On the First Scent of Autumn
10/11/2006 5:30 AM – 5:54 AM
Sitting alone in the mingling scents of cigarette smoke and cool fall air. It’s not true fall. It will probably get warm again before we slide into winter, but this is the best time for the idea of autumn. The false early hint being more persuasive than the present fact. When it is time for a thing, though, it is enough to be there.
The morning glories have finally bloomed. Though the vines were thinner than last year and the green wall is more of a few thin strips, they are pleasant to look at. Remembering those forests breaks the heart when buildings surround you. The wanderlust sets in this time of year. “Go. Look,” this time says to me, but one must be content with what is attainable. The view from the bedroom window, sitting on the fire escape, walking to work – these are real and possible, so these are what should be done. If the day comes when I can climb into the car at 4 in the morning and drive with the windows down until it’s time for bed, I’ll snap it up like Halloween candy. But what is will do for now.
The times come when I’d like to settle down to the rest of my life. Odd, when reflecting that this is all times. Siren songs of comfort and joy. But these are here, too. The object of desire is the emotional reward for desire achieved. These keep the species alive, but, when observed from a distance, are thin compensation for the effort and seldom what we bought from selling ourselves. If one could have the emotion, there would be no object for attainment. So we let go of the desire for desire achieved and come back to where we are, knowing that, in all things, reality will do. This does not stop the tendency of the mind from running towards fantasy. But that is what I do. This is how you make a story. What is it that you want? Throw that desire onto a bag of bones and make it animate them. Topple trees in the path and see how they overcome it. If the desire is achieved, a comedy. If the desire is left unquenched a tragedy. Tragedy blows and comedy is cheap. Just tell the tale as it unfolds, carefully as you can. We’re just here; splashing in the river that carries us to the sea. Consume the autumn breeze while it’s there; let it go when it’s gone. This is enough.
Sitting alone in the mingling scents of cigarette smoke and cool fall air. It’s not true fall. It will probably get warm again before we slide into winter, but this is the best time for the idea of autumn. The false early hint being more persuasive than the present fact. When it is time for a thing, though, it is enough to be there.
The morning glories have finally bloomed. Though the vines were thinner than last year and the green wall is more of a few thin strips, they are pleasant to look at. Remembering those forests breaks the heart when buildings surround you. The wanderlust sets in this time of year. “Go. Look,” this time says to me, but one must be content with what is attainable. The view from the bedroom window, sitting on the fire escape, walking to work – these are real and possible, so these are what should be done. If the day comes when I can climb into the car at 4 in the morning and drive with the windows down until it’s time for bed, I’ll snap it up like Halloween candy. But what is will do for now.
The times come when I’d like to settle down to the rest of my life. Odd, when reflecting that this is all times. Siren songs of comfort and joy. But these are here, too. The object of desire is the emotional reward for desire achieved. These keep the species alive, but, when observed from a distance, are thin compensation for the effort and seldom what we bought from selling ourselves. If one could have the emotion, there would be no object for attainment. So we let go of the desire for desire achieved and come back to where we are, knowing that, in all things, reality will do. This does not stop the tendency of the mind from running towards fantasy. But that is what I do. This is how you make a story. What is it that you want? Throw that desire onto a bag of bones and make it animate them. Topple trees in the path and see how they overcome it. If the desire is achieved, a comedy. If the desire is left unquenched a tragedy. Tragedy blows and comedy is cheap. Just tell the tale as it unfolds, carefully as you can. We’re just here; splashing in the river that carries us to the sea. Consume the autumn breeze while it’s there; let it go when it’s gone. This is enough.
posted by Spike at 3:08 AM
1 Comments:
Just yesterday, as I was cautiously stepping over plants in search of lean pickling cucumbers, I thought of you in Buffalo and wondered if you had any green and growing.
Now I know.
I'm glad for those small windows of space in cities and towns and that you have some, no matter how thin the vines.
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