This people lives on the smell of wild apples that grow there; and if they go far from home, they take some of these apples with them, for as soon as they lose the smell of them they die.
– Travels of Sir John Mandeville (p. 181)
From the windows: the sound like the sea in the distance, cars crossing bridges crossing rivers leading to the ocean; the sharp cold color of the hills; shadows in the ridges, and white glaring light off the southern side of buildings; rusty leaves and the smell of ground and rotting chestnuts.
Life is too short for this book which smells of potpourri and afternoons misspent in faded floretry. I cannot tell whether it is the cloying stink or the dullness of the matter (promising to tend where I do not care to follow: to gossip and muddle and the human failing of overestimated importance) that caused [...]
The look of sunflowers bent in the streetlight.
Streets butting into dead ends and empty lots (still smelling of farmland), signposted ‘private property, trespassing, loitering forbidden’.
Circumspect distance maintained between pedestrians while waiting for the crosswalk signal in pseudo-suburbia: ca. eight feet.
Inconvenient end of the concrete sidewalk in molehills, broken glass,
blackberry brambles and dry grass, in a [...]
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ego hoc feci mm–mmviii
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