(no subject)
In the beginning, there was fuel.
Walking alone on a claypacked road, the live oaks stark against the full moon, it's easy to not know when you are. The smoke from the pile burns meanders low across the fields, a primal smell if there ever was one. Woodsmoke always reminds me of something older: the hippocampus as cellular memory, a mind tugged back through time by the nose.
Surely this is what it must have been like to walk this way one hundred, two hundred years ago? Surely the smell of slow burning oak would be as familiar to the Paleoindian as to the settler, the sharecropper as to I?
The Apalachee fields can still be seen around here, their churned soils bearing more magnolias, more beech, more oak.
People talk often of Old Field, the now fallow land once hoed by slaves. Never plural, Old Field has still yet to recover the native groundcover it once had. None of the peas, the wiregrasses, the longleaf pines - all of these are sporadic at best. Thickets of blackberries, stands of shortleaf pine.
Walking alone on a claypacked road, the live oaks stark against the full moon, it's easy to not know when you are. The smoke from the pile burns meanders low across the fields, a primal smell if there ever was one. Woodsmoke always reminds me of something older: the hippocampus as cellular memory, a mind tugged back through time by the nose.
Surely this is what it must have been like to walk this way one hundred, two hundred years ago? Surely the smell of slow burning oak would be as familiar to the Paleoindian as to the settler, the sharecropper as to I?
The Apalachee fields can still be seen around here, their churned soils bearing more magnolias, more beech, more oak.
People talk often of Old Field, the now fallow land once hoed by slaves. Never plural, Old Field has still yet to recover the native groundcover it once had. None of the peas, the wiregrasses, the longleaf pines - all of these are sporadic at best. Thickets of blackberries, stands of shortleaf pine.