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Notes08/04/2019
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Floyd
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Floyd
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In the tar pit
I can't remember how I came up with the idea of crossing this soulless wasteland alone, but it doesn't matter anymore. I'm lying in quicksand up to my chest. Damn, I must have been inattentive drinking earlier when I slipped into that muddy funnel. Maybe it's more of a mixture of moor and quicksand, no matter how much I move, I'd only be drawn deeper into it now. My gaze is fixed on the barren, withered soil, at the height of the turf, only that from the scorching heat the grass here has long since degenerated into hay. The heat is flickering all the time. I lie with my face pressed on one side into my drinking bottle, in the corner of my mouth my cigar is still glowing, which I had fortunately not taken out of my mouth to drink. Someone once told me that in such hopeless situations one gets a sharpened sensory perception.
I smell smoky tar. Probably this is a tar pit after all. The smell mixes with the old snake leather of my drinking bottle, the bitter-sweet smoke of my cigar, the scorched hay. Even though at first I found this smell strange in the first panic of my mishap because of its bulky, dark, brittle and dry character, I begin to like it more and more with increasing duration from minute to minute. After about an hour the cigar is extinguished, the damp leather seems almost balsamic-creamy, the tar more and more resinous and woody. The initially black scent has turned dark brown and light brown hours later, but in all its resinous creaminess it is still coarse-grained and dry.
When finally countless hours later the scorching sun on the horizon disappears, the shimmering heat goes, the smell also decreases in intensity, but it stays with me the whole night, until I have the feeling to have accepted the scent itself, only perceive it when I draw my attention to it, then it is there. Or maybe he's not anymore, like me.
I smell smoky tar. Probably this is a tar pit after all. The smell mixes with the old snake leather of my drinking bottle, the bitter-sweet smoke of my cigar, the scorched hay. Even though at first I found this smell strange in the first panic of my mishap because of its bulky, dark, brittle and dry character, I begin to like it more and more with increasing duration from minute to minute. After about an hour the cigar is extinguished, the damp leather seems almost balsamic-creamy, the tar more and more resinous and woody. The initially black scent has turned dark brown and light brown hours later, but in all its resinous creaminess it is still coarse-grained and dry.
When finally countless hours later the scorching sun on the horizon disappears, the shimmering heat goes, the smell also decreases in intensity, but it stays with me the whole night, until I have the feeling to have accepted the scent itself, only perceive it when I draw my attention to it, then it is there. Or maybe he's not anymore, like me.
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