Blue Invasion - Blue Encens Comme des Garçons 2013
4
A Perfume from Lovecraft's Pen
The sun is nearing the horizon and I impatiently glance at the clock. It's time, he will be here soon. We always meet outside of town, because unfortunately he is not very welcome. Tesfaye waves to me from a distance and I call out his name in recognition. I am the only one here who makes the effort not to disgrace his name with our Texan accent.
He sets down his bone-colored backpack on the gravel road and takes a quick breath before he starts rummaging wildly in his waxed bag. “It must be great to breathe the sea air every day.” Life here is my calling, but I didn't choose it this way. “If only there weren't buckets full of fish at the harbor,” I replied with a tired smile. He laughs to himself and nearly chokes on his words. “Teach a hungry person to fish and you feed him for life, right?”
He hands me, as he does every week, 22 pounds of frankincense resin from Eritrea in an American jute sack that was once meant for potatoes, in exchange for $10 from my donations and smoked fish wrapped in newspaper that he likes so much. “A little sea air for you.” He briefly sniffs the headlines from last week and swallows to keep the saliva from running out of his mouth. He quickly squats down and digs out a small pouch from his backpack. “Try a bit of this next time. I got it from a friend in Madagascar.” I open the pouch and the sharp aroma hits me in the face. “This isn't the usual stuff you guys use. This pepper is used as medicine in some countries. Now just imagine what that does to your fish!” he boasts. Gratefully, I stretch out my arms for a hug when someone behind me angrily calls my name: “Hey, Bartholomew!” Our arms drop, Tesfaye's mouth corners turn heavy. “God has reserved a place in hell for such people. I'm sorry. Thank you and take care,” I say comfortingly as I bid farewell. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and heads inland.
With my sack full of frankincense and a pouch of black pepper in my pocket, I walk towards the blue horizon where the sun is already kissing the ocean. “Your smoked fish is too good to waste it like that,” says Elijah Tabak smacking his lips as I pass him. “The same can be said about God's forgiveness, but you throw that right in the trash with your behavior, Elijah. Say hi to your mother for me and God bless.” I hear his slimy spit hitting the gravel behind me and head towards the harbor. I need to be there before the sun sets in the sea because my nightmares torment me to do so. I want to believe that it is God warning me, but it is this damned town. There has always been a pagan respect for the sea among the villagers. Only the foolish dare to venture out with their boats, but they supply the whole village. Besides fish, we have nothing to offer and are surrounded by marshes, which is why we can't grow anything. No one here is skilled either, and the most intricate work the people have mastered is loading the drum of a revolver.
I constantly dream of something at the bottom of the sea and I have stopped washing my bedding daily due to the cold sweat. It has wings made of scaly skin, tentacles sprouting from its face, enveloping it, and so many purple eyes that seem to look in every direction at all times. Neither human nor animal and not resembling any biblical description. Algae wrap around its grotesque limbs, barnacles devour its pulsating skin, and fish circle around it like vultures around carrion. Yet I know it is waiting for something and when it rises from the abyss, it would consume our village. The more often the nightmares tore me from sleep, the less fear I had, and I grew accustomed to the feeling. Gradually, I could endure it better, studying the images in the night more closely. It was a monstrosity that my imagination could not conjure. Thus, it became clear to me that these cannot be ordinary dreams. It cannot be a coincidence that I was chosen to have these terrifying visions.
I walk along the pier. The fishy sea breeze that Tesfaye loves so much blows salty through the wind. The algae-covered wooden posts that laboriously support the pier beneath my feet are long overdue. I have to sniff the Madagascar pepper from time to time to keep from feeling too nauseous from the spray. At the end of the dock lies a metal bowl that I set up at the beginning of my dreams. I empty the jute sack with the resin into it and light it with my matches. Tesfaye hasn't always brought me frankincense. I actually know him for his excellent cardamom, which I use as a spice for my smoked fish. That he can also procure resins was divinely intended.
In the distance, a lamp lights up and reflects in the gentle waves. It is one of the fishing boats and a rough voice that can only belong to Jonah calls out from afar: “Hey priest, shouldn't we just move the service to the harbor?” Dirty laughter echoes from the bright spotlight. Jonah once confessed to me that he has a hard time controlling his aggression. It is not uncommon for his wife Dolores to sit in my little chapel on Sundays with a black eye.
As I watch the shimmering resin, someone throws a rope at my feet. “Tie it tight, Padre,” said Gideon. His yellow apron is covered in blood and fish guts because he spends the whole day smashing fish heads to pulp with his club. If it weren't for him, we could sell the fish much better. The two jump out of the boat they have named Tempest, and Jonah carries the tub full of dead fish past me. Gideon pauses briefly next to me, his hand on the revolver in his holster. His breath stinks of homemade moonshine and he smells like a sweaty animal. “I hate frankincense. You're lucky God protects you. See you Sunday, Bartholomew,” he said and walked on before he finished speaking. “Soon, soon,” I whisper to myself.
