|Nevermore||Date: Fr, 14.October.11, 10:56 PM | Message # 1|
|The thing I miss most about living in the country with my dad is the yearly camping trips we took, sometimes in the summer, sometimes during the winter. Always, there was the smell of the forest. There is no explanation for it. The smell is that of the sap of pine trees, that sweet sweet smell mixed with the soft under current of rotting leaves. No matter what time of year, the leaves dirty and brown litter the forest floor. Early in the morning, when the sun just began to peek over the from the mountains or the tree tops, we would feel this stinging cold. It is sharp, and though I thought I hated it as a child, I find myself recalling this feeling of sharp coldness with a sense of longing, all the way from California. There is something most definitevly different about the feeling of those pleasent stinging natural mountain air coldness, as compared to the cold, cold manmade smooth coldness of an air conditioned building in Califorina. I remember crawling out of the tents, seeing in the gray predawn light the white aspen trees spread in every direction for as far as the eye could see, lie long thin white sticks reaching ever upwards towards the sun hung in the supernatural-esque blue sky of a world without the brown haze coughed and belched up by the factories of industry. The calls of birds, day and night fill the air leaving behind a happy memory, as opposed to the chaotic rip and roar and thoomp of the cars on the street. It brings tears to my eyes, remembering my own resistance at first to going and then I see me wishing to be back. I miss the mountains of clay, and as I look out my windwos, and see the mountains the of concrete. The cold stream burbling softly in the background, opposed to the shrill fake flaughs and roars of cars. The brilliant shining lights of the stars, as opposed to the harsh glow of the street lights. |
I guess it's true what they say, "You can take the boy out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the boy."