Torfdoen

Two paths led into a yellow forest. And since I'm a perfume wanderer, I took them both. I didn't stand around for long, but walked the darker, feral ones first. You can always go back if you don't like it, I thought. In the thicket, I lost my sight.

The branches are sharp and deeply rooted. A little harsh, I think, at first. A sip from the flask soothes the first impression. Heidewitzka, what is this strong stuff! In a slightly milder mood, I take a look at the surroundings. Genuine liquorice, moss-covered, releases essential oils after breaking. Juniper bushes, planted along the side of the inaccurate path, point the way with their typical warm spicy aroma. The earth steams in the first hours of the morning. I'm rolling myself a cigarette. It was the right decision. The dense forest eclipse glistens in the incoming sunshine. Colours come into play. Green orange. Earthy red. The warming dullness gives way to a noble freshness.

Arriving on a wide plain, conifers sway in the warm wind, crickets chirp through densely overgrown, half-dried grasses. The scent of wild pepper orange trees wafts around me, reminds me of the earthy warm liquorice haze of the forest. I look back and see no darkness. Merely the alcoholic sharpness of the entrance, makes me question my flask again. Then I come across a whole field of salty-juicy sweet grass perennials, which exalt their typical citrus-nutty smoke in outstanding mildness, yet strong and full. The sky does not occupy a living cloud. The way is long lost. The distance the goal.

How nice to have chosen the dark path. The naturalness of the landscape has an electrifying effect. It can't be perfume, I think. I walk through the fields in a dream, pulling my hat lower, lying under a woody, ossified tree that offers no shade. Endless impressions. The filter jumps to harmony. A better reflection of nature. That's heretical, I think. And subtle. A man-made natural spectacle. A natural human spectacle. A rough, pretend idyll.

Be that as it may. I lie in the middle of it, it suits me, I never want to leave.
This Lutens Sheldrake, that's one, I think, in ecstatic happiness. Chanel episode, I still think

Yes, something's pushing me back...

The air in expectant trembling. Lightning. The last rays of citric-orange light cut off and hidden behind dark clouds. An interval of cooling incense, a slightly ethereal breeze blowing up. It's all in my head. On the dusty streets, rain inertly draws an increasing pattern. The soil reacts and gives off an intense aroma of dominant culinary herbs. Caraway, greasy, coarse leather, but also vital sprouting tobacco. Noble organic barrel material that radiates a dark musty character. Residues of human rule have come to the surface everywhere. Mighty flowers act from the hidden, entice with a beguiling greeting of life. The combination of these fragrances weaves itself into a dirty sultriness, hidden in the light summer haze. Better than the relentless, dust-dry heat. Much better. There is an orange earth refreshment after the shock and some sweetened liquorice screw rubber for calming.

Squatting in the street puddle. Blissful splashing in the murky herb water. Don't be afraid of dirt and filth. Memories of Azzaro Homme, although no lavender soap far and wide, only dirty-orange high pleasure. In the fall. Probably the best time of year for this thunderstorm.

Tenderly, he yells in my ear. I was very pleased to invite him. Through the hole in the wall, I see my neighbors staring at us in disbelief. The plaster is still crumbling a little from the edges. He has just taken the shiny, clean tea service from his monstrous throat bag. Black steam is spreading through the room. Is it tea or does it smoke from a head of a huge monster?

"How did we meet again?"

"Got your address from the M3000 who said I should visit you. You like Assam?"

"The tea? Oh, yeah, I'd love to. Unfortunately I can't see my teacup because of the smoke."

"Here you go. Some iodine?"

"No, dan..."

A terrible scream of wrath blows the few remaining hairs straight. From his nostrils, a large gush of black secretion splashes into my cup.

"Thank you."

He circles with one of his greasy fingers in the microscopically small appearing teacup and looks thoughtlessly into space. An overwhelming smoke aroma now emanates from the liquid and the unknown. The expression of dull serenity in the face of this giant creature, sitting and stirring on the sofa, could not seem more inappropriate, I think.

"Assam, did you say?"

