Oil-cured
olives. It was a return to his very nature and he felt amazed that others did
not. Olives in olive oil. Apparently different yet the same identity of
sun and history.
He
walked as if he had already gone where he wanted, at least once. Now he was
just walking. All the discoveries were
in him, as he played with experiences by rearranging them. It was a personal game, and he made the rules
as he went. As he walked.
He liked
wine yet did not learn about the making of it.
Takes the fantasy away, he said.
Instead, he drank as he felt appropriate, without following conventions. Always drank wine with food, and often while
watching a sunset. And he drank red wine with fish, with meat, with roasted red
peppers and with fava beans. In fact, he
never drank white wine which was like fake tears to him. Real tears come in red
and are like a murmur when one expects thunder and hail.
He
walked as if the goal was to feel the ground under him. Carpet, bare wood, concrete or mossy woods’
dirt, he felt shoes and socks stood between him and the new experience. The walk did not have to take him anywhere
anymore, but the walking had to be for the senses.
Omnisensual,
in many ways. Yet, it had little to do
with sex, but all with sexuality. It was that attraction that pulls one enough
to disturb the walk but never stop it.
It is olive oil and olives, the suspension in an environment once known,
often transformed and affected by the olives distressing the olive oil. It was
never the same olive oil again, even if it looked extra virgin, unfiltered and
golden-green.
At the
end, it was about harmony. All moments had to be joined by a time increasingly
sparse and unaccounted for. Morning coffee tastes different in a funky cup, a
ceramic knife slices the tomatoes with a different ease, flax in the bread
makes it unappealing, and the aroma of a cucumber, while being peeled, reminded
him of fertile lands where he once walked.
He walked faster then, he had other lands to discover.
Sunrise
was of orange and gold. The horizon is just the last thing one sees, and he did
not look that far. He knew that in a few
minutes the orange will turn pink, and then blue for most of the day. Yet it
was the same sky, the same horizon. Just
the observer had changed.
March
28, 2012
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013
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