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Jun. 14th, 2009 08:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
which_chickBusy weekend full of busy stuff. Scents bring back memory, I've read, more than any other type of sensory trigger. It makes sense to me -- long ago, in History Back, after I got horribly dumped by Jim, the smell of his conditioner could yank me back to remembering him for years after I thought I was done.
This weekend's primary scent overlay was the smell of death wafting over the far hill. It came and went, gently, as the light and unsteady breeze shifted and came back. See, the backhoe is currently dysfunctional. It's waiting on a hydraulic something-or-other. The tractor works, but tractors, as you might figure from their name, only drag things. They're not much on the digging of holes. In short, and for the slow-of-thinking among us, my dead horse has been drug over the hill out of view so that I don't have to look at her being dead. However, she isn't buried because, yo, no backhoe. She's just rotting into oneness with the earth as quickly as a fully-aerobic process taking place in eighty-degree weather will allow. On the plus side, the heat this time of year will render her corpse decomposed in fairly short order. (If it were March, she'd last for freaking ever.) Anyway, the persistence of memory (Please to be thinking of the painting.) this weekend was effected by the light breeze bringing death to me when I wasn't thinking about it. That was fun.
Up close and personal, the weekend sometimes smelled like the fermented reek of chop silage. Chop silage has a good smell, heavy and distracting. Sometimes it smelled like fake apple (flavored ivermectin paste wormer) or early summer (multiflora roses). There was burning plastic (round bale wrappers) and burning scrap pine boards (to support the burning plastic). There was manure from the bank barn, shoveled up and bagged for my brothers to use as mulch. All of those smells were outside, though, so the wind occasionally got hold of the air and took away the chop silage or the burning plastic or the fake apple and replaced it, always, with death.
I still got lots of things done during the daylight hours, in between the gentle puffs of wind that did not tear up my eyes. (That was the smoke from the burning plastic. Really. It was.) Late in the night, though, there was only the smell of mixed rum, mint, and lime. That was inside the house, where there was no wind.
This weekend's primary scent overlay was the smell of death wafting over the far hill. It came and went, gently, as the light and unsteady breeze shifted and came back. See, the backhoe is currently dysfunctional. It's waiting on a hydraulic something-or-other. The tractor works, but tractors, as you might figure from their name, only drag things. They're not much on the digging of holes. In short, and for the slow-of-thinking among us, my dead horse has been drug over the hill out of view so that I don't have to look at her being dead. However, she isn't buried because, yo, no backhoe. She's just rotting into oneness with the earth as quickly as a fully-aerobic process taking place in eighty-degree weather will allow. On the plus side, the heat this time of year will render her corpse decomposed in fairly short order. (If it were March, she'd last for freaking ever.) Anyway, the persistence of memory (Please to be thinking of the painting.) this weekend was effected by the light breeze bringing death to me when I wasn't thinking about it. That was fun.
Up close and personal, the weekend sometimes smelled like the fermented reek of chop silage. Chop silage has a good smell, heavy and distracting. Sometimes it smelled like fake apple (flavored ivermectin paste wormer) or early summer (multiflora roses). There was burning plastic (round bale wrappers) and burning scrap pine boards (to support the burning plastic). There was manure from the bank barn, shoveled up and bagged for my brothers to use as mulch. All of those smells were outside, though, so the wind occasionally got hold of the air and took away the chop silage or the burning plastic or the fake apple and replaced it, always, with death.
I still got lots of things done during the daylight hours, in between the gentle puffs of wind that did not tear up my eyes. (That was the smoke from the burning plastic. Really. It was.) Late in the night, though, there was only the smell of mixed rum, mint, and lime. That was inside the house, where there was no wind.