The cold frankincense drives away the sea air and gives me a feeling of security as I longingly gaze into the distance. The dark sky merges with the sea and I see only midnight blue. It no longer makes a difference if I close my eyes. Somewhere he sleeps and waits to finally redeem this village. In his house in R'lyeh, the dead Cthulhu waits, dreaming.
He sets down his bone-colored backpack on the gravel road and takes a quick breath before he starts rummaging wildly in his waxed bag. “It must be great to breathe the sea air every day.” Life here is my calling, but I didn't choose it this way. “If only there weren't buckets full of fish at the harbor,” I replied with a tired smile. He laughs to himself and nearly chokes on his words. “Teach a hungry person to fish and you feed him for life, right?”
He hands me, as he does every week, 22 pounds of frankincense resin from Eritrea in an American jute sack that was once meant for potatoes, in exchange for $10 from my donations and smoked fish wrapped in newspaper that he likes so much. “A little sea air for you.” He briefly sniffs the headlines from last week and swallows to keep the saliva from running out of his mouth. He quickly squats down and digs out a small pouch from his backpack. “Try a bit of this next time. I got it from a friend in Madagascar.” I open the pouch and the sharp aroma hits me in the face. “This isn't the usual stuff you guys use. This pepper is used as medicine in some countries. Now just imagine what that does to your fish!” he boasts. Gratefully, I stretch out my arms for a hug when someone behind me angrily calls my name: “Hey, Bartholomew!” Our arms drop, Tesfaye's mouth corners turn heavy. “God has reserved a place in hell for such people. I'm sorry. Thank you and take care,” I say comfortingly as I bid farewell. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and heads inland.
With my sack full of frankincense and a pouch of black pepper in my pocket, I walk towards the blue horizon where the sun is already kissing the ocean. “Your smoked fish is too good to waste it like that,” says Elijah Tabak smacking his lips as I pass him. “The same can be said about God's forgiveness, but you throw that right in the trash with your behavior, Elijah. Say hi to your mother for me and God bless.” I hear his slimy spit hitting the gravel behind me and head towards the harbor. I need to be there before the sun sets in the sea because my nightmares torment me to do so. I want to believe that it is God warning me, but it is this damned town. There has always been a pagan respect for the sea among the villagers. Only the foolish dare to venture out with their boats, but they supply the whole village. Besides fish, we have nothing to offer and are surrounded by marshes, which is why we can't grow anything. No one here is skilled either, and the most intricate work the people have mastered is loading the drum of a revolver.
I constantly dream of something at the bottom of the sea and I have stopped washing my bedding daily due to the cold sweat. It has wings made of scaly skin, tentacles sprouting from its face, enveloping it, and so many purple eyes that seem to look in every direction at all times. Neither human nor animal and not resembling any biblical description. Algae wrap around its grotesque limbs, barnacles devour its pulsating skin, and fish circle around it like vultures around carrion. Yet I know it is waiting for something and when it rises from the abyss, it would consume our village. The more often the nightmares tore me from sleep, the less fear I had, and I grew accustomed to the feeling. Gradually, I could endure it better, studying the images in the night more closely. It was a monstrosity that my imagination could not conjure. Thus, it became clear to me that these cannot be ordinary dreams. It cannot be a coincidence that I was chosen to have these terrifying visions.
I walk along the pier. The fishy sea breeze that Tesfaye loves so much blows salty through the wind. The algae-covered wooden posts that laboriously support the pier beneath my feet are long overdue. I have to sniff the Madagascar pepper from time to time to keep from feeling too nauseous from the spray. At the end of the dock lies a metal bowl that I set up at the beginning of my dreams. I empty the jute sack with the resin into it and light it with my matches. Tesfaye hasn't always brought me frankincense. I actually know him for his excellent cardamom, which I use as a spice for my smoked fish. That he can also procure resins was divinely intended.
In the distance, a lamp lights up and reflects in the gentle waves. It is one of the fishing boats and a rough voice that can only belong to Jonah calls out from afar: “Hey priest, shouldn't we just move the service to the harbor?” Dirty laughter echoes from the bright spotlight. Jonah once confessed to me that he has a hard time controlling his aggression. It is not uncommon for his wife Dolores to sit in my little chapel on Sundays with a black eye.
As I watch the shimmering resin, someone throws a rope at my feet. “Tie it tight, Padre,” said Gideon. His yellow apron is covered in blood and fish guts because he spends the whole day smashing fish heads to pulp with his club. If it weren't for him, we could sell the fish much better. The two jump out of the boat they have named Tempest, and Jonah carries the tub full of dead fish past me. Gideon pauses briefly next to me, his hand on the revolver in his holster. His breath stinks of homemade moonshine and he smells like a sweaty animal. “I hate frankincense. You're lucky God protects you. See you Sunday, Bartholomew,” he said and walked on before he finished speaking. “Soon, soon,” I whisper to myself.
The cold frankincense drives away the sea air and gives me a feeling of security as I longingly gaze into the distance. The dark sky merges with the sea and I see only midnight blue. It no longer makes a difference if I close my eyes. Somewhere he sleeps and waits to finally redeem this village. In his house in R'lyeh, the dead Cthulhu waits, dreaming.
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