At the middle of the vast midwestern prairie, it is the beginning of the inside time of year. The pumpkin-spice hazelnut decaf with cinnamon and a dabble of nutmeg coconut-silk creamer time of year, the lavender-scented butter cookie on a doily discretely separated from cream cheese pecan slathered apple-cranberry toasted rice cakes, time of year, followed by a chardonnay with raspberry vodka over crushed lemon-ice; time of year. And it is the scented candles time of year.
Here at reunion of the anarchists dining vignettes and folding tables are open, books about bucolic idylls can be discussed, while seating jealousies among images of a misty-auric rural past. Dated readings for urban tastes with an olde-timee perfume fantasy. No actual noxious animalian smells wafting from the shoes of those who once tended to the butchering or brought in the fish to be cleaned. The stooping and plucking stories are about garden flowers, not subsistence food.
On the tables, lit antique bombs (oh those old feelings!) will serve for candles and include a different part of the olfactory picturesque; disconcerting bits of pain burning oily creosote-soaked, metallic dusted, and sulfuric fuses.
Off the subject, just a thought; but have you noticed sometimes autumn rivers don’t carry enough water to hold all that should float away, and they silt-up; dropping sand in whirling shoals that trap floating leaves and decaying smells in emerald algae pools? Maybe they are (peace?) or natures gossip gatherings. Disjointed itinerant memories, stilled, enfolded in moss; open to quietly awaiting the frost, if not for those present at least they might be for the lonely. The lonely in the manner of things to basic to expose; the rage at passings, eddies of panic, damp muddy abandonment, floating alone.
Well, just a thought…
…as the rivers roll on and we are, for a time, indoors. Hopefully we will get some art shows up in the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture, and look forward to decorative seasonal emotions.