The Scent of Palo Santo in Run-Ons

Smooth wisps of smoke trail romantically behind the glowing embers of the incense stick that is slow-guided up and down in broad, rhythmic sine wave strokes, as if abstract ideas are being made tangible in refined calligraphy with each brush of the air; a conductor raising up his thin baton to conjure up a seismic, orchestral presence: the scent of palo santo. Unlike those of other brighter scents, this particular aroma's method of entry is obscure and difficult to pinpoint; he is not the precise snap of a snare drum nor the glassy hammering of piano keys that so explicitly announce their arrival by stepping through the front door, but, instead, closer to the smooth bowing of a cello that floats in unnoticed, an apparition taking form in a shadowed corner in the brief moments the attention of the crowd is diverted, of course, towards the front door. The first noticeable signs of his arrival are uncertain, still, resulting in both the hypothetical and figurative raising of eyebrows in questioning and scanning for whether or not these subtle suggestions of mint notes delicately suspended in the air are, in fact, actually present. For a second time, as attention is diverted onto these suspended top notes, a hidden layer of movement begins rapidly churning beneath it all. Suddenly, a dark and intoxicating blanket of smoky aroma swells in, a dramatically steep crescendo, immersing the entire space in a dense haze of subconscious feelings, now unavoidable; nostalgic; medicinal; carrying you off into a quiet daydream alone on the dusty rug of a pinewood cabin, imagining all the intricacies of the future's possibilities. And just as you find yourself, at long last, warming up to this intense presence, your eyes open to find he has already left the room -- just as unnoticed as he had first entered. All that's left: a souvenir, the lingering smoke that clings to the skin. It follows you everywhere. You cannot shake it. At the center of the room, the piano and snare continue their dialogue with intermittent bouts of laughter, but your mind is elsewhere; the rest of the evening a slow trance; unsuccessful attempts to grasp and make sense of the fleeting remnants of a holy dream that is fast escaping you in these waking moments.