{"id":18,"date":"2015-09-27T22:44:42","date_gmt":"2015-09-27T22:44:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/?page_id=18"},"modified":"2015-09-27T22:44:42","modified_gmt":"2015-09-27T22:44:42","slug":"scentofapples","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/pongeparent\/scentofapples\/","title":{"rendered":"The Scent of Apples"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n
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*Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The Scent of Apples<\/b><\/p>\n

You step into the cellar. Immediately, the smell washes over you. The apples are there, arranged on their trellises — some overturned crates. You hadn\u2019t anticipated this. You certainly hadn\u2019t been looking to be engulfed by a wave of melancholy. But, you can\u2019t help it. The scent of apples is like a wave breaking over you. How could you have gone so long without reliving this acrid childhood sweetness?<\/p>\n

The shriveled fruits are probably delicious; with that particular dryness where the candied flavor has seeped into each wrinkle. But, you don\u2019t want to eat them. The sanctity of this penetrating scent cannot be defined, cannot be tied to a commonplace taste. And it wouldn\u2019t do to just say that it smells good or that it smells strongly. It\u2019s more than that. It\u2019s an intimate scent, the fragrance of a better self. There\u2019s autumn schooldays bound up in it. With violet ink you scratch the paper with downstrokes, upstrokes. The rain beats the pane; the evening will be long and lingering…<\/span><\/p>\n

But the perfume of apples doesn\u2019t exist in the past. It lives in your own vivid memory, triggered by a saltpeter cellar, by a dark granary. You are what exists. You\u2019re alive now, in the present moment, to witness the flavor of the air. You have, behind you, the blades of grass standing tall, the moisture of the orchard. Before you, the world\u2019s warm breath surrenders itself to the cool shade. The scent has taken on all shades of brown, all of the reds, a hint of sharp green. The smell has distilled the softness of the skin, its miniscule patches of roughness. Your lips are dry — but you already know that reliving a memory cannot quench this thirst. Nothing could come out of biting into its white flesh. You must become one with October; hard-packed earth, arch of the cellar, rain, waiting. The smell of apples is agonizing. It\u2019s of a stronger more potent life, of a slowness you know you\u2019ve lost, somewhere along the way.<\/span><\/p>\n

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L’odeur des pommes<\/strong><\/p>\n

On entre dans la cave. Tout de suite, c’est \u00e7a qui vous prend. Les pommes sont l\u00e0, dispos\u00e9es sur des claies – des cageots renvers\u00e9s. On n’y pensait pas. On n’avait aucune envie de se laisser submerger par un tel vague \u00e0 l’\u00e2me. Mais rien \u00e0 faire. L’odeur des pommes est une d\u00e9ferlante. Comment avait-on pu se passer si longtemps de cette enfance \u00e2cre et sucr\u00e9e ?<\/p>\n

Les fruits ratatin\u00e9s doivent \u00eatre d\u00e9licieux, de cette fausse s\u00e9cheresse o\u00f9 la saveur confite semble s’\u00eatre insinu\u00e9e dans chaque ride. Mais on n’a pas envie de les manger. Surtout ne pas transformer en go\u00fbt identifiable ce pouvoir flottant de l’odeur. Dire que \u00e7a sent bon, que \u00e7a sent fort ? Mais non. C’est au-del\u00e0… Une odeur int\u00e9rieure, l’odeur d’un meilleur soi. Il y a l’automne de l’\u00e9cole enferm\u00e9 l\u00e0. A l’encre violette on griffe le papier de pleins, de d\u00e9li\u00e9s. La pluie bat les carreaux, la soir\u00e9e sera longue… Mais le parfum des pommes est plus que du pass\u00e9. On pense \u00e0 autrefois \u00e0 cause de l’ampleur et de l’intensit\u00e9, d’un souvenir de cave salp\u00eatr\u00e9e, de grenier sombre.<\/p>\n

Mais c’est \u00e0 vivre l\u00e0, \u00e0 tenir l\u00e0, debout. On a derri\u00e8re soi les herbes hautes et la mouillure du verger. Devant, c’est comme un souffle chaud qui se donne dans l’ombre. L’odeur a pris tous les bruns, tous les rouges, avec un peu d’acide vert. L’odeur a distill\u00e9 la douceur de la peau, son infime rugosit\u00e9. Les l\u00e8vres s\u00e8ches, on sait d\u00e9j\u00e0 que cette soif n’est pas \u00e0 \u00e9tancher. Rien ne se passerait \u00e0 mordre une chair blanche. Il faudrait devenir octobre, terre battue, voussure de la cave, pluie, attente. L’odeur des pommes est douloureuse. C’est celle d’une vie plus forte, d’une lenteur qu’on ne m\u00e9rite plus.<\/p>\n

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The Scent of Apples You step into the cellar. Immediately, the smell washes over you. The apples are there, arranged on their trellises — some overturned crates. You hadn\u2019t anticipated this. You certainly hadn\u2019t been looking to be engulfed by a wave of melancholy. But, you can\u2019t help it. The scent of apples is like […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":6,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-18","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/18","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/18\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/aubrieamstutz.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}