2001-04-30 || 11:22 a.m.

|| i heart dirt. ||

my jacket smells like the weekend. i like that: my clothes collecting smells. like keeping a memory in an envelope in your back pocket to open later. bar smells: alcohol, cigarettes, sweat. hiking smells: grass, dirt, sunshine. today there is barbeque smoke on my collar. chlorine from the hot tub on the sleeves. pine needles in the lining. a handful of stars and dogs barking in the pockets. i love cabins in the mountains. dirt and pine trees and birds making the loudest noises, encouraged by the lack of industrial hums and whirs. we played an impossible game of croquet in the backyard. all uphill, full of forest and rock and tree stump obstacles. we ate food cooked on the barbeque and squinted at the smoke. i have never drunk so much beer. we played taboo in the cabin, surrounded by wood paneled walls and down comforters and heat from the fireplace. c and i slept in a tent in the frontyard. i had dreams of stray dogs and girlfights and old skyscrapers and the queen mary.

in the morning we came inside and huddled under blankets, five of us trading sections of the sunday paper, reading aloud the funny parts. afterwards i sat outside in my pajamas and jacket and drank coffee and wrote: this was my favorite part. getting to know the trees better. listening to all the birds and dogs. i wanted to fill my bag with the dirt there, the underbrush and rocks and sticks. i wanted to take that feeling home. feeling very close to the earth. separated from the phones and computers and electricity that keep us clean and connected and sterilized. mmm dirt. it had dusted my shoes and jacket, and i can smell it on me now still.

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