Mystic Mastic Bibi Bigler 2020

While looking at the deckle edge pictures of an early photo album I flipped back a glassine page and saw myself. I lay in the sepia-coloured shadow of a mighty mastic bush on a bed of leaves and stared into the Greek sky.
Like soft rain the tears of Chios dripped greenish yellow from the overgrown branches, swirling the spicy clouds of incense on their way into the pistachio leaves, which were still shining from grapefruit. The grain of the image was the magic matrix, like magic mist of boswellia and mastic, balsamic brownish microscopic pearls of finest pollum and roasted pistachios, sharpened by bitter hesperides, carried by aldehydes, cool and yet culinary dust.
Like tiny aimless zeppelins, ethereal pine needles moved across the cloud horizon as the freshness of the fruit slowly disappeared, my gaze following the knotty mastic trunk to the roots above the warm ground. Here lived the quiet Labdans, who waved the dark scent of earth in the cool light brown haze, the dreamlike tears of Chios, whose twelve-hour magic art was revealed from a single drop and must be well dosed.