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Notes09/12/2021
FioreMarina
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FioreMarina
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23
The last summer
There are perfumes that tell me stories and some of them I have already written down for you.
This one, however, does not. In a way, it tells me the end of all stories. In this perfume there is no it-was-once and no the-day-will-come. This perfume tells of the moment, of a perfectly improvised summer day, and although, or because, a delicate blue-watery freshness emanates from it, it must be a day by the sea of a sunny land, take your pick; for me it is not a question of which one, if only because I am there now, at this moment, on the beach of O, and, on the narrow strip of sand between the pine forests and the sea with salado on my skin, no longer trying to hold on to the moment and because of it, yes, perhaps because of it, becoming one with it.
The manuscript I've been reading has slipped from my hand, the dog has contentedly laid his head on it, lazily raising his left eyebrow and looking at me as if to say, "Now stop thinking."
My gaze wanders into the blue infinity far back to the horizon and up into the sky, I hold my face to the sun, which, white-hot, lets its rays play like golden children on the water.
The wind whistles its summer song, taking the cruel harshness out of the heat, grabbing my hair, strands hard and salty from the water, blowing it under my nose, salt and sunscreen, droning in my ears, carrying to me sometimes the chirping of crickets from the pines and sometimes the ringing of bells from the Spanish fort on the edge of the bay, no longer a symbol of strength or foreign domination and no longer even a reminder of the hour, but just there. And sometimes the cry of a seagull is heard.
Waves gather where heaven and earth meet, rise, pass through all colors on their way to me, deep azure, violet, forget-me-not pink, transparent turquoise, sparkling, glittering, until, crowned with foam, they break and licking delicately at my toes, rhythmically whispering, repeat their mantra: Now! Now! Now!
It's hard to tell which of the impressions seeping into me come from the perfume and which from the water, the salt, the driftwood bleaching in the sun on the beach. One merges into the other: fresh cucumber and salty notes are the two main protagonists, immediately there and present from then on, they depict the idea of the sea so beautifully that you can hear it rushing inside you. White flowers are sprinkled in, there are only a few and only very delicately, almost wistfully sweet, of a yearning depth, together with a subtly dosed musk, very slightly creamy. And the woody resinous, yes, that could have been resonating all along. Or it could be from the pine trees over there, the sun mercilessly sweating the resin from the rough bark. But in the end, it doesn't matter. It blurs into the hazy ozone of this summer day, into the rush of wind and sea, into the infinity of the moment.
And it doesn't matter now either, but at some point I will have to go home again, will have to leave the beach and probably summer behind, and yet, or because of it, and because of Salado, it will be as if the summer here never ends. As if it were the first and the last, as if it were an endless summer waiting for me and embracing me if I want it to, fresh as a cucumber, tender as a flower and salty as tears from the happiness of the moment. Or is that just the spray on my face?
This one, however, does not. In a way, it tells me the end of all stories. In this perfume there is no it-was-once and no the-day-will-come. This perfume tells of the moment, of a perfectly improvised summer day, and although, or because, a delicate blue-watery freshness emanates from it, it must be a day by the sea of a sunny land, take your pick; for me it is not a question of which one, if only because I am there now, at this moment, on the beach of O, and, on the narrow strip of sand between the pine forests and the sea with salado on my skin, no longer trying to hold on to the moment and because of it, yes, perhaps because of it, becoming one with it.
The manuscript I've been reading has slipped from my hand, the dog has contentedly laid his head on it, lazily raising his left eyebrow and looking at me as if to say, "Now stop thinking."
My gaze wanders into the blue infinity far back to the horizon and up into the sky, I hold my face to the sun, which, white-hot, lets its rays play like golden children on the water.
The wind whistles its summer song, taking the cruel harshness out of the heat, grabbing my hair, strands hard and salty from the water, blowing it under my nose, salt and sunscreen, droning in my ears, carrying to me sometimes the chirping of crickets from the pines and sometimes the ringing of bells from the Spanish fort on the edge of the bay, no longer a symbol of strength or foreign domination and no longer even a reminder of the hour, but just there. And sometimes the cry of a seagull is heard.
Waves gather where heaven and earth meet, rise, pass through all colors on their way to me, deep azure, violet, forget-me-not pink, transparent turquoise, sparkling, glittering, until, crowned with foam, they break and licking delicately at my toes, rhythmically whispering, repeat their mantra: Now! Now! Now!
It's hard to tell which of the impressions seeping into me come from the perfume and which from the water, the salt, the driftwood bleaching in the sun on the beach. One merges into the other: fresh cucumber and salty notes are the two main protagonists, immediately there and present from then on, they depict the idea of the sea so beautifully that you can hear it rushing inside you. White flowers are sprinkled in, there are only a few and only very delicately, almost wistfully sweet, of a yearning depth, together with a subtly dosed musk, very slightly creamy. And the woody resinous, yes, that could have been resonating all along. Or it could be from the pine trees over there, the sun mercilessly sweating the resin from the rough bark. But in the end, it doesn't matter. It blurs into the hazy ozone of this summer day, into the rush of wind and sea, into the infinity of the moment.
And it doesn't matter now either, but at some point I will have to go home again, will have to leave the beach and probably summer behind, and yet, or because of it, and because of Salado, it will be as if the summer here never ends. As if it were the first and the last, as if it were an endless summer waiting for me and embracing me if I want it to, fresh as a cucumber, tender as a flower and salty as tears from the happiness of the moment. Or is that just the spray on my face?
19 Replies
Hatka
