was just so much wishful thinking on their part while they tried to ignore the fragmented, chaotic, non-linear nature of daily life. We wish our lives could be a simple as Voyager 1, but we all know deep down in our hearts that our dreams and desires complicate our lives in ways which are too innumerable to list here. Happiness seems elusive, solitude clings to us like an errant shadow, and we often fail to live up to any of our own expectations. We have met the enemy and he is us, as Pogo once said. Yet the human heart has a stamina that often appears superhuman. Even in the most mind-boggling disasters and tragedy, people are often shown, tears on their faces, explaining how they are going to start over, rebuild, keep going, even when their dreams have been destroyed by a raging flood or catastrophic storm. Where does this capacity for optimism come from? When the simple act of being seems nigh on impossible, people pull themselves up by their bootstraps, and begin again. Seems simple enough.

On being

Sometimes just being seems so simple, but there other times when being seems paradoxically hard. I find that daily heat of summer in Texas to be both simple and complex: one really doesn’t need to do much more than drink water and stay in the shade in order to get by, but is there more to life than just getting by? The question that poets and philosophers have wrestled with since there have been poets and philosophers is both complex and simple, but it also might be irrelevant. Life often has the meaning that we are willing to give it. Most of the universe seems to be dedicated to the simplification of complex systems, of dissipating energy, of searching for equilibrium, all of which seems to run contrary to the hopes and dreams of most people, who are busy building castles in the air, planning for the future, stashing away a pile of nuts for winter, hoping that things will get better, all the while forgetting about the importance of being in the here and now. Perhaps being is more a state of mind than it is a physical action or a series of objects. As Voyager 1 drifts out of the Terran solar system, one wonders about both the expanse that makes up our universe and the loneliness of an ancient computer that continues to power the middle-aged satellite, which still listens to radio commands that take over seventeen hours to reach it. Sometime in the future, around 2024, its nuclear power will run out of fuel and the lights will go out, but it will continue to drift, quietly through the vast black vacuum of space. The satellites mission was simple, and its very existence unquestioned. It has no fear of its end, no consciousness or self-awareness to complicate its mission. People are not satellites, fairly unaware of their futures, completely clueless about whether anything they are doing is right or correct. We second guess or plans, misunderstand our motives, trapped by ambiguity, confused by chaos, blinded by prejudice, bias, and relativism. Yet, that is the paradox of being. The world is not simple or easy to understand. Multiple correct answers to simple questions make navigating life a much more complex proposition than just a simple walk through a park. Medieval writers often compared life to a pilgrim’s journey to some holy site. I think that this was just so much wishful thinking on their part while they tried to ignore the fragmented, chaotic, non-linear nature of daily life. We wish our lives could be a simple as Voyager 1, but we all know deep down in our hearts that our dreams and desires complicate our lives in ways which are too innumerable to list here. Happiness seems elusive, solitude clings to us like an errant shadow, and we often fail to live up to any of our own expectations. We have met the enemy and he is us, as Pogo once said. Yet the human heart has a stamina that often appears superhuman. Even in the most mind-boggling disasters and tragedy, people are often shown, tears on their faces, explaining how they are going to start over, rebuild, keep going, even when their dreams have been destroyed by a raging flood or catastrophic storm. Where does this capacity for optimism come from? When the simple act of being seems nigh on impossible, people pull themselves up by their bootstraps, and begin again. Seems simple enough.

