Orange
Beeswax
Labdanum
Myrrh
Sandalwood
Musk
Tree moss
Amber
Frankincense
Jasmine
Opium
Patchouli
Vanilla
Wild flowers
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Memories of White Lake
Your arrival is followed by the rise of the orange, which, like a candy balloon, glimmers over the meadows of White Lake, appearing sweet and juicy south of Bethel, New York.
Through sunglasses made of sandalwood, the rays soon begin to fall in fine threads, the orange bleeding creamy to the ground, faded memories already dancing, translucent and ghostly, like spirits on warm earth. They sway gently in incense veils, as if they are still celebrating after fifty years, yet it is only a hint of blossoms that the wind blows over the meadow and still, far away in the echo of acoustic guitars, the scent of patchouli seems to linger in the mind, like quiet sounds from the distant stage, the colorful bus 'Further' of the Hog Farm. Harmoniously the notes of the gentle air, the creamy freshness in orange-warm woods, the pale blossoms on dried earth, the drying puddles of vanilla.
Then the ghosts become figures of wax, sending forth a gentle fabric of myrrh resin, balsamically sweet and spicy warm aromas, sweating in the vast landscape like monuments lost. Only then does the orange solidify into brown amber and transform the meadow into sandalwood, on which the wax figures turn in laughter of fruity orange cream, whirled by prancing dancing blossoms, defying the heavy myrrh myths, soon sobering from dark opium, whispering in bright soft incense: All too harmonious the illusion, yet as a scent deep and light and beautiful, quiet and close to the skin like a song by Nick Drake, the memories of White Lake linger long.
(With thanks to Can777)
Through sunglasses made of sandalwood, the rays soon begin to fall in fine threads, the orange bleeding creamy to the ground, faded memories already dancing, translucent and ghostly, like spirits on warm earth. They sway gently in incense veils, as if they are still celebrating after fifty years, yet it is only a hint of blossoms that the wind blows over the meadow and still, far away in the echo of acoustic guitars, the scent of patchouli seems to linger in the mind, like quiet sounds from the distant stage, the colorful bus 'Further' of the Hog Farm. Harmoniously the notes of the gentle air, the creamy freshness in orange-warm woods, the pale blossoms on dried earth, the drying puddles of vanilla.
Then the ghosts become figures of wax, sending forth a gentle fabric of myrrh resin, balsamically sweet and spicy warm aromas, sweating in the vast landscape like monuments lost. Only then does the orange solidify into brown amber and transform the meadow into sandalwood, on which the wax figures turn in laughter of fruity orange cream, whirled by prancing dancing blossoms, defying the heavy myrrh myths, soon sobering from dark opium, whispering in bright soft incense: All too harmonious the illusion, yet as a scent deep and light and beautiful, quiet and close to the skin like a song by Nick Drake, the memories of White Lake linger long.
(With thanks to Can777)
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