10/06/2023
Midnights
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Midnights
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The bridge to autumn
"What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?
With your hair falling into place like dominoes
My mind turns your life into folklore
I can't dare to dream about you anymore..."
("Gold Rush," Taylor Swift)
Can you hear the bees buzzing?
Not as loud as a few weeks ago. Almost sluggishly and somnambulistically they find their way to their hive. The scent of propolis resinously tickles the nose.
The winter can still wait.
Do you see this light? Dusty yellow, dull gold, about to turn orange. Four, five days before the time change, it will be earth-colored before the end of October rings its dark brown bell early.
Put on your broken-in leather boots. Let work rest, all those jars and cans of paint thinner, oil paints and leather conditioner will still be there tomorrow. Out Into the arms of a decided autumn!
Do you see the pine tree, how she resins? She's put balm on her wounds. Self-healing. We humans should learn from the pine. Nature takes place even without us. But today we are in the middle of it.
Into the lavender field! Do you remember how it smelled here last June? We staggered across meadows, where now the hay lies, perhaps intoxicated by lavender, perhaps by orange liqueur. You told us about your fall from the horse and couldn't stop laughing. You fell into the moss and buried your face in it. After that you rolled two cigarettes. Your tobacco pouch had become damp, they just wouldn't burn. Then you pulled the yellow pack of American Spirit out of your small, worn leather bag. The desire for nicotine conquered your reservations about capitalism. You wanted to talk about communism and whether it wasn't the better form of society after all. Tired of fulfillment and your thoughts, you fell asleep on my chest.
Let's go back to the house! It is getting dark, the days are already noticeably shorter, the evenings cooler. In the kitchen I still have a tin full of chamomile flowers, which I harvested on St. John's Day. I make us a tea with honey, and we pretend to be the pine.
@!*
They still exist, those rare little moments when your eyes widen, your heart does a little caper and your hands get a little damp. The opening of oil paint and paint thinner leaves me amazed and interested sticking to the wrist, the forehead slightly wrinkled. Then the gate to "Casa Cuervo" opens and a scent reminiscent of propolis floods my receptors. The spreading calm contrasts my excitement. A duet of resin and orange, delicate and tightly interwoven. Have I ever smelled such a beautiful orange? Perhaps in "Azemour Les Orangers." Lavender, as cool and clear as an autumn morning, spills into warm chamomile. The fine weave spins on its own axis and takes me in its ringlets. Honey drips onto the chamomile, sweet but not sticky, the tonka bean present but restrained. A leather accord as well as a semi-green tobacco leaf bounce buoyantly into the circle. Turns in harmony. Without competition, the only question is who is putting whom in the most beautiful light here. And as if I weren't already on fire with enthusiasm, everyone drops into the oak moss and pulls me along. "Casa Cuervo", scent-formed bridge between late summer and autumn. It lies on my skin as if it had been there for a long time. Quiet, constant, healing. I would love to stay and listen so much longer in this dull golden light.
With your hair falling into place like dominoes
My mind turns your life into folklore
I can't dare to dream about you anymore..."
("Gold Rush," Taylor Swift)
Can you hear the bees buzzing?
Not as loud as a few weeks ago. Almost sluggishly and somnambulistically they find their way to their hive. The scent of propolis resinously tickles the nose.
The winter can still wait.
Do you see this light? Dusty yellow, dull gold, about to turn orange. Four, five days before the time change, it will be earth-colored before the end of October rings its dark brown bell early.
Put on your broken-in leather boots. Let work rest, all those jars and cans of paint thinner, oil paints and leather conditioner will still be there tomorrow. Out Into the arms of a decided autumn!
Do you see the pine tree, how she resins? She's put balm on her wounds. Self-healing. We humans should learn from the pine. Nature takes place even without us. But today we are in the middle of it.
Into the lavender field! Do you remember how it smelled here last June? We staggered across meadows, where now the hay lies, perhaps intoxicated by lavender, perhaps by orange liqueur. You told us about your fall from the horse and couldn't stop laughing. You fell into the moss and buried your face in it. After that you rolled two cigarettes. Your tobacco pouch had become damp, they just wouldn't burn. Then you pulled the yellow pack of American Spirit out of your small, worn leather bag. The desire for nicotine conquered your reservations about capitalism. You wanted to talk about communism and whether it wasn't the better form of society after all. Tired of fulfillment and your thoughts, you fell asleep on my chest.
Let's go back to the house! It is getting dark, the days are already noticeably shorter, the evenings cooler. In the kitchen I still have a tin full of chamomile flowers, which I harvested on St. John's Day. I make us a tea with honey, and we pretend to be the pine.
@!*
They still exist, those rare little moments when your eyes widen, your heart does a little caper and your hands get a little damp. The opening of oil paint and paint thinner leaves me amazed and interested sticking to the wrist, the forehead slightly wrinkled. Then the gate to "Casa Cuervo" opens and a scent reminiscent of propolis floods my receptors. The spreading calm contrasts my excitement. A duet of resin and orange, delicate and tightly interwoven. Have I ever smelled such a beautiful orange? Perhaps in "Azemour Les Orangers." Lavender, as cool and clear as an autumn morning, spills into warm chamomile. The fine weave spins on its own axis and takes me in its ringlets. Honey drips onto the chamomile, sweet but not sticky, the tonka bean present but restrained. A leather accord as well as a semi-green tobacco leaf bounce buoyantly into the circle. Turns in harmony. Without competition, the only question is who is putting whom in the most beautiful light here. And as if I weren't already on fire with enthusiasm, everyone drops into the oak moss and pulls me along. "Casa Cuervo", scent-formed bridge between late summer and autumn. It lies on my skin as if it had been there for a long time. Quiet, constant, healing. I would love to stay and listen so much longer in this dull golden light.
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