for Scott, with a vocabulary all his own

Enclosed you will find a small case of mushroom potpourri. Do not be frightened by the name or its appearance—toasted brown cabbage mingling in cherry ocean sunshine—the artist, a native from my village, takes pride in the orchestration of the oils he uses. My village, by the way, is an absolute dream with piggy houses and pixie shrubs flowering with cotton candy buds. Scottish Pepper (the artist goes by this name) is sometimes referred to as merely a vendor— it makes his eyes bulge with anger. He mixes his herbs and spices into sonorous blends of memories. He used to "put them to better use" he says when he looks at the boiling stock pot and the drying stacks. It is evident when he goes back to yesterday and what held it together because his cheeks turn pink like the inside of a baby watermelon. Every morning he sits like a cobweb watching the sky's tongue unfold, mending the potpourri scents here and there, watching other artists jump into clouds. 'I have the reparation! Yes, and deeanjuuus!' cutting the end of his words abruptly like an umbilical cord. His hair is uneven, as if he gets his hair cut in sections. He says his potpourri cures ails and stales. I truly hope you like it, he would be pleased.

__

While working at Home Depot during college, I met an erratic, older dude. He kept everyone at HD awake and entertained with the stories he told us about his life as a young boy in California. All his life, he made up words and definitions for those words. Even the origins of those words had an interesting history. It was awesome; I just had to throw him onto paper somehow.