SMELLS LIKE CAMPHOR TREES

For two days now Mount Tam has had fog in the morning, clearly indicating that either we're at a higher elevation or closer to the coast than those poor suffering heathen in the Central Valley with their hundred plus degrees, faded denims, and Maga tattoos.

Why, it might even snow!

Anyhow, to make up for that, the group of senescent rightwing dunderheads in the backroom was louder and more contentious than ever, bringing their own brand of Shasta County into everybody's lives. Quite unbidden! The only bright spot was the petite and quite charming cigar smoker who dropped by briefly (Dominican Montecruz and a black cigarette holder), whose name I was not in a position to find out. Dang. Cute as the dickens. Snoezig!

Glad the ancient degenerates arguing back there didn't see her.

Their lives are much too exciting in any case.

Imagine you're just outside Medan.

On the edge of the jungle.

蘇北

On the one hand, it's close to the cocktail hour. A brief rainstorm has passed, the road is dry again, and it's not so far to the club ("soos"). On the other hand, there's a giant python (ular sawa) that has swallowed a child (anak ketjil) out in the rice fields. And a tiger roaring from a nearby hill. On the third hand, the fellows (orang yang antik dan mengruwakan) who hang out at the club are a bunch of glandered old boors from somewhere in Groningen. And on the fourth hand, there are those wonderful smells from somewhere, toasted coconut and sweetly charring meat; I know what we're having for supper this evening, your mind says, replaying an advertisement that interrupted a Bollywood rental movie playing in your head, Basmati rice, whiter than white!

On the fifth hand I have no idea where I'm going with this analogy.

But she looked like a woman with a strong character. It distracted me nicely from listening to the dinosaurs bellowing in the back, their roars (gemuruh-muruh) trumpeting over the tropical estuary as the mud (lumpur-tumpur) traps them and sucks them under.


When I came home after a day chasing rabid Republicans around the saltflats, it smelled like kasturi near my building. A mental hiccough, probably just the ghosts of the acacia trees that fell down during that great storm earlier this year. Both of them were more or less around half a century old.
My apartment mate had charsiu and paak chek kai plus rice waiting. It made up for the rigours of the day. I had a plate with a big sploodge of sambal on the side.

Sometimes I hate Marin.




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