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02/17/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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How I climbed into the inside of a needle to get into a warm snow globe
It all began when I stared out of the bathroom window into the narrow red brick ravines. Just a moment ago the familiar surf was rushing through the arteries of the evening city, everything seemed to be a blue hour, when the sky became grated orange peel, the bitter shavings rushed like snow through the streets, driven by gusts of ethereal cloves, in a cuttingly sharp rain of ginger, wind-tossing spices of coriander, warm-wild cinnamon dust and an approaching weather wall of eucalyptus.
Then everything went quiet and I found myself inside a needle. From in there it was impossible for me to tell which bush it belonged to, there was still a carnation with me in the needle, bright resins pulsed through the green shell, clear camphor poured sharply over the shell and formed a shimmering window. A light-shy corner in a forest full of shadows, where luminous beings hover like healing spirits.
Green was the sea in the warming tub, where I danced dreamily in the dwindling foam, the upper lip on the surface, palaces blowing in the dream: towers of ethereal soap bubbles in the pine foam bath of childhood.
Lost in thought, I linger between the times in one of the bubbles, which, in slow motion, begins to resinify its vault as an ambergris snow globe. The ice-blue eucalyptus flakes slowly fall to the ground around me, the impression becomes even more bitter and yet sweeter hour after hour. In the small round ghost forest I think I can smell growing plums, now that the needles no longer burst and camphor resins shoot. And in front of that golden-brown amber bell in the fireplace a fire flickers warmly, its smoke whirling more and more through the snow globe, a breathing warm monster.
**
Khanbaliq is quite extraordinary. Pungent and bitter in the top note, ethereal dark green-resinous in the heart, it develops towards a warm smoky amber base, driven by the long shadows of the coniferous woods. Flowers are nothing but letters in the pyramid. At best, the fir sauna and pine foam bath could only watch as I climbed into the inside of a needle to get into a warm snow globe.
(With thanks to Murder Bee)
Then everything went quiet and I found myself inside a needle. From in there it was impossible for me to tell which bush it belonged to, there was still a carnation with me in the needle, bright resins pulsed through the green shell, clear camphor poured sharply over the shell and formed a shimmering window. A light-shy corner in a forest full of shadows, where luminous beings hover like healing spirits.
Green was the sea in the warming tub, where I danced dreamily in the dwindling foam, the upper lip on the surface, palaces blowing in the dream: towers of ethereal soap bubbles in the pine foam bath of childhood.
Lost in thought, I linger between the times in one of the bubbles, which, in slow motion, begins to resinify its vault as an ambergris snow globe. The ice-blue eucalyptus flakes slowly fall to the ground around me, the impression becomes even more bitter and yet sweeter hour after hour. In the small round ghost forest I think I can smell growing plums, now that the needles no longer burst and camphor resins shoot. And in front of that golden-brown amber bell in the fireplace a fire flickers warmly, its smoke whirling more and more through the snow globe, a breathing warm monster.
**
Khanbaliq is quite extraordinary. Pungent and bitter in the top note, ethereal dark green-resinous in the heart, it develops towards a warm smoky amber base, driven by the long shadows of the coniferous woods. Flowers are nothing but letters in the pyramid. At best, the fir sauna and pine foam bath could only watch as I climbed into the inside of a needle to get into a warm snow globe.
(With thanks to Murder Bee)
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