scents of home
March 31, 2024
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This new pen flows like prose from a drunk poet. Fluid, liquid, smooth talkin’. Maybe not so good at that walkin’.
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It's a color I haven't seen in awhile — matches the pine of my Andalucian montañas. Makes me think of that line in 10 Things I Hate About You, which is actually a Shakespearean line, "I burn, I pine, I perish…"
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I pine for pine trees. I really do. The scent of pines, their sappy cones and prickly shoots brings me a grounding like no other. It hits my heart directly and hugs it oh so tightly as if to say, "Welcome home.”
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Those candles that are made to smell like the laundry's running, don’t do it for me. Nor does the smell of gingerbread cookies. I'm not a witch trying to eat little children.
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Home smells like nature. Fresh, lush, sometimes even dry — nature.
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In summer, Alaska smelled like pink arctic roses, wet fireweed, wild winds, blue icy glaciers, murky fishing waters, forevergreens, birch.
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That yellow birch in the fall, when the first termination dust would hit, would sometimes smell pungent, at the same time soul satisfying. The maroon blanketed mountains smelled of crushed berries and defeat, because the bears always got to them first.
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Winter smelled of snowflakes and chimneys. It also smelled like hot toddies and snowy sweat after a day out snowboarding. Cruising for actual bruises. Had to heal the pain from shredding all that pow somehow. Weed also helped. And brought a lovely cozy calming scent with it.
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Spring brought on smells of mud — you could literally smell the earth again because the sun was heating it up so much that the ice broke apart exposing what was beneath: mmmmmud.
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Seattle smelled of a clean city — wet sidewalks, salty seaweed and a distant but teasingly close mountain air.
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West Seattle was my favorite smelly place. It smelled of wet sand, cold, flat pacific water with a dash of brine. It smelled of sherbet sunsets and seals I never saw, but cute swim on their back otters and fat AF sealions I couldn’t not see.
Downtown smelled like soccer fans, expensive beer, homelessness crossing paths at 3rd & Pine with posh people beelining it for their Starbucks and Neiman Marcus. It smelled of annoying tourists at Pike Place trying to catch some stranger catching a fish on cam. Like in the opening credits of the OG Real World.
Queen Anne smelled like lace, money and slightly bland.
Freemont and Ballard smelled of industry, cozy boat fuel and fun. It also smelled of the sweet icing on top of Top Pot Donuts and the dark chocolate covered espresso beans atop my scorching plastic topper on my to-go coffee from those Bikini Baristas. It smelled of gourmet junk food.
Capital Hill smelled eclectic — like sweaty clubs and serious sirens. -
That breakfast burrito at whatever Mexican place that was in Freelard, you can fuck me. That was the best burrito I've ever had and not just because it tasted of sweet pork grease that stained the entire tortilla red hot orange — it’s because tots lined the inside like a tiny train providing a soft and satisfying crunch.
Now I'm all types of hungry and don't have the makings to recreate that meal, nor will I ever. There was a time and place for that. To experience the refueling of fatty, wetty and crunchy goodness. -
The Italian neighbor is up this morning. Belting out his Cinderella bluebird song. Italian style.