It's cold now, I guess, but I'm not shutting the windows.

I grew up in a home my father built with his own hands. With plenty of glass door windows on seven out of it's eight sides, sitting indoors reading a book on the couch was undifferentiated from reading a book outdoors on the porch swing in this house.

As soon as the weather got warm enough to shut off the furnace in spring, the windows would open and they would not close until the furnace fire was lit again. Even then, the windows might have remained open had we not cared about wasting electricity.

Which of course we do.

So ... I'm riding through my first full-season autumn in Hollywood and you know, I totally judged SoCal autumn, calling it wanna-be, comparing it to sugar maples turning every shade of sunshine and soil, and then falling to the ground in a final flamboyant display of creativity in say; real autumn-havin' locations.

Oh, Midwest maples are too brave for their own decoration. Naughty, nekkid maples.

But comparing the two is like a mom actually answering her son when he asks whom she loves more - him or his sister. Because both are pretty, girls, and honeysuckle just erupted in Silverlake - roses are near-wild near the Larchmont mansions. Angel's Trumpet and lemon trees are looking good in the 'Wood. And the heftier fruits such as Ju Ju Bees, figs, apples, grapes, persimmons and pomegranates beautify the local farmer's stands. Yes, this is autumn, too, and there is no other autumn like it.

The sun is still warm during the day, but the wind is cold. And it moves quite a bit faster and with voice, across my meditating form stretched across the floor rug, still refusing to shut those windows even at nite when I have to admit; it's probably too cold.

For what? For something. I forgot what for, so ... then wind moves across my floor-rug-stretched October cadaver meditating on how nicely this relent is sitting in. Intuitively I feel like relaxing. The push is over. And now I reap what I've sown, ride the two coasting wheelz, and sentiment over how unpredictably went this year and what a notable push it was. I guess it doesn't matter what part of the country I am in in autumn. I get to feel this way even in Southern Killa California.

If I only live 120 years, I'll only ever see 120 autumns. I'm not missing this one. If these windows weren't wide open, I'd be outdoors anyway.

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Autumn practices voodoo with acupuncture needles. All kidney meridian pin sticks and permanent appetite point piercings.

She's the Wicked Witch of the West Coast.

And when it rained last week for the fourth time this year, it was because of her drum and bass rain dance. Or her potent banashing ritual performed on the Dark Moon.

So ... happy New Moon, Autumn.

She'll rip your hat off and sendx it down the street the wind.

She'll play chicken with you on the sidewalk, then fake shy if she thinks you have expectations of her.

She'll deposit a Lover at your doorstep without even signing the card, and when you are the only one awake, still basking in passion's bliss, she will distract you with song at the top of her lungs riding past your apartment on her bicycle broomstick.

I do not have to seek anymore.

Autumn will not be ignored.

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Slightly fermented pomegranate seeds smell like wine. And have much similar effects.

These are the things we can not know without age.

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So, I guess I can't assume that you know the language of astrology, just because I wish you did.

Great voice. Smart man. Really pushing consciousness. How many observers do you have, that you are aware of, at any one time?

The way I can study Alchemy is by parusing the art, I've discovered. So much art and the symbolism is so cared for and exact and ... it's a great way to get to know a science before Light.

I wonder how I am an alchemist? I always thought of it more like wings on fire - too close to the Sun - and oh, isn't it all for the manifestation in the ashes.

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She might as well have been riding a broom stick, the way she flew down the street.

With no metal surrounding her - no frame, no seat belt, no air bag - the midnite Air element in full communication across her face. Two wheels and all the freedom in the world.

Speed proportional to her strong limbs’ whims. In the moment soaring on momentum.

She was flying down the street Wicked Witch of the West Coast style on a bike magnificent as the countenance of pleasure on her face. She obviously enjoyed riding. Very much so indeed.

But she was shy. Or pretended to be. Either way, I could not get her to look toward me as she rocketed by. What world is she living in? Oblivious to how oppressive long summer can be. Her world full of mystery and saturated with levity. Her own little game she is winning every day. I wonder if she cries sometimes like me.

Yes, she does. Autumn cries. Autumn soars and Autumn pretends and Autumn, the cousin I never had, finds me every year no matter where I am, though this year I was sure she wouldn’t come. I thought maybe she died. Or forsook the United States altogether for some other romantic land where everything moves in slow motion and no one remembers their given name.

I'm younger now and something tells me that adoration is cultivated separation and so I choose to suddenly and successfully be Disenchanted - no longer will I seek. You don't look for something you've already got. I’m ready to be. I have a place here and it is important, what I am doing.

Autumn … and you still have use for me.

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