The numbing pain of a headache is slowly overtaking me.
I'm feeling more and more like my life is in a state of chaos, but then I think. . . . isn't life always chaotic? And then I realize it is, in fact. Always chaotic. Always changing, always new. Always on the verge. Of what? Everything.
The weather was nice, not too long ago. More rain more recently, but it is March, after all. But is was sunny, and 84. The sun means darker freckles. I miss the sun. The sun means the scent of hot pavement, hot tar, and car exhaust in the city. The smell of restaurant kitchens and cigarettes intermintently dispersed as we drive, windows down, or walk, chins up, through the city. The smells of life, and the smells of a big river. The smell of two cities, a beautiful pair.
The smell of a hot city brings me to a land of memory. A place where my father used to take me to shop for knick-knacks, where they sell the best variety of CD's by unknown artists and local heros, where the smell of incense permeates your clothing, so you smell like that shop all day, and where all of the pipes and pinchies are advertised as "for tobacco use only." A place where we used to sit for three hours before the parade even started, every year, because we knew we had to claim those perfect seats before anyone else did. A place with that bridge across the water, and that school parking lot we used to stash the car at for that block party we always attended, every year.
The smell of a hot city is my childhood, definied. Maybe that's why I miss that smell so much. I miss that definition.
I'm feeling more and more like my life is in a state of chaos, but then I think. . . . isn't life always chaotic? And then I realize it is, in fact. Always chaotic. Always changing, always new. Always on the verge. Of what? Everything.
The weather was nice, not too long ago. More rain more recently, but it is March, after all. But is was sunny, and 84. The sun means darker freckles. I miss the sun. The sun means the scent of hot pavement, hot tar, and car exhaust in the city. The smell of restaurant kitchens and cigarettes intermintently dispersed as we drive, windows down, or walk, chins up, through the city. The smells of life, and the smells of a big river. The smell of two cities, a beautiful pair.
The smell of a hot city brings me to a land of memory. A place where my father used to take me to shop for knick-knacks, where they sell the best variety of CD's by unknown artists and local heros, where the smell of incense permeates your clothing, so you smell like that shop all day, and where all of the pipes and pinchies are advertised as "for tobacco use only." A place where we used to sit for three hours before the parade even started, every year, because we knew we had to claim those perfect seats before anyone else did. A place with that bridge across the water, and that school parking lot we used to stash the car at for that block party we always attended, every year.
The smell of a hot city is my childhood, definied. Maybe that's why I miss that smell so much. I miss that definition.
VIEW 25 of 25 COMMENTS
zarth:
Oh yes. I'm more and more pleased every time I see it. And by "pleased" I mean "aroused."
zarth:
And you're still making me wish I was there.