Galimuna

You don't need to thank me. Please, have a seat. May I offer you a coffee? You like it sweet, if I remember correctly. No milk? The evil, shimmering, bright monster. And shortbread? Fresh from the oven, which is why it smells so deliciously of vanilla. Do you like the roses on your right? But I only arranged them so prettily because they are said to have a calming effect. Aren't they wonderful? In any case, these are exotic wild roses from the Chinese mountains. Oh, you're a botanist? I don't know anything about it. The roses probably don't even come from China and I can't tell you whether they are that rare. I got them from the flower store next door. They could very well have been from China. I mean, almost everything comes from China these days, doesn't it? Oh, that's funny. Well then. I know what's going on inside you right now. You're probably starting to put together a mental construct in which you think of me as an old, sailor-spinning box, but I can tell you - it's not like that at all. If you hadn't been so intrusive with questions about insignificant weeds, it wouldn't even have occurred to me to enter the world of fairy tales completely unintentionally. No, certainly not. I was lucky enough to have had a good upbringing. Yes, very much so. You're literally forcing me to get rough. You see - now the coffee's gone cold too. Weren't you just about to leave anyway? You know where the door is. And while you're at it - do a lady of advanced years a favor and take the trash with you. For years I couldn't bring myself to dispose of my late husband's musty-smelling musk. A dream of a man, I can tell you. He was a soldier in the Vietnam War, you know He won't have explored dandelions in the thicket. Well then, clear the mess away. See you soon!

I'm traveling through the smoky alleyways of Amman in the early evening hours. I am alone. I am accompanied only by the intense scents of local spices, fiery pepper and fresh oregano. Completely enchanted by the historic backdrop, I stroll deep into the heart of the dreamy city. Merchants in long robes come towards me. Full of expectation, they show me their wares. They speak Arabic. The syllables flow melodically out of them and past me. Suddenly an elderly gentleman appears. He, too, is wearing a robe, but one of superior elegance. He quickly approaches me, pulls out a wooden instrument and, before I know it, the fine smoke shot from the instrument reaches my nasal cavities and transports me to a spiritual level of metaphysical dreams, where foggy steam knocks reality off its throne and a surreal fusion of fantasy and reality unfolds. Dark paths open up to me, while the fragrant veil of ambiguity envelops my senses. Where am I? Does it matter? Hesitantly, I decide to take the middle path where a being interwoven with frankincense and myrrh appears floating in the air and presses an ancient leather scroll into my hand. The parchment is glowing and refuses to be unrolled. It puts up fierce resistance and throws me to the ground. I don't land, but fall through it, straight into the depths of the insidious darkness, where even the shadows retreat. The uneasy nothingness reigns here. Not everyone manages to untangle the unrecognizable threads of emptiness and find refuge in the warm light of safety.

When a swarm of butterflies flutter diligently through the hectic winds with their delicate wings made of magical powder, you can be sure that there is a nature factory very close to the forest where they produce wonderfully fragrant cotton balls from mystical ingredients day after day, which - velvety soft in texture - are whirled up by the air currents and set off on their long journey through the vast sea of flowers. They skillfully suck fragrant essences from magnificent flowering plants until they float ponderously towards the ground. Once they touch the ground, they burst into countless tiny particles, which are then absorbed by the atmosphere and spread across the entire earth, each particle with its own unique, unmistakable message to us. So let us thank the industrious butterfly workers who have blessed us with this precious wonder of nature.

15. March, 1494

It's cold and wet and I've been stuck on this sailing ship for months. We are somewhere on the Atlantic and as I write these lines, the sky and ocean are engaged in a fierce battle for supremacy. Rhythmically high waves whip against the salt-encrusted porthole. The rain is unable to prevail and melts into the watery elevations of the sea. The light in my cabin burns dimly. The wood creaks, cracks and cracks together a melodic composition as my thoughts gallop on the majestic waves, hoping to hit land soon. Life at sea is unpredictable and yet it is the dreams of unknown territory that keep us alive. White spots on the map that want to be discovered. I let my thoughts drift, filled with the awe-inspiring realization that many before me have felt the same longing, but were denied the chance to feel the sand between their toes. Heavy iron gates of untouched worlds will, however, open to me and grant me insight into the wisdom of a culture that reveals the hidden corners of humanity. But I am still stuck here, listening to the scratching of the pen on the paper as I watch the aquatic bars of my holding cell. I have no choice but to yearn for the place of my dreams.

In 1780, an elderly gentleman named Thibault Gaubert once lived in a small hut near Paris. He was an insignificant alchemist who no longer saw any point in his vocation. One day, in late August, Thibault decided to take a short walk around the picturesque little villages. He soon reached a small avenue adorned with almond trees. As he walked along the road, enveloped by the beguiling scent of almonds, his thoughts formed an idea that he couldn't get out of his head. Hastily, with barely more than four almonds in his pocket, he made his way home. Even before he opened the cottage door, his gaze wandered to the imposing rose bushes of the neighboring house. "It's only two roses," he thought as he snatched the blossoms and hurried into the cottage. The old wooden workbench was just waiting for him, so Thibault set to work. He combined the nutty notes of the almonds, the delicate blossoms of the centifolia and the mysterious warmth of the shimmering golden honey to create an unsurpassable masterpiece. The fragrant scent soon spread, reaching the huts in the surrounding neighborhood, flowing through yards, houses and gardens, hitting grassland, fields and forests, shooting high up to the mountains and quickly becoming a topic of conversation among the local population. Everyone talked about the mysterious mist that settled on the skin like powder and whose floral notes created an atmospheric ambience, but no one could trace the source of this olfactory symphony. Thibault made a note of the ingredients, placed the book in an elaborately decorated box and took his secret with him to his death.