10/18/2023
Midnights
8 Reviews
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Midnights
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Of endless summers and faded postcards...
It's 2:27 p.m. The summer midday sun has reached its peak a good three weeks ago, only no relief wants to set in. The heat presses down on the limbs and the thoughts. A vacuum of physical and mental inhibition. On the horizon a flicker of heat, wave-like vibrations, similar to flames, so hot that everything is about to dissolve into a metallic blue. The silence of the dusty country road is interrupted only by the chirping of crickets and the buzzing of other notch animals. But even they seem sluggish and only make sounds because they can't help it. Those who can choose avoid every movement and sound. Minimalism of existence, a life in slow motion.
The air in invisible tremor. Every scent, so clear in the morning, is now soaked in heat and bleached by the sun like an old parasol.
The peel of the orange peeled in the morning, which has become dry in the meantime, still lies on the wooden table. The memory of its juiciness is supposedly within reach, but escapes like fruit flies when you try to grab for it. The squeezed lemons lie sourly in the air and suggest an idea of freshness, which does not really occur even in the evening. The resin on the wooden table, swelling from grooves, is already quite soft, just before liquid, a fly has caught in it. The half-bushes of the strawflower, by now withered, smell spicy, honey-warm and yet dry. With each wave of scent, the mouth turns into a dusty desert. As if they knew it, juniper needles throw cool and balsamic lifelines whenever the senses threaten to overheat. The lavender still quietly emits signals of life, carrying his head only heavily on his shoulders.
In the darkened kitchen lies the still fresh fennel in its sweetish green. To stow him, had probably been too exhausting. The bunch of rosemary, placed in a water glass, is unimpressed by the lifeless heat and floods the rooms with its spice. Time drags on endlessly, never finding its way. Like the postcard from last year's summer vacation that never arrived. Presumably, it too has now faded and yellowed like that day.
@!*
As if summer had been captured in a bottle. All its liveliness, its sluggishness, the heat, the sounds of insects, the longing for refreshment, the dusty streets...
Lemons so naturalistically sour that my mouth waters. Fennel so sweetly fresh, as if I were at the market stall in the early morning. Immortelle so spicy, dusty, dry, as if I run over Mediterranean cliffs. Where I-I Terralba touched me intellectually, "Sempreviva" hits me authentically and without abstraction right in the heart. Quietly, with languid movements of a summer day, it sneaks up on me, unexpectedly. And I wonder when exactly summers stopped feeling eternal.
The air in invisible tremor. Every scent, so clear in the morning, is now soaked in heat and bleached by the sun like an old parasol.
The peel of the orange peeled in the morning, which has become dry in the meantime, still lies on the wooden table. The memory of its juiciness is supposedly within reach, but escapes like fruit flies when you try to grab for it. The squeezed lemons lie sourly in the air and suggest an idea of freshness, which does not really occur even in the evening. The resin on the wooden table, swelling from grooves, is already quite soft, just before liquid, a fly has caught in it. The half-bushes of the strawflower, by now withered, smell spicy, honey-warm and yet dry. With each wave of scent, the mouth turns into a dusty desert. As if they knew it, juniper needles throw cool and balsamic lifelines whenever the senses threaten to overheat. The lavender still quietly emits signals of life, carrying his head only heavily on his shoulders.
In the darkened kitchen lies the still fresh fennel in its sweetish green. To stow him, had probably been too exhausting. The bunch of rosemary, placed in a water glass, is unimpressed by the lifeless heat and floods the rooms with its spice. Time drags on endlessly, never finding its way. Like the postcard from last year's summer vacation that never arrived. Presumably, it too has now faded and yellowed like that day.
@!*
As if summer had been captured in a bottle. All its liveliness, its sluggishness, the heat, the sounds of insects, the longing for refreshment, the dusty streets...
Lemons so naturalistically sour that my mouth waters. Fennel so sweetly fresh, as if I were at the market stall in the early morning. Immortelle so spicy, dusty, dry, as if I run over Mediterranean cliffs. Where I-I Terralba touched me intellectually, "Sempreviva" hits me authentically and without abstraction right in the heart. Quietly, with languid movements of a summer day, it sneaks up on me, unexpectedly. And I wonder when exactly summers stopped feeling eternal.
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