28.08.2026
Hey Kid! You made it! Welcome to the circus. It has been a couple of days now and we haven’t met as you and your mom were in the hospital for a minute, but by all accounts are both doing fine. I don’t know what to tell you about the world you just plopped into. While you were busy being born, American icon and all around beautiful person Dolly Parton passed away, and the president of the United States renamed Lake Ontario to… I don’t know, show what dementia looks like writ large?
These little nuggets of advice are going to just burble up as they will, so don’t take them in any particular order. Piggybacking on “know your exits” is the all-important “know when it is time to leave.” Heading into the 2026 midterms here in the US, there is a lot of loose talk on the left about leaving this country if an overt fascistic takeover of the electoral process comes to pass. I don’t necessarily agree with that idea, if for no other reason than good-old Larsen stubbornness. I refuse to acquiesce to the mean and stupid among us. That said, when the smoke turns black, it is time to go. Let me explain:
When your grandma and I were growing up on the northern shore of the Carquinez Strait we were surrounded by working oil refineries that would, periodically, catch fire. When I was 14 or 15, I had a friend whose father drove trucks for the area’s petrochemical industry. One evening, we were hanging out when his dad came in and said, “Hey, Shell* is on fire, do you want to go check it out?” One thing about being a teenaged boy, which, I hope you don’t have to deal with too much, is that your decision-making faculties are still cooking. My advice would be to avoid boys altogether until they are 24 or so.
Off we went, crossing the bridge and skirting the perimeter of the burning refinery until we came to a biker bar across the street from one of the gates. I imagine there was conversation along the lines of, “what the hell are those kids doing here?” but soon enough we were led to a small apartment on the second floor that looked straight down into the raging flames.
The awesome power of an oil refinery destroying itself was something to see. The heat was palpable from the uncontrolled inferno even though we were still at least a couple of blocks away. White smoke churned into the evening sky as the sound of the holocaust rattled the entire building. The very teeth in our heads vibrated to the angry thrum of industry gone seriously awry.
Although I don’t really believe in Hell, capital H, gazing down into its gates was mesmerizing until I got a clap on the shoulder with a firm, “It’s time to go.” Always one to appreciate signs and portents, I hadn’t noticed anything different with the ongoing cataclysm and said so. “You see that smoke?” our ride pointed at the tortured sky, gathering his keys and killing his beer. “White smoke is all right, black smoke means it is time to go.”
I have carried that adage with me ever since. It might not be obvious to everyone in the room, but there comes a point in any situation when something fundamental gives way and it is time to use that exit that you carefully noted as you came in.
Sleep tight, little angel,
Tio-avô Ray
*Shell was a British oil company, one of the oldest, in business since 1907. You would think that they would have had the hang of it by the early ’80s, but there you are. The Martinez refinery changed hands in 2000 but has continued the grand tradition of periodically catching fire.
Román Leão 
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