into perspectival vision that isn't easy to overcome. The rest of the world and even the nuances of long-held identities elsewhere seem to recede, to fade into irrelevance somehow in this city that is such a universe unto itself.
Often it is one thing and one thing only, the sensuous faculties and the fleeting impressions that they leave, that can carry one back to places, times, and aspirations long forgotten.
A little gust of air, just a little one through the kitchen window, has restored to me autumn and lawns and leaves and pumpkins and large, fogging windows overlooking bucolic suburbias, along with a particular autumn smell—the smell of time—that doesn't exist in New York City, or that I have not, at the very least, thus far detected here.
Somewhere beneath it all there still lurks a small cache of insouciant dreams in a particularly lush shade of dewey green carrying with it hints of lawn clippings and browning leaves, where traffic can't quite be heard but red paint on thick siding fills one's field of vision.
The land! The land!
No, I was never a farmer, nor a rural boy, but I did spend my formative decades in a place with rolling hills, forests of aspen and spruce, buoyant, twelve-thousand-foot mountain peaks, and houses able to "nestle" into foliage and obscurity, rather than into townhouse splints.