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Notes02/29/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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Gate to the essence of the forest
1. A gate to childhood
Here is a gate into the forest of my childhood, where no horizon, no vanity, where mosses like grasses and roots like doors to dwarves' caves so far, where hollows like ravines and streams like rivers and darkness end of time. Where ground needles stick between woods and hands full of tree resin and forest soil, an ethereal herbal green scent emerges, eucalyptus earthwood mist.
2. ELGIN
As if as a child between needles and grasses, mosses and tree sap, ferns and barks, hands buried in damp earth, thoughts disappear in the now, a familiar face appears between dreams with wafts of spicy smoke, hollow-cheeked behind tinted glasses, old Elgin grins bony, puts Ore Mountains incense cones everywhere, burning them. There it is for a thought long winter, the forest a warm chamber, there the needles in the fire of the candles hiss and remain memory always. Then the cones glow cooler and greener from vetiver and cloves, someone smears birch tar over the ground until incense warms the forest like clouds, balsamic and sweetly woven through 3. Evening gliders
For a moment lime blossoms seem to get lost in the thicket, a delicate hint of sweet yellow pollen blows away the incense. Then resins, syrup and honey run along the dome of the sky, they dip the forest in a harsh orange, the needles still shimmer thorny inside, and whoever quietly lingers in the mountain green evening glow for a few more hours hears the shadows of forest dwellers rustling, who never come too close to you.
Here is a gate into the forest of my childhood, where no horizon, no vanity, where mosses like grasses and roots like doors to dwarves' caves so far, where hollows like ravines and streams like rivers and darkness end of time. Where ground needles stick between woods and hands full of tree resin and forest soil, an ethereal herbal green scent emerges, eucalyptus earthwood mist.
2. ELGIN
As if as a child between needles and grasses, mosses and tree sap, ferns and barks, hands buried in damp earth, thoughts disappear in the now, a familiar face appears between dreams with wafts of spicy smoke, hollow-cheeked behind tinted glasses, old Elgin grins bony, puts Ore Mountains incense cones everywhere, burning them. There it is for a thought long winter, the forest a warm chamber, there the needles in the fire of the candles hiss and remain memory always. Then the cones glow cooler and greener from vetiver and cloves, someone smears birch tar over the ground until incense warms the forest like clouds, balsamic and sweetly woven through 3. Evening gliders
For a moment lime blossoms seem to get lost in the thicket, a delicate hint of sweet yellow pollen blows away the incense. Then resins, syrup and honey run along the dome of the sky, they dip the forest in a harsh orange, the needles still shimmer thorny inside, and whoever quietly lingers in the mountain green evening glow for a few more hours hears the shadows of forest dwellers rustling, who never come too close to you.
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