The house, you see, smells like fish-tank. I
t rained last night, all day the day before, and it’s hot out, summer-storm.
Maybe I’m getting old or something, but outside, on the way home, I could smell the tumbleweeds along the road, and they smelled like musty farts. I was hoping for sage, sumac or ryegrass. The water makes all the plants open their pores, which allows their scent…
Two-months-ago the water and power company decided to let our eco-pond dry out. It's on their property (and officially the city's only nature preserve) about a half-mile from here. 'Water and Power, the single largest source of city income, I call them ‘the Fiefdom’. Nobody messes; none of the politicos…
I’m imagining all those fish-corpses, amphibians; turtles, boiled first, in the too-shallow, summer-heated water, then dried in peeling mud flats.
Now they’ve been re-hydrated and are stinking.
The fan is blowing and I can’t sleep anymore. The odor is worse downstairs.
Shit. It’s the trash. There’s an empty tuna can in there from two days earlier. Dammit. I take the bag out; put in a new; take the old outside, where I’ll bring it to work with me and dump it.
It doesn’t smell like pond outside; nor tumbleweed/stale fart. It smells good. ‘Nature’.
An owl flies past, a big one, and I can hear the frogs off in direction of the eco-pond. Past that and beyond the dark silhouette of houses on the ridge of the low hills, the sky glows unnatural, while the roar of five freeways emanating and echoing in the city beneath snores, somewhat, never really sleeping.
I love country living… not a soul around.
I add some moisture to the soil * oiyayayaya * Ah…. shiver me timbers * zzzz-p *, and go back in the house.
I have be up in two hours, so I pour myself a bowl of cereal knowing it will very soon knock me out.