A revelation
Jun. 8th, 2005 05:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pecuniumOn the self absorbed assumption that at least one of you wondered what 
is the smell of.
It's dirt.
I really like the smell of dirt, which is good because I spend a lot of time in, and around, it.
Foxholes, hasty fighting positions, quick bits of cover, artillery bunkers (like a bomb shelter, only different).
The feel of it, close to the body when one is trembling (with fear, or anticipation, or both). The unyielding give when it bounces from a nearby explosion, and throws one into the air, like a grain of rice on a drumhead, with bruises from one's buttons. Unforgettable.
The soft nature of good humous dirt, leaf mold and worm castings. The way one's fingers can just lift it, and crumble it (almost as if it were the vat of spermaceti oil Ishmael discusses squeezing with his hands) smoothly breaking. The warm reek of a freshly opened compost heap, and the chunk of the mattock when turning the soil to amend that compost into. The dusty feel of it in the nose when summer rain hits the garden. The squish of it between the toes.
Seeing the layers as one digs a trench (unless one needs, truly needs, the money, do not get a job digging trenching for sprinkler sysyems in Phoenix, in July), and the gritty nature of sand on the face from a day near the beach, or walking an arroyo.
The unmistakable smell of rain in the desert, water and dirt commingling, and still separate.
Dirt is my favorite smell.
is the smell of.It's dirt.
I really like the smell of dirt, which is good because I spend a lot of time in, and around, it.
Foxholes, hasty fighting positions, quick bits of cover, artillery bunkers (like a bomb shelter, only different).
The feel of it, close to the body when one is trembling (with fear, or anticipation, or both). The unyielding give when it bounces from a nearby explosion, and throws one into the air, like a grain of rice on a drumhead, with bruises from one's buttons. Unforgettable.
The soft nature of good humous dirt, leaf mold and worm castings. The way one's fingers can just lift it, and crumble it (almost as if it were the vat of spermaceti oil Ishmael discusses squeezing with his hands) smoothly breaking. The warm reek of a freshly opened compost heap, and the chunk of the mattock when turning the soil to amend that compost into. The dusty feel of it in the nose when summer rain hits the garden. The squish of it between the toes.
Seeing the layers as one digs a trench (unless one needs, truly needs, the money, do not get a job digging trenching for sprinkler sysyems in Phoenix, in July), and the gritty nature of sand on the face from a day near the beach, or walking an arroyo.
The unmistakable smell of rain in the desert, water and dirt commingling, and still separate.
Dirt is my favorite smell.
