I never did remember to mention, I think I figured out why the area around our complex smells like wet dog sometimes after it rains. It’s a weird thing, mostly the world in our area of Southern California smells heavily of petrichor as the baked-in plant oils release into the air. But there’s a spot in the parking lot that just smells like wet dog. Like a dog got puddle wet and is now quietly steaming in the warmth of the kitchen while you decide if they need a bath or if you can towel them off and forget you smelled this.

There's a notebook I'm supposed to log random lines in. I say "supposed to" because I'm trying to build better habits and writing down interesting lines I read or think of so as not to forget them is a good habit to build. Maybe, when this goes out, I will have started doing a cool thing I saw recently from A.C. Esguerra, which is lettering practise via copying quotes and passages. If so, then you will see an image of the line I am about to share below. If not, then well, I am but human.

Instead of fresh-washed, the rain had given the streets the air of a drenched cat and the smell of wet dog.

Not that it's that great a line, but the point is I wrote it down ages ago. I just kept getting simply baffled by this scent. Most of the plants around here infuse the air with herbal goodness in a rain. But, here I was, with these pockets of wet fur.

The smell, I realised one day, was centralised around one tree in particular. There's a tree that's not the orange tree, nor the (probable) chestnut tree, but by them and it is where I hear nighttime rat rowdiness. That's the tree the smell was centred around. What I was smelling was not wet dog, but wet rat.

It was the smell of probably annoyed, rained-on rats, snoozing and damp in the dark leaves of the tree. This realisation did not suddenly make the smell less unpleasant--walking from raindrop-battered lavender into a miasma of wet rat isn't an experience transformed by knowledge--but now it is funny instead of baffling.

They put in a new power pole recently. This is a thing I've seen happen at a distance, but for one day the city workers descended on our complex and planted a brand new pole, logging the old one and carting it off to whatever graveyard old power poles retire to. To do so they had to give a harsh hair cut to the (probable) chestnut that was crowding the space, the sort of hack job that happens when a child gets bubblegum in their hair, uneven and more about the problem than the result.

This is all well and good, I'm sure the new pole was needed, the branches were truly in the way. It's impressive how well-drilled the teams are in putting up a power pole in a short time, digging a hell of a hole and installing a new monolith.

The chopped-back branches though, they've changed some animal patterns on our block. The (probable) chestnut tree branches were the primary roads from property line-defining series of trees to the power lines. The power line road gives little rodents, both rats and squirrels, access up and down the block and across the street. Unlike larger mammals, who hop up to the tall cinder block wall and use that as their highway, little guys want to be up high and out of the way. After this big chop, getting to and from the power lines is a trickier run.

The rodent traffic flow has changed but I did finally see a squirrel navigate it, if hesitantly. They're adapting, we all adapt, for better or worse. Their babies won't remember how easy it was to hop from branch to wire and go exploring, but give it a couple years and things will grow back, if different and changed by the loss, as they eventually always do.

Here's a short list of other things the particularly weird set of neighbours, nature factors, and mysteries have scented the air with inexplicably:

• Backyard pool (possible source: somebody has a pool cleaning business and maybe their truck just has an aura?).
• The scent of a half of a bottle of patchouli spilled (truly don't know, it permeates too deeply and far to find a source).
• The weirdly nostalgic scent of creosote (from the new power pole).
• Overripe oranges (what we or the animals don't get are the victims of many a car tire).
• Something like incense that smells exactly like the Cantrip Sanctuary candle but isn't (literally no idea, most mysterious one).

Here's two books on near futures where the new worlds are built on the old. Links go to the Storygraph entries for each title, a great place to check out content warnings and find ways to read them.

• Saltcrop by Yume Kitasei has had a lot of good stuff written about it, rightly, it's a banger of a tale about sisters and the future and seeds and making bad choices for the right reasons. I'm always drawn to close-but-not-too-close future stories, where the bones of the old world are there for the looking--in this case just under the water. This story is also dreadfully and delightfully anti-corporate, one of those situations where you weigh a cannibal encounter on one hand with a corporation on another and go, "hmmm."
• Though A Scent of New-Mown Hay by John Blackburn is ostensibly a sci-fi horror it really is a cold-war thriller. It does the nice trick that is difficult to do in books of not showing the monster clearly (you know, the ol' Jaws motif) and the story being better for it. A bit of eldritch horror in a spy novel coating.

It's for real spring now so have some spring images for different kinds of places.

Image description: A group of mostly de-petaled thistles, against a clear blue sky. A bee is having a big ol' drink on one of the rows of remaining petals. End ID.

Image description: A low rise, absolutely slathered in paddle cactus, with grasses and some leafy plants doing their best to grow in the gaps. Early afternoon light softly shades and lights the slope from base to crest. End ID.

Image description: A slope of sand, the crust of it broken into shingles as it slowly slides down. End ID.

Some links that are tenuously, ah, linked by listening, remembering and hearing.

• The Queer Digital Graveyard is a really lovely web installation, it's an archive-slash-memorial of early queer personal and fan websites. Currently it feels like so many people are talking about how things "used to be" online but, just like nostalgia over '90s fashion that misses some of the things that gave it that particular flavour, seeing these sites so lovingly preserved is a far better window into memory than reminiscing alone.
• Speaking of, it sometimes feels like its easier than ever just to make a silly little site for fun. A pal of mine has made a great one stop shop of resources and graphics and info and even games and other fun stuff. Fun internet is still out there, my friends.
• I recently was reminded of this story, To Speak in Silence by Mary Robinette Kowa over at Uncanny. It's gentle and lovely and a perfect slice of everyday magic.
• I am a sucker for sites that allow you to build soundscapes, here are a few: Ambient Chaos got some silly options, Soundscaper very soft stuff and you can link your mixes, myNoise is RICH with generators of a bunch of different flavours (D&D themes? white noise? meditation? there's a section for daydreaming?) and I used to use it alllllll the time.

If you've thought of donating eSims, this guide was very helpful, and Crips for eSims for Gaza is a good option if you can't easily manage topping them up. There are also more traditional donation targets like the Palestine Children's Relief Fund, UNRWA, and Doctors Without Borders. If you prefer giving directly to families, Gaza Funds is a nice resource that facilitates finding campaigns.