Wet cement stairs in a well with tightly closed doors and permanently shut windows: swimming pool when I am five years old. The memory has a clinical quality about it because I am often sick with bronchitis and the pool is prescribed by a pediatrician.
Green plastic cushions in a humid and poorly ventilated hallway: Yura's or our own veranda in the fall, when everything is packed up for moving back to the city.
There are some people who could probably tell me the specific type of plastic used in these cushions. Something from the 70s.
The clover and plantago growing all around the university grounds at Skidmore should also remind me off stuff but they don't. Maybe I need to take my shoes off and run around barefoot and lie down on the grass and stare at the clouds. This, an awfully dangerous business.