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Notes10/15/2019
Palonera
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Palonera
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51
L'île des fleurs et des rochers roses - or: Dialogue with nose
"Fig!" says my nose and raises irritated the neighboring brows. "Didn't you say something about sandalwood?"
"Actually, yes," I think and critically eye the sprayer.
It says "Santal 33" on it.
It comes from Le Labo like all the other sprayers we've dealt with before, nose, skin and me.
Usually it's what's written on it, at least about.
This time however: "Fig - still. The wood, the leaf, the milk. But no pulp, no sweet juice. And sea air - can it be? Just like that time on the Bréhat Island, remember?"
Yes, I remember it - rough, salty sea air, rugged cliffs, the wind blowing my hair into my face, pulling my clothes, desert and wild.
It seems so peaceful, the island, down in the south, with its thousands of bees and flowers around Saint Michel, the old chapel, with its almost kitschy green meadows, where a cow gave birth to her calf right in front of our eyes.
And the fig trees, the innumerable fig trees with their woody, tart green, which is bitter in its fragrance and yet the juice contracts in the mouth.
"Stop dreaming!" tears my nose out of memories. "Are you wearing the old leather jacket again? "The brown suede one whose sleeves once went in the Indian sauce?"
No, I didn't - but I know exactly what my nose means.
Leather is there, velvety wild leather, a bit stained apparently by spicy dark juice, who knows where from.
And smoke, a little bit woody, a little bit resinous, holy not so much - a little bit but yet, far back, imagined perhaps only.
"Did you say wood?" asks nose, suddenly with light eyes.
Yes, wood is there, for sure - dark, soft, polished wood.
"Sandalwood?!"
"If I wouldn't say so - it's not that soft, balsamic or not at all, much too dark in addition. Cedar...? Yes, but - a bit of pencil would get there, only without a lead," I think, my nose close to my wrist, breathing slowly and gently, "and powder - mauve-coloured smooth powder, very little, very fine. What do you say, nose? Am I right?"
"Did you," let me nod my nose, "and brine is there, sometimes peeking around the corner, playing hide-and-seek. And something from your kitchen that you put in the orient dishes, something with K."
"Cubeb pepper?"
"I don't know - could be. Maybe cardamom or coriander. Ask the tongue, it knows better than that."
But the tongue stays out and remains silent.
"Were you in the sauna?" my nose asks me a few hours later. "You smell like wellness, like essential oils, like camphor, eucalyptus - somehow healthy!"
She's right, I think, and I breathe deeper.
Cool and warm at the same time is what now rises from my skin, surrounds me like an aura, light and dark, leafy woody, smoky and at the same time ether-fresh, grated grain of spices next to a sea of green rocks.
Every day a little different, sometimes green, sometimes brown, always powerfully accompanied by a dull, rich grey.
A little bitter, bitter and brittle - not really tangible and of deep fascination.
Like L'île des fleurs et des rochers roses.
PS: Ergoproxy - thank you!
"Actually, yes," I think and critically eye the sprayer.
It says "Santal 33" on it.
It comes from Le Labo like all the other sprayers we've dealt with before, nose, skin and me.
Usually it's what's written on it, at least about.
This time however: "Fig - still. The wood, the leaf, the milk. But no pulp, no sweet juice. And sea air - can it be? Just like that time on the Bréhat Island, remember?"
Yes, I remember it - rough, salty sea air, rugged cliffs, the wind blowing my hair into my face, pulling my clothes, desert and wild.
It seems so peaceful, the island, down in the south, with its thousands of bees and flowers around Saint Michel, the old chapel, with its almost kitschy green meadows, where a cow gave birth to her calf right in front of our eyes.
And the fig trees, the innumerable fig trees with their woody, tart green, which is bitter in its fragrance and yet the juice contracts in the mouth.
"Stop dreaming!" tears my nose out of memories. "Are you wearing the old leather jacket again? "The brown suede one whose sleeves once went in the Indian sauce?"
No, I didn't - but I know exactly what my nose means.
Leather is there, velvety wild leather, a bit stained apparently by spicy dark juice, who knows where from.
And smoke, a little bit woody, a little bit resinous, holy not so much - a little bit but yet, far back, imagined perhaps only.
"Did you say wood?" asks nose, suddenly with light eyes.
Yes, wood is there, for sure - dark, soft, polished wood.
"Sandalwood?!"
"If I wouldn't say so - it's not that soft, balsamic or not at all, much too dark in addition. Cedar...? Yes, but - a bit of pencil would get there, only without a lead," I think, my nose close to my wrist, breathing slowly and gently, "and powder - mauve-coloured smooth powder, very little, very fine. What do you say, nose? Am I right?"
"Did you," let me nod my nose, "and brine is there, sometimes peeking around the corner, playing hide-and-seek. And something from your kitchen that you put in the orient dishes, something with K."
"Cubeb pepper?"
"I don't know - could be. Maybe cardamom or coriander. Ask the tongue, it knows better than that."
But the tongue stays out and remains silent.
"Were you in the sauna?" my nose asks me a few hours later. "You smell like wellness, like essential oils, like camphor, eucalyptus - somehow healthy!"
She's right, I think, and I breathe deeper.
Cool and warm at the same time is what now rises from my skin, surrounds me like an aura, light and dark, leafy woody, smoky and at the same time ether-fresh, grated grain of spices next to a sea of green rocks.
Every day a little different, sometimes green, sometimes brown, always powerfully accompanied by a dull, rich grey.
A little bitter, bitter and brittle - not really tangible and of deep fascination.
Like L'île des fleurs et des rochers roses.
PS: Ergoproxy - thank you!
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