I wandered around the town and nothing particular happened. The low sun causes light to reflect in weird ways and swells my eyes, helped by the wind.
I got melancholic (in fact, I was first pissed by the lack of exhibits in the Ostasiatiska Museet and then freaked out by too many people at the Fridrich exhibition in the National Museum) and since the hostel room is otherwise empty and I found a socket there, I connected the lappy and let some music play. A random list of things I find pretty stayed in Winamp since mom wanted 'to listen to something' in Cyprus and then asked me to turn the howling off. Including some selection from Goran Bregovic.
I'm synesthetic ever since. I must have been a difficult child. I don't think I was annoying in the sense of running around, knocking things over and screaming, but just saying weird things. Like, explaining that I like this and that song. And described it in colours and spatial characteristics, not even shape. "Eh, see the kid's creativity, how cute, but, dear, everybody knows that music doesn't have colour." Same about numbers, letters, words, ideas. They don't have shapes, colours, sounds... I don't have early memories of connecting something with smells or tastes but it does work the other way, scents and tastes have their colours.
In winter, among other charity gifts, I got that Best Of of Goran Bregovic and I became aware that without having it formulated, Death gives me an intense feeling of scent.
Forget the pictures, they totally don't go with that, although under the impression of the Caspar David Friedrich exhibition I saw today, I won't make guesses what goes with it better. But... it's cedar and cade, very smoky, and something mineral, I don't know how are the mineral notes rendered in perfumes but imagine Olivier Durbano mineral. Limettes - the candy sweet citrus, and other citruses, pungently sour ones, and something bitter and cruelly adstringent like falling leaves. All of that thrown on the snow - whatever Luca Turin may say, snow does smell... of snow. Or it's my synaesthetic perception of cold, I don't know.
The song recalls me of another thing. Fifteen years ago, on a school skiing trip (someone decided that sports and socializing are good for kids, let they may suffer in any hell of their choice), in January, I got sulky because of what the other gals said or just because, I think that then, my nerves were already on the go, and I just went out to the snow. I was sitting on a tree stump and meditating and being aware of people left behind and the night forest. Thinking of it, it was a perfect time, place and mood to kill myself. I did not so that I could go through all those wonderful arguments with parents, depressions, a neat pneumonia two years later (not related to sitting in the snow and watching the starry sky) and the world may be enriched by my sarcastic remarks.