Wallace Stevens

There's something sacred about autumn. Yes, of course the trees change to pretty warm colors and the breeze drops in temperature to that thrilling type of a chill, but much more importantly, the air smells like autumn.

I think there's some kind of unwritten rule that you cannot full perceive anything with only one sensory organ system. The taste of a fresh apple would be decapitated without the accompanying sharp, sweet smell; the burn of the fire would be entirely surreal without the visual splendor of watching the flames lick your fingers.

In the same way, I think taking in the smell of autumn requires the whole of a person. The skin feels the warmth of the sun, the briskness of the wind; the mouth tastes the deliciously thick atmosphere... the air fills the sinuses with the scent of leaves and newness.

This is one reason I find this week's weather rather disappointing.

Another reason I dislike this particular couple days' worth of cold, grey rain is that my basement room became overnight what can only be described as "thoroughly soggy." I proudly boast that my tidy ways prevented anything but one solitary notebook from being ruined by the water. Oh well, who needs notes to learn Hebrew, anyway?

We studied Wallace Stevens in American Literature today. I want very much to like him, and perhaps I do. My one issue is this mindset of his that poetry/art could eventually replace religion. I always thought art was religion, only more real.

Anyway, I've decided that if I could ever meet Mr. Wallace "Best American Poet Ever Beside Robert Frost" Stevens, I'd ask him one question: How are you so very sure that life and death are mutually exclusive?