Umbral Echoes Blog

To begin with, I’ve decided it’s too much bother to keep a journal on my own site. So I’m going to be posting here to LJ.

Each year, those of you who live in the northern reaches might experience the first snowfall. Where the white dust coats all that the eye can see, and the landscape turns into a winter wonderland. A glorious time of year where thoughts of Christmas begin to float through your head.

Well, my friends… imagine that, except in March, and instead of snow it’s a yellow dusting of pollen. Welcome to Georgia. Every year this happens, and it never ceases to amaze me. It’s like Roark Junior (the Yellow Bastard from Sin City) fused with Peter North, and the resulting genetic freak of nature jizzed all over the entire state. It brings to mind stories of the Holocaust, how people would have to turn on their windshield wipers to disperse the human ash lying there. I get in my car in the morning, and there is a haze of yellow; I can’t see out of the window. I turn on the wiper blades, and a saffron cloud billows forth. As I motor down the street, I look in the rear-view mirror to see a trailing yellow cloud, like those car commercials showing a sporty car in the distance speeding through the desert.

It’s not just on cars, either. The nice matte black newly paved parking lot of the grocery down the street, is no longer quite so nicely matte black. Streaked with yellow in uneven splotches and columns, it’s almost painfully ugly to look at. That bum at the crossroads with the “Will work for food” sign — I only know that he’s black from memory, as he sits forlornly with his golden-hued skin. Though for all I know, he could be dead; if he was even mildly allergic to pollen, he wouldn’t have a chance. They had to invent new numbers for the pollen count in this state — a googolplex simply doesn’t cover it. They should call it a Georgiaplex. All right, that’s a bit of an exaggeration… but not much. A pollen count of 60-120 is considered to be high. For the past week or so, the pollen count has been just under 6,000. I feel sorry for all of the flowers out there, covered in the lemon-colored jizz of so many strange plants. If a horticulturist were to have a bukkake fetish, then they would surely move to Georgia — what a supernaturally divine combination of their two favorite things!

Some of you reading this might think that I’m exaggerating for humor’s sake. You have obviously never been to Georgia. But just to humor you, I will provide you with photographic evidence of this farce of nature.

And here’s one of tire tracks in the pollen, in a parking lot. Yes, you read that correctly. Tire tracks in the pollen.