Heavy Branches and twigs

I recently had quite intense impressions, that were visually or olfactory received by my body, in a certain admirable concentration. Spring is working on some of my senses thoroughly and probably yours too; it might feel like flirting (reminds of the word 'fleur', flower in French) with a season, depending on where you live.

As I am writing this, I find myself laying down under a big cherry tree (not in bloom anymore), in the garden of my partner ('s father). This tree is currently holding green fruits, small and hard balls of sour, unripe meat that yet has to soak up sun and other nutrients, in order to become red, moist, sweet delicacies — I feel the need to say the word fertile. To be eaten by birds, and shat out, to be replanted and rerooted in another province, or in the garden next door, maybe - we'll check in a decade. When I imagine the amount of cherry pits swallowed and transported by birds, I'm amazed there aren't more cherry trees all over town. The sky above the tree could and should be described as commercial blue, the sun hits on me, hard as spring does. I think the word sky is one of the top most used words ever. Just a feeling. To write on my laptop I have to use all my abs muscles while being half bend on the grass bed. The wind is soft, like hands. But here comes the curious part: The cherry tree branches morph into dialectical structures. The trunk gets massive, — matriarchal and patriarchal (at the same time? yes). Again I'm telling you, the trunk is thick and coarse and lets NO diseases pas through its coark (but it does allow a little colony of ants to walk on its body. Ants seem to be like sinusitis; an annoying disease, but just not annoying enough to cure it immediately — and the tree is OK with that). The formation of the branches, a good representation of my understanding of entropy and other things — exponential growth, schemes, mindmaps, body politics.

If I look long enough to this cherry tree, it starts distancing itself like a disappointed partner. And my eye reading mutates — as if I was gradually morphing into becoming the antagonist of a sci-fi book, describing a new specie or landscape to fellow I don't know whos, back there, on my home planet, highly under pressure of global warming and political disorder. In those crisis moments, a population starts to look for alternative grounds to settle on. I wonder if they'd find the way I describe this tree appealing to come here. They become suddenly alien... all of a sudden... — the trees. With entangled hair*, trends of deformed armchairs, speculative reaching to heaven, shy but bright green leaves peeking out, like a pre-adolescents beard. Even though I've seen trees all my life, it all became a weird scene.

Was it Wittgenstein that talked about the first time you record a word and its according image? In the podcast, they used the example word "tree" in order to illustrate Wittgenstein's theory. He explained that, at a certain point in your life, you acknowledge that this weird looking thing, object, plant or how ever you localized it then, is a tree. Before that moment you'd seen trees all over, you touched them and maybe climbed in some of their siblings and cousins, but you recorded the thing in such in a passive way; those columns with green paper-like bushes on top of them, that scrolled above your head in your trolley, with your dad's face underneath and freckling light passing though, which made you squint your eyes like a clock, they were trees. But you didn't get that — yet. So, after watching many abstracted representations of that thing in your cardboard booklet, along with a yellow duck, an apple and a moon, the day came that you actually recorded the image and its accompanying designation in the language you speak. Comparable to downloading a file, naming it and saving it in your cognitive archive. Was it him though? Was it Wittgenstein? I wish my own archives were better organised and that my brain didn't mirror the desktop behaviour of my computer. I used maps to organise everything, but everything end up in sub-categories of maps I never open again (I know, I could look up Wittgenstein at this very moment I'm writing this, but I leave the mystery unsolved for a few more days — and no it's not out of laziness or fragmented work ethics).

Since last summer left us, I became aware of the urban faun and flore. Only since then. During My First Autumn of Solitude (song coming out soon — no jazz). As if before, I took them for granted; my balding companions. Our decaying red brownish friends of the suburbs, the polite city flower field at the round about, withdrawing when temperatures drop like a bankrupt shop closes its doors due to e-commerce rising. The abundant canopies longing the riversides of Frankfurt were GORGEOUS during their seasonal puberty... Oh how poetic it all was. Eiks, Sycamores, willows, the smell of walking under and over a decaying leaf bed: a thing that should not be described further in words, I love how stepping in those heaps reveals that specific smell, that of a good smelling rotting process. Argh I'm describing it anyway. The moist air absorbed all remaining residues of life, that of transition to naked hibernation. I breath that in and out, conscious about it for the first time in ages (after that, the winter was harsh, maybe the harshest of them all, the morbidest I’ve witnessed. Even if purple sunsets have spoiled me at the Frankfurt bridge, the moods made me melt and freeze and remelt to be refrozen again and again, that while speed walking with a cigarette, unlit between crisp lips of cold and non-kissing, too much freeze to smoke for real, just let it hang there for a while — because having a cigarette in the mouth, even unlit, covers already half of the frustration / satisfaction. What an agony this winter was. I don’t want to talk too much about it).

Seasons are now hitting on me, hard like the sun's gaze. (On a wet morning in Iran, I happened to be walking through a rose garden, and I felt thirsty. I took a sip out of a rose head, gorged with morning dew. Some might consider this as a gentle harassment, as I'm not sure it was with the flower's consent... It was the freshest drink of the day maybe or maybe of my life. In order to drink from a rose, one must be highly delicate in its approach. You actually must kiss the rose first, then make out with the flowers’ head, gently. Do not French kiss it.** Kindly press your lips against and around the outer row of petals. They have a skin like structure, let’s say a skin like touch, actually, that is easily damaged.) I flirt with many flowers nowadays, but mostly not with an individual flower — more often to a bush. It's like greeting a tiny civilisation. Even in a hurry to work, it happens that I stop by, squat to the level of a flower bed, and have some kind of conversation with her/him/they — in a tangible or energetic way.

All of this, and my awe along. I guess it's out of loneliness that the attention augmented. Which is a good thing?

*a few days after writing this, I was taken to the botanical garden of Leuven, which had this Corylus avellana ‘Contorta’ – Contorted Hazel.

** I met a guy from Paris in Iran, and I stumbled in another awkward conversation due to language problematics. We were kissing each other goodbye, and I mumbled "Oh, we should French kiss" — by that I meant, kissing each other twice on the cheeks. But my whispered miscommunication was heard and laughed at warmly. I guess.

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