Ineluctable Modality of Smell, and the memory of things past:

In class today we discussed ground hogs day for a length of time, and how the idea of it seemed less fictitious than once first imagined. Which presents my first mediation: what is the root of this cycle that seems to have planted itself underneath are skins; fluttering all awake at a blinking set of red digits, and the luring sirens voice that slips out of the radio and bounces through are head like a drum beat, that steadily swoons through each one of our consciousness—weather we were aware of it or not. Is this the end—will we retire our minds to become slaves, and prisoners of repetition and cheep clichés. I do not think so; awareness is half the battle.
So how does one start seeing the world as an extraordinary experience? If I knew I would reveal my secret—for I see myself everyday repeating my motions. But here, I will share something I know to be indefinitely true as extraordinary—the sense of smell. also check out this link:http://www.macalester.edu/psychology/whathap/ubnrp/smell/memory.html

I awoke in a four-poster bed with a thin mosquito net around it on December 29th—the day of my father’s birth—at 8:00 clock in the morning. The scene around me was a messed, white sheet, and linens that smelled fresh even after a night of sleep. The room was like some other rooms I had stayed in with my father, as we criss-crossed the globe in search of spiritual enlightenment, or the missing pieces his father had left him to construct a final memory--which perhaps for anyone is never enough, and I new that for my father it certainly wasn’t.
Lying there the ceiling fan above swirled around the type of air that only exists in tropical southeastern Asia—that thick tropical humid smell of oceans forests bamboo people cooking festering street and an ancient wisdom that propels one to never veer from purpose. We had come to Nha Trang Vietnam to see a hospital—the hospital my father’s father worked at during the war. He and I had been given special permission by the faithful Ho Chi Min followers to enter the compound and marvel at something—that I am not too sure of yet.
The instinctual urge of a complementary breakfast drew my father and I from that clean linen cabin by the beach and into the resorts restaurant that was collapsing with the weight of European tongues, and a few wealthy Japanese. I sipped coffee and let my hair draft in the moist breeze, which reminded me of something.
As I was walking back to our cabin grey-clouds started dropping small raindrops on the grass—it brought forth that feeling again--that feeling was a memory of me and my father long ago in Oregon—we played by the see on the mouth of a river; green grass curling at it’s bank, the forest all around, the salty sea and sand, and moisture that collected in the sky that brought forth another 30 days of rain.