In Waco, while living next door to David Koresh (wink) and frequenting THEE best vintage/thrift stores, I was employed at a Floral Boutique. I fell head over heels, actually head over skis (considering the length and narrow stature of my feet) as I learned the floral lifestyle. The main qualm about this job was the nicotine habit of the treasured owner. Not only were the ciggies an extension of her mouth, but she sucked and puffed while creating ‘oxygen-giving’ flower arrangements. I would stand wilted as I longed, no craved, no ravenously longed and craved for the scent of a Star-gazer Lily to overtake my olfactory sense. BUT instead it was a tobacco chimney shoved up both of my nostrils. Ouchy.
So, desperate times called for desperate measures, true? Hence my covert operations in sneaking to the plant fridge and thrusting myself into it as I inhaled the most glorious oxygen known to man, I mean woman. I literally stepped inside this frigid, erect coffin and relaxed in O2 heaven. Crisp, smooth, pure, large air pricked and soothed my lungs as it ravished my internal being. It made me giddy. It made me love nature. It made me hate cig-lips. The air made me feel younger, enlivened, and in ecstasy anytime I would execute this operation…(interjection: be kind to the world, air can be enjoyed, it could become a hobby…to be breathe good air is quite fun)
I recall this time because fall has semblances of this air and it is potent in bringing memory close. I have thousands of past remnants haunting me whenever I venture outside. The sun has a constant, lonely, 5 o’clock glow and my noon makes me want a glass of wine, sand and a large blanket, rather than a measly sandwich and more work.
I want to go back to my highschool tennis days where my best friend and I would play doubles and rap Nelly (down down baby) as we hit the addictive-scented Wilson ball over the low net. I loved the sound of the sweet spot when the racket swiftly swatted the ball, gracefully, relentlessly to the opponent as leaves dropped dramatically onto the court. Ahhh.
I want to go back to the time I lived with 7 gals in a 3 bedroom apt near Wheaton’s campus. Those evenings that I’d share a bed with someone because I was last to slumber were annoying, yet salvingly snug. I needed women close to me after some painful heart wreckage in my life. I would daily commute to Chicago for art school on the train, listen to Jimmy Eat World, and feel infused with ideas and passion. That fall was a sharp dichotomy of heavy tears and heavy creativity. I felt breathed into with words to pen and images to capture and life to paint, but the limp from the summer carried into everything I did that autumn.
Autumnal Sentiment, not Sentimental Autumn because there exists a depth that sentimental recollections do not bear. It’s a painful season, yet has robustness that cannot be ignored. This is the time that the gods visit humanity impregnating them with ideas, a future, a revolution? And that’s how I feel. I could use a bit of revolute-ing, some future-hoping, some idea-making. For now I leave you with one of my favorite songs from a band that seems to creep and seep into my Falls and Winters for the last 5 years…