Plein Jeu III-V Filippo Sorcinelli 2016

Between the jet-black lava rocks and the pale, wind-lashed grass stood the hut, as though the landscape had forgotten it there or preserved it as a secret repository of silence. As I crossed the threshold, the first creak of the door sounded like a deep, welcoming breath.

Inside, I was greeted by a bright, almost silvery light that fell in narrow beams through the small windows. Yet this brightness was deceptive; it was not merely an illumination of the room, but seemed deeper than the world outside. It was a light that did not merely illuminate, but almost imperceptibly took me by the hand and led me somewhere.

The hut, yes, local, built by locals. The memories of this being, wrought in this place, the memories of a soul that had travelled far to get here.
With knowledge and goodness, as never before (ever again) smelled here.

Yet it was not the light alone that guided me, but the air, filled with mysterious scents. It smelled like an aged wooden church, where time had congealed into a dense substance.

There was the austere note of old planks, mingled with the scent of something strangely cold, which I later managed to locate; or so I thought.
Each breath seemed to touch an ancient devotion, a silent communication with all those who had found refuge here.

Nothing moved, and yet the hut was not empty. I had the feeling that I had not simply entered, but had been welcomed.

Outside, the Icelandic wind raged across the land in a grey chaos, yet inside that peculiar brightness remained, cool and gentle at once. In the weight of the old wood lay the intimation that this hut preserved far more than mere warmth - namely, remnants of memories revealed only to those willing to follow the scent of eternity.
Memories held fast on rippled, parchment-like paper of old bindings, whose dry scent I receive.

My further scent impressions:
Frankincense is at the centre from the very beginning: cool, pure and silvery-bright, slightly fragile. A fine citrus note, bergamot, meets delicate pepper.

Strange scenes open up to me at the transition to the HN.
Colour effects on the floorboards.... not from stained glass, but from a wax candle forgotten in the window, on a moss-green glass plate.

And I get an 'Something' of a nuance - at the end of the fresh and lightly spicy KN - familiar to me, certainly, yet still confusing, here and now.
Confusing, too, because nothing is mentioned anywhere about the next two nuances.

The glass plate crystal-clear like ice.
Indeed, from somewhere this icy nuance flashes upon me; brief, sec-intense, dusty-distant, remote.
Immediately afterwards, my senses are sharpened by the resonance of hot beeswax.
The drops of wax roll along, cooling the tautest, finest threads of frankincense in gold, comfortingly. Until they spread across the backrest of the wooden bench and dissolve into the ancient woody notes.
Despite the resinous-woody wind direction, the scent shimmers constantly bright and relieving, from its fascinating composed purity.

What passes away leaves behind its scent.

#Plein Jeu III-V is bright, warm and quiet (H/S 8/7) - a composition between old writing, burning wax and light-filled frankincense.
Not a loud scent, but a quiet echo of what has passed; before it may encounter us again.

Thank you Filippo!