•
Rating:
I want to break free.
I want to break free from my habits, from wine, from theater, from the struggle with the sink that doesn't work. I want to break free from friendship, from records, from walking around the city, from the sweet melancholy of September. I want to break free from myself, from my doubts, from my beastliness, from my clumsy revolt against the world, from the relentless morning alarm. I want to break free from my past, my present, and especially from my future.
And so I dream.
Vast open spaces of the prairies, green hills in the distance: a still virgin America. Gypsy violinists, Sioux percussionists, oboes and flutes winking. They play and frolic in an endless propitiatory festival, where a mischievous gang of kids plays tag; stops for a moment and then starts again, more unleashed than before. The indulgent gaze of a tribal chief follows their games, and his song envelops them, blessing them.
Music without labels, without boundaries, without names. Spicy oriental scents settle on gypsy virtuosity, tribal percussion underpin hints of distorted folk.
The forest is moist with primordial fragrances; aromas of gold and waters of emerald; the air is as dense as the must of red wine. Budding flowers on the branches pray for me, and liquid shadows slowly envelop me, blessing me.
I sense electricity around me, the buzzing of insects is louder, a sharp wind disrupts the mute torpor of my being and I hear the sky rumbling above me. A bolt splits the clouds; soon there will be thunder. It will be mighty: the lightning was very close. I feel it is about to arrive, just a moment more and…
…Tomorrow up early, I need money and with theater alone I can't make a living. Coffee, a quick cigarette (maybe two) and I am ready for use: the first batch of flour to offload is on via Olevano, if I'm not mistaken.
Loading comments slowly
