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Some things that are simple, yet pleasant to the senses:
1) The heat of a warm drink. Coffee, in its deep, rich browness, slightly nutty in its flavor, cream and sugar sweetness undercutting the bitter edge of it when taken black. I like the little ritual of brewing it, the way the ground grains feel like dry sand beneath my fingers, the way the coffee brewer burbles in the background as I begin my day. When its done, it goes there's a particular mug I keep just for it, heft and weight of ceramic, cool in my hand, then warmer, enough to tingle, but never burn. When I pour in the creamer, the white swirls that expand across the surface of the bean-steeped darkness are just as lovely as the fine, rich tan that it becomes, once the two are made to mix.
2) Old books. There's something really special about the scent books take on with time. Dry, a little dusty, wafting out from every page as you turn them one by one. Many of the books I buy are used, dog-eared at the corners, or marked with underlines in pen and pencil, highlighting passages some other reader found exceptional. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, they'll have scribbled a note in on the margins, the thoughts of a person whose face and name I will likely never know. Sometimes the pages are yellowed, other times, lightly frayed. Some are printed on thick, fine paper, others on something that almost resembles onion skin (these are almost always the ones that are yellowed), and must be turned with care as age catches up to them, becoming brittle over time.
3) Sunlight and shade. Perhaps because I draw as a hobby, the endless permutations of light and shadow always seems to draw my eye. In the woods, sunlight is dappled across the forest floor, leafy transparencies lending spots of green between the gold and blue painted over the slow decay of autumns past. If you you brush your hands deep enough into the litter, you'll find a layer of new earth.
Large shadows, cast by clouds and mountains tend to strike me, too. When a storm rolls in and sharp-edged sunlight is cast into a softer gloom, or when, on a drive somewhere, the world turns a little darker as a peak blocks the daylight as you pass it by. I also love the kinds of light born from gloaming hours or fresh dawns, soft and diffuse in a way that I've never known any artificial lights to match. Moonlight, too, is something I'll sometimes pause for, just to admire. The eerie quality of a world silvered over at the edges, a light that only ever seems to make the darkness of the night ever denser, hits the romantic in me.
1) The heat of a warm drink. Coffee, in its deep, rich browness, slightly nutty in its flavor, cream and sugar sweetness undercutting the bitter edge of it when taken black. I like the little ritual of brewing it, the way the ground grains feel like dry sand beneath my fingers, the way the coffee brewer burbles in the background as I begin my day. When its done, it goes there's a particular mug I keep just for it, heft and weight of ceramic, cool in my hand, then warmer, enough to tingle, but never burn. When I pour in the creamer, the white swirls that expand across the surface of the bean-steeped darkness are just as lovely as the fine, rich tan that it becomes, once the two are made to mix.
2) Old books. There's something really special about the scent books take on with time. Dry, a little dusty, wafting out from every page as you turn them one by one. Many of the books I buy are used, dog-eared at the corners, or marked with underlines in pen and pencil, highlighting passages some other reader found exceptional. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, they'll have scribbled a note in on the margins, the thoughts of a person whose face and name I will likely never know. Sometimes the pages are yellowed, other times, lightly frayed. Some are printed on thick, fine paper, others on something that almost resembles onion skin (these are almost always the ones that are yellowed), and must be turned with care as age catches up to them, becoming brittle over time.
3) Sunlight and shade. Perhaps because I draw as a hobby, the endless permutations of light and shadow always seems to draw my eye. In the woods, sunlight is dappled across the forest floor, leafy transparencies lending spots of green between the gold and blue painted over the slow decay of autumns past. If you you brush your hands deep enough into the litter, you'll find a layer of new earth.
Large shadows, cast by clouds and mountains tend to strike me, too. When a storm rolls in and sharp-edged sunlight is cast into a softer gloom, or when, on a drive somewhere, the world turns a little darker as a peak blocks the daylight as you pass it by. I also love the kinds of light born from gloaming hours or fresh dawns, soft and diffuse in a way that I've never known any artificial lights to match. Moonlight, too, is something I'll sometimes pause for, just to admire. The eerie quality of a world silvered over at the edges, a light that only ever seems to make the darkness of the night ever denser, hits the romantic in me.
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