deeper, richer flavor than what i have. lychee flavor kinda. seeps through like thread. dizzy dizzy. strong scent, pungent maybe? not really. buttery. something sweet glides by my tongue
high ceiling, plaster falling apart. outside are cars and street vendors. cuddly guqin. rattan and paper walls. chocolate colored ceramic tray
chocolatey notes, distantly. chicory type earthy, almost mushroomy, still dry. probably something like petrichor but big and round. hits harder. more tannins or l theanine? something like that.
rice malt; or honey-- that familiar white tea warmth. i take a bite of gooey fresh mochi, it goes well with how fatty the tea feels. i feel sort of like a buddhist icon with limbs like palm leaves. ive seen a lot of those the past few months. kind of makes my body loose
the pu'erh pulls me back. i breathe out and am reminded kind of of whiskey. the fujian white reminds me of roselle juice, something i tried today at the palace cafe.
mochi bite. sesame sugar dissolves in my mouth.
the puerh grows more astringent, slightly acidic. three sips of the white-- what glides around my tongue then finds it's way to my neck. everything about me grows warm. less honey flavor, but what remains stands out. it pairs well with the mochi, not like the puerh. flowers, honey, and gooey rice and sesame sugar
David across from me notes that things taken from the ground pair well with white teas; seeds, grains, sugars; puerhs thus accompany things from the ground-- potatoes, beetroots, or classically, meat. salads might overwhelm the floralness of the white tea, but here with mochi, it would push out the mochi tastes
mellowing, strong still. i love white teas. the water bends about my tongue. ichi go ichi e feeling. i may never come here again.
the oiliness sorta fades. buttery taste without the texture in the water. back to the puerh, it's more petrichor now. stoneblood. my last memory of petrichor back home is a parking lot. my first petrichor memory here is on a balcony in the south. the last mochi on the plate fills my mouth. so yummy.
the puerh comes to a willow flavor. swoosh swoosh go the branches. im very at ease.
white tea again.
"the bee has finished gathering the pollen. only the flowers remain." au revoir, honey.
rotten bark sinks into the soil; fresh trees rise from the mulch; rainy day petrichor grows new life
"as the puerh progresses, steep 5 or 6, it's like the memory of the wood taste passing away"
"thats it. that's all she wrote. taste this, this is all memories now" [sic]
the last sip of white tea brings back the honey flavor. strange. the puerh cup smells strongly of wood and petrichor. only scents remain. no more tea. bye bye :)
what remains are the scents of honey and flower; rain and topsoil
We're using a cheap gaiwan bought from Phuket for the first time. David notices the feeling in your chest, a tightness. Maybe you like tea so much because it recreates the physical sensations of certain emotions you repress, he suggests.
Does white tea tastes like dread?
...
That can't be right– my chest grows tight, but it's warm, soft, why would I keep coming back to it?
I keep thinking of Duster's music for some reason.
those eyes light a fire
in the stomach
fall apart
from the inside out
...
"Oh-"
No, this feeling in your chest is like falling in love. Being in love, and being afraid.
the sunset clouds are really weird right now. they're like puddles of oil. greens, pinks, oranges, so bright, glowing even. oilspill sky.
the tea was wrapped in some kind of lime, which very much flavored the tea, overpowering the puerh, though still noticeable through the background. my head is buzzing, it's really strong.
im at steep four now. the lime flavor receded and a puerh flavor emerged. birds outside. david across from me tells me about the tea, with very grounded words to describe it, corresponding to flavors and not my weird experience of feelings. i think it's very beautiful how everyone experiences the world differently.
lime. rind. alcohol. wooden. strong. woozy. drunk. dizzy. lethargic. displaced.
citrus settles on my tongue, it's strange to speak to tea.
I look left.
It's dusk again.
Planes come and go in the west, mountains behind. Crisp honey flavors dance among astringent floral ones, a liminal space between oxidizations. Tea has always been a matter of sensory appreciation for me, but for many reasons, I think what I'm experiencing right now can properly be considered ceremony, despite all the vulgarities of practice. It's a farewell ceremony, specifically. My throat chokes with a sweet and light flavor, this tastes like love. My future bears down on me, but only the moment here seems to matter, as if everything that happened and will happen is melting away in this moment. I'll be able to face the future with this last ceremony. I know it.