"- the nose is, albeit provisionally, the most delicate instrument at our disposal: it is an instrument capable of recording the most minimal changes of movement, changes that escape even spectroscopic detection." Nietzsche
Do you wonder sometimes about our life? Do you wonder what all of this is really? Wonder what we hang suspended from, that we may not hang, but stand fixed to a spot, swaying. Or fixed, period? Our fight? Our manias? Our loves? Our Likes? Our anger? Our frustrations? Our joys? Our despair? Our torment? Us? The other?
Does the guy in the car really care that I gave him the bird from yesterday, or has he washed it off already at the urinal? Or does it sit pungent, on top of his alabaster skin, wearing his energy thin? Wishful thinking- thoughts of impaling the whacked Indian blazing by with missed opportunities and clever retorts? Does it all lay unconsummated, untouched, with only a fierce burning desire for action, reaction, all hanging suspended within the growing layers of grossly overfed pancreatic ulcers?
Does that shy smile sit on her lips long after the moment escapes or is it worn away by the disparaging comment made the next day, is it lost forever, or does it grow discontent, and lost, waxing old waves that one recalls as the stench of fragrance gone bad? What illusions are these, or are they, even?
My nose is trimmed, waxed and clean! Hooray for that!
Darling olfactory, ever my grandest sense, supreme of the day's navigator, my metaphor bar none. Never grasped the eyes being the keys to one's soul, what is that? But do I ever get it when it said written or stated that something smells rotten? Smells funny? Smells weird? Out of place? Do I ever!
Every evening I am out and about on my bicycle rediscovering that thing... whatever it was that I misplaced, you know, that thing... and instead I have hit on something more delightful than I could have ever imagined. Even the pavement my ass lands on smells like sweet honeysuckle love! This neighborhood is just so magical to me. Cottages. Gardens. Happy couples. Life is a brew here wafting with waves of gentle joys, sweet hymns, extending welcome smiles from the warm serenity of its maple blossoms and friendly poplar tree's leaves. For all of this, one cannot help but take in all of the deliciousness, and not to do so, well it would be criminal ...
I have become accustomed to a different need. A different thirst. Hunger. On a different hunt. Yes, I still hunt with thirst to be quenched, hunger to be satiated, but not with that overwhelming french film intensity of the starved, cavalier girl of yesterday.
Today, it is slowly, it is carefully, and deliciously, that I drink, lingering dreamily into all of the special smells from this new retreat, this new life's resuscitation. This new place I call home.
Spring has not been this kind and welcoming to me in many years, and i embrace it with all of my heart. And yet I do not harbor contempt for the shivery fog that until now has been my steady wintery companion. And presto! Like a mirage, gone. Was it ever here? The diligent summer ant labors on, as shall I.
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