September's snuck up on me here in Texas.
     Some sly and secret switch gets thrown on September one. In one short last spasm, the hellfires of August burn themselves out and the slow quiet business of Fall gets under way. Don't get me wrong, this is Texas: we'll wear shorts until November, and I don't doubt that there are a couple of more one hundred degree days coming our way before it's all said and done. But I plugged in my Christmas lights last night, and I saw the first flicker of a jack o lantern on someone's porch, and the air has softened up with that barest hint of leaf cinder and wet earth. The clouds are back from their summer time exile, and my run earlier tonight was a pleasure for the first time in months.
     Fall time, Autumn time. I'm going through my yearly Ray Bradbury pilgrimage right now, re-reading Dandelion Wine and getting all the aching nostalgia that I can take. I'll save Halloween Tree and October Country for one more month, when even Texas has to admit that dry rib rattling Autumn is here and Winter can't be far behind.
     Autumn time, Cold Smoke time. I'm sitting in the dark watching a pile of candles burn low, bemoaning my latest painful breakup, listening to the same punk rock record that I've been listening to every time this has happened for the last eleven years (Take it Back by Gray Matter, if you're interested: "There's nothing that you stole from me that I didn't give up willingly"). I'm on my third or fourth (or fifth?) glass of wine, listening to the A/C howl along quietly and dreaming of Autumn time and a trip to see the snows, watching the cold smoke blow.
     I last updated this site on 9/7/98, but you're on you're own to find it.
     All dogs go to heaven
     But our's're just sleeping on the porch
     It's been a year and one day since the fields all burned
     But I'm still carrying the torch
     I wonder what kind of trouble she's in
     What kind of demons are on her trail...
     But all that doesn't matter much,
     I'm just waiting on the mail.
               --Some old boy I heard on Friday night
Lo, and behold, lots of people talk about themselves on the web. Of these fine folks, I only personally know Cantone and JRH:

To understand what Trilogy was like, just mentally replace "Netscape" with "PcOrder" at
The mighty, mighty Cantone
Jennifer (who sometimes reads this)
poems | weekend | road