Alongside the water body, oyster in hand, you resonate with your location, and you associate the brine and the sweet and the butter-tones of the small, fleshy body with the powerful force beside which you stand. You easily associate the salt and the sweet with the smell of the marine wafting up off of the water, the aroma of decay doesn’t come across as sickening when you are completing the circle of life, sucking the oyster from its shell and returning it to the powerful force beside which you previously stood.
In the green field, however, you hold a similar fleshy body, but now you are surrounded by cows and machinery and grey buildings. “Steamboat Grey”, to be specific, the dullest of tones. There are seagulls but no decay, and it seems strange; the sweet and the salt and the soft grey skin seem to come from nothing, alien– what is this soft-bodied creature doing among the grazing cows or the men with hardhats, accompanied by the roar of fierce metal instead of the roar of maternal waves?
