Lately, I am attracted to honey. The image of honey poured from metal bowls擁nto spoons, onto the soil揺as been haunting me. I think of it like resin or lava, liquid that痴 capable of hardening into stone, preserving the remains of the most delicate insects, or surrounding a bubble of air and locking it forever in hard time. But unlike resin, which hardens forever into amber, or lava, which cools into a new layer of crust, honey can be cooked down again and again, heated up so the crystals melt into golden syrup. Time can be reversed, taken back to its potential, and the syrup can flow again in one viscous stream.
I think this is why I started putting honey jars where I find syringes and needles by the river. I carry a cloth with me, and when I find a needle and syringe, I pick it up carefully, with the cloth protecting my hands. I unscrew the jar lid and slide the syringe into the liquid. Suspended in sugary amber, the needle becomes a kind of fossil, sacred as a bone. The honey will harden into crystals; surround the syringe with opaque clouds, burying it inside time. All you have to do is cook it down, and everything becomes clear.