02/10/2020
Floyd
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Memories of White Lake
Your arrival is followed by the rise of the orange, which like a balloon of candy, dazzlingly wafts across the meadows of White Lake, sweet and juicy seeming south of Bethel, New York
Through sunglasses of sandalwood the rays soon begin to fall on fine threads, the orange creamy to the earth to bleed, already faded memories dance, translucent shadowy faded, spirits like on warm earth. They sway gently in incense in veils, as if they were still celebrating after fifty years, but it is only a hint of blossoms still, which the wind blows across the meadow, and yet, far away in the reverberation of the acoustic guitars, the scent of patchouli seems to linger in the mind, like quiet sounds of the distant stage, the colorful bus 'Further' of the Hog Farm. Harmonious notes of soft air, creamy freshness in warm orange woods, pale flowers on dried earth, dry puddles of vanilla
Then the ghosts become wax figures that, like monuments lost in the vast landscape, send out sweating a soft tissue of myrrh resin, balsamic-sweet and spicy-warm aromas. The orange turns into brown amber and the meadow into sandalwood, on which the wax figures spin around in pools of fruity orange cream, swirled around by trippingly dancing flowers, defying the heavy myrrhic myths, soon sobered by the heavy opium, whispering in light soft incense: All too harmonious the illusion, but as a fragrance deep and light and beautiful, quiet and close like a song by Nick Drake, the memories of White Lake are long lasting.
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