A long sigh of affirmation follows my question.

"May I?"

In the teapot I discover grass and herb containers, black roots and lumps of earth in a bubbling brew. Also the first green tufts sprout on the skin surface of the lethargic looking, not so fearsome monster.

"Here, listen. Your skin, it's made of really strong tanned leather. But now there's all this ethereal green stuff coming out. Is that normal or should I get the hedge trimmer?"

"That's all right, you'll see more changes."

"You suddenly talk so swollen. The tea is excellent, by the way. Assam as he could not be blacker and more herbaceous. Where to buy it?"

The iodine note was not mine, but somehow belongs to the greasy creaminess of the smoking soup, I thought.
To my astonishment, the earth-colored, dark giant on my sofa had mutated into a neat beauty in a leather jacket, wild hair and a gorgeous green beard.

"On my long travels I meet some of the most famous manufacturers of luxury products in the world. I would be surprised if you would have the money left for such a exquisite treasure, I see myself around in this habitually hardly to be surpassed dwelling."

"Well, give me a break. I have some very nice homemade pot holders."

"I don't have time for such things."

The spirited handsome had jumped onto the sofa in one movement and posed with his chest outstretched: "In me the man's power awakens, the spirit of spring has come to me. Say, is there a shop here where they sell plants and other flowers?"

"A flower shop?"

"Yes. It must be a rose and the sweat on my skin and no woman can resist my animal evaporation."

"I must say, in fact, your daring, rustic appearance has subtle sex appeal. Your sweat is the ambratic attractant?"

"It runs out of all my pores. The seductive innocence of a single wild rose has the suggestive phantasm of security in the midst of natural lust."

"You can tell, you're a hard man to tame. Still, you should know about modern mating rituals: If one of the ladies you love asks for a Louisa, let it go with the homage and first go to a secret place of your choice and stay there for an indefinite time. Oh, I can barely let you walk around out there alone. You'd be like an Eskimo in the desert. You with your piggy self-confidence in a world full of idealized restraint and sexual neutrality, I have to see that. I'll go with you. Let's go!"

...


A flower shop and a police department later, the dear friend hangs crumpled over the last drop of remaining tea enjoyment, where I take him comfortingly in my arms, place him on the sofa and promise to introduce him the next day to a group of people who would certainly appreciate his very special way. This is the strange group of perfume lovers, I explain to him.

"Once wash, leather, wax, cream, oil, butter and powder, please. Do you also have delicate, caramelised flowers?"

"All right. That's twelve and ninety-nine. Drive up to the traffic light and switch off the engine. Leave the slices down."

No sea cucumbers in the water. Only nature in the overwhelmed sense. This is the most sterile industrial port I've ever seen. Here was chemically processed.
Chlorine. Adhesive. Vetiver substitute (the nutty, canisterwise). All things may work against algae. Nevertheless, some driftwood floats in the harbour basin, where several aroma trees (the green ones) are stapled. And a bouquet of roses. Do you want to fill the flavoured harbour water into a spray dispenser, which is standing here at the pier in front of me, and press it on the people passing by as a business idea? Pft, pft... A refreshing idea. In summer, when you want to combat the onset of sweating immediately after showering, you glue the glands together. Outside the periphery of the scented area, the whole person smells more and more unwashed in the course of the day. That's a nice contrast that you can take to the extreme thanks to such an artificial perfume. The spatial effect is, thank God, strong, so that the smell of the own fish is covered without any problems.
Whatever floats from the fish remains on the surface can be collected and disposed of by the next cutter. The harbor workers who hurry along immediately use Co2 dry ice fire extinguishers to combat the resulting water and skin impurities. There's coastal fog at the booth. It warms and invites contemplation. A port where the fish disappear. Here in Esbjerg people do not seem to regret the lack of large container ships.
I feel like a tadpole on shore leave. How one could afford such an unused port, I ask one of the workers. Tourism, he answers concisely. With a sigh on my lips, I lose myself in the vastness of a seamless horizon. And the foggy spray dims the mercilessly radiating sun once again on the bearable.