On a hot day in central Texas

I need to whine a little bit about the heat because, surprise, it was another hot day in central Texas today. To say simply that it was hot is to underestimate completely the phenomenon that is hot weather in Texas. By 9 a.m. one could already feel a very hot sun beating on one’s shoulders, and that blinding white light of endless sunshine was quickly invading the long shadows of the morning. One doesn’t know whether to put on more clothes to protect from the heat or wear less clothing in a futile attempt to stay cool. The point is that no matter what you do to try and stay cool, you will get hot if you must flee the cool comfort of your air-conditioning. Trying to stay cool in the heat is pointless, futile, torture. Just walking ten minutes to another building is a challenge because there is never enough shade. The heat is a lot like wearing an extra coat and you can’t take it off. No matter where you go, it follows you around, turning the inside of your car into an oven, burning the lawn to a crisp, reddening your skin, and making you feel tired and spiritless. If I wanted to live in a perpetual sauna, I would have one installed in my backyard. Instead, Mother Nature has installed a persistent high pressure dome over central Texas, driving the daily temperatures up to 100F almost every day. Now, there are people who like the heat and moved to central Texas to take advantage of this suburb of the sun, but I don’t get it. I know that some people have swallowed their fair share of winters, snow, cold, and ice, and don’t ever want to see another snow bank again and have taken refuge in central Texas, one of the hottest places in the United States outside of Florida and California. I think they are over-reacting, but then again, I find nothing attractive in this non-stop heat, sweat, and steam. Growing up in the cold, cool spaces of Minnesota, I put in my time with dead cold temperatures, icy roads and sidewalks, blinding snows, and endless gray days, but I think, and I know this is totally subjective, that the cold was a little less oppressive than the endless heat of August and September in central Texas. The heat makes even the simplest chores a lot of work. Even going for a walk, getting a little well-needed exercise, is almost impossible. Doing any kind of yardwork is almost impossible. Being outside for any length of time borders on dangerous. Perhaps it would be less oppressive if there was a break in the daily routine, but this time of year the weather is the same every day for about two months. It doesn’t rain, and it cools off very little at night and lows in the eighties are not uncommon, especially in August. The monotony of the daily heat is depressing, continuous, unending. I know I have a bad attitude about this, that dealing with the heat is just a state of mind, that a bit of heat is really not the end of the world, that sometime in October, the temperatures will go down and relief will come. In the meantime, this hot weather makes me feel out of sorts, grumpy, even. In the meantime, I can only dream about cool air, frosty mornings, errant snow showers, and cold rain.

On a hot day in central Texas

I need to whine a little bit about the heat because, surprise, it was another hot day in central Texas today. To say simply that it was hot is to underestimate completely the phenomenon that is hot weather in Texas. By 9 a.m. one could already feel a very hot sun beating on one’s shoulders, and that blinding white light of endless sunshine was quickly invading the long shadows of the morning. One doesn’t know whether to put on more clothes to protect from the heat or wear less clothing in a futile attempt to stay cool. The point is that no matter what you do to try and stay cool, you will get hot if you must flee the cool comfort of your air-conditioning. Trying to stay cool in the heat is pointless, futile, torture. Just walking ten minutes to another building is a challenge because there is never enough shade. The heat is a lot like wearing an extra coat and you can’t take it off. No matter where you go, it follows you around, turning the inside of your car into an oven, burning the lawn to a crisp, reddening your skin, and making you feel tired and spiritless. If I wanted to live in a perpetual sauna, I would have one installed in my backyard. Instead, Mother Nature has installed a persistent high pressure dome over central Texas, driving the daily temperatures up to 100F almost every day. Now, there are people who like the heat and moved to central Texas to take advantage of this suburb of the sun, but I don’t get it. I know that some people have swallowed their fair share of winters, snow, cold, and ice, and don’t ever want to see another snow bank again and have taken refuge in central Texas, one of the hottest places in the United States outside of Florida and California. I think they are over-reacting, but then again, I find nothing attractive in this non-stop heat, sweat, and steam. Growing up in the cold, cool spaces of Minnesota, I put in my time with dead cold temperatures, icy roads and sidewalks, blinding snows, and endless gray days, but I think, and I know this is totally subjective, that the cold was a little less oppressive than the endless heat of August and September in central Texas. The heat makes even the simplest chores a lot of work. Even going for a walk, getting a little well-needed exercise, is almost impossible. Doing any kind of yardwork is almost impossible. Being outside for any length of time borders on dangerous. Perhaps it would be less oppressive if there was a break in the daily routine, but this time of year the weather is the same every day for about two months. It doesn’t rain, and it cools off very little at night and lows in the eighties are not uncommon, especially in August. The monotony of the daily heat is depressing, continuous, unending. I know I have a bad attitude about this, that dealing with the heat is just a state of mind, that a bit of heat is really not the end of the world, that sometime in October, the temperatures will go down and relief will come. In the meantime, this hot weather makes me feel out of sorts, grumpy, even. In the meantime, I can only dream about cool air, frosty mornings, errant snow showers, and cold rain.