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Notes10/18/2021
Siebensinn
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Siebensinn
10
We were heroes. - And young. - (An emotional journey)
2001 was the year. We wore "Musc Ravageur" full of enthusiasm, feeling full, invincible, walking along like "the hype" itself with big wadded thumping steps. Like the Mashmellowman: what was to stop us. The world was beautiful. We were heroes. And young.
Then came 09/11. planes, driven by shrill madness, crashed into buildings we loved, smoke, screams, we looked at each other plaintively and knew: war. An era ends.
And yes, nothing was the same. I felt different, was emptier.
Did I smell different too? Did I perceive scents no longer as full?
Or had the formulation of that fragrance fallen victim to the need to save money?
I assumed at the time that I was empty, defective, and abruptly aged.
Then today:
Sounds from afar... Wagner, yes... "Tristan and Isolde"... O sweet consuming way, tormenting love's anguish... "Tristan, the hero, with conquering kraaAAaaft... hath empoooorgeraAAaaffft himself from death..."
O sweet agony, but behold: Naram, the hero has, yes... he has resurrected thee, hero of my youth. Dead, yea dead thou didst seem and faded away. But resurrect, yea resurrect shalt thou:
And risen now art thou! Victorious. All-flattering. Not tumb-vanilla ubiquitous using as thy tool, but deep, precious, ambraic wafting through all resins, through all cinnamon and woods. Love's rapture, built on musk's death, consecrated to life. How will I? Stop!-
Yes, it's a bliss, a nasal delight, Never goes out, leads thee home,
a feast, a feast, a nameless devastating feast in the musk nest, in the love feast,
i don't call it and I don't know it...
Assez! - Enough.- Let's not get lost. But it stays, it holds, it looms and flatters.
Not for many, not for everyone, but for the few.
I feel transported back, yet flung forward.
The lad of old, listening rapt on hard uncomfortable bench To those sounds, he has matured, aged, but:
The beguiling sound of the lone shawm in the distance.... there it is again!-
Irish maiden...!
Then came 09/11. planes, driven by shrill madness, crashed into buildings we loved, smoke, screams, we looked at each other plaintively and knew: war. An era ends.
And yes, nothing was the same. I felt different, was emptier.
Did I smell different too? Did I perceive scents no longer as full?
Or had the formulation of that fragrance fallen victim to the need to save money?
I assumed at the time that I was empty, defective, and abruptly aged.
Then today:
Sounds from afar... Wagner, yes... "Tristan and Isolde"... O sweet consuming way, tormenting love's anguish... "Tristan, the hero, with conquering kraaAAaaft... hath empoooorgeraAAaaffft himself from death..."
O sweet agony, but behold: Naram, the hero has, yes... he has resurrected thee, hero of my youth. Dead, yea dead thou didst seem and faded away. But resurrect, yea resurrect shalt thou:
And risen now art thou! Victorious. All-flattering. Not tumb-vanilla ubiquitous using as thy tool, but deep, precious, ambraic wafting through all resins, through all cinnamon and woods. Love's rapture, built on musk's death, consecrated to life. How will I? Stop!-
Yes, it's a bliss, a nasal delight, Never goes out, leads thee home,
a feast, a feast, a nameless devastating feast in the musk nest, in the love feast,
i don't call it and I don't know it...
Assez! - Enough.- Let's not get lost. But it stays, it holds, it looms and flatters.
Not for many, not for everyone, but for the few.
I feel transported back, yet flung forward.
The lad of old, listening rapt on hard uncomfortable bench To those sounds, he has matured, aged, but:
The beguiling sound of the lone shawm in the distance.... there it is again!-
Irish maiden...!
