winds and snails are spirals
winter pruning, early-spring sprouting, rain showers a-coming, & with it the snails!
Wind is the harbinger of change.
When the annunciation is done, it leaves onwards.
September swept me into a whirlwind most unimaginable.
Uprooting and pruning, dancing my way amongst the craze of a heat wave just before winter’s end with the orchestra’s new season book getting done just in time to go in the press, revisiting a sort of old known argument with a beloved friend, a stranger in town, house-hunting, pressure-surviving, sleep-lacking days and nights. There was a long weekend at the countryside, music by talented friends on the way, a young sweet one falling in love with me after spending a night in his tent, a gentleman trying to teach me how to capture a queen bee and their beehive, a strange farewell to a bittersweet friend(ship) I’ve had for the last half of my life – another one crossing the oceans in a timely way. There was a book reading ballad in L.’s place, T.’s lit book launch, taking a gringo to a samba and visiting some waterfalls, there were piano concerts, staying way over acceptable hours at work for several days and coming back the morning after, a curious but sweet late night meeting with Arab food and Stevie Wonder(?). There was a precious conversation (or rather, lecture) about classical guitar with a friend for an illustration commission, a couple books read on a whim, romani songs carrying my breath, and much more energy and joy that I could fathom possible. September encompassed a whole season, and October arrived as if we were on the other node of the poles, bringing cold rainy weather, which I love, to crown the arrival of spring. B. and I may have finally found a place we agree upon moving into. I feel bittersweet about leaving G. and her magical house, but I also feel excited about having a place again to reunite with my books, atelier, fermented goods, and gain some more agency over the space, even though shared. There is a fear of change but also the need to it. What it nests.
I’ve been feeling a mellow nostalgia over the last couple days, digging into old pictures, remembering the feeling of travelling. Been missing the energy of other grounds that resonate with me – and mostly when absent I ground myself with sounds. This land is joyful and pristine, but I love the subtler shades more than the saturated colours that we get here. I’ve always hidden under the green of large canopies to watch the sun beams and water drops and avoid the straight naked rays that expose me out. I also made a list of curious gifts I’ve been given lately, including the promise of a handmade object that I don’t know how to use, books, souvenirs from across the world, salt, cigarettes and albums. There has been much, much wind and, on the first night of spring, when I got home after the last night with T., I felt the presence of silence after a long time. Just like the ending of A torinói ló by Béla Tarr. And like the sudden quiet after all the rustling that precedes a storm. I finally breathed out and eased myself into the realisation that all the wind had ceased.
Change will unfold itself in spirals made of time. The dark woods awaited me, but first I would rest, get some sleep, and prepare myself for the new, longer way. Step back to gain momentum, to only then move forward, to dance with the Duende, to recover what I left in Baba-Yaga’s forest – my power. I had the joy to listen to one of my favourite songs being played in a deeper, moss-covered, moon-lit manner, and it was yet another gift on spring equinox. Like the woodcutter that lived not far from here, I still have to figure out what to do with the shiny stones my neighbours noticed I have in my hearth. Glimmering from the inside, fiery, cold lights. Moving on, the wind swept its way, change has been announced, and now the land welcomes the silvery drops from heaven on its bed—belly.
Speaking of bellies, a spiral is a case: it houses movement.
It’s all there, but I’ll return to it in the future.