Jon Anderson
Olias Of Sunhillow

I slept poorly, and this morning my back—crooked as it is and tested by the horrid classroom F.1.1—ached. The week has been heavy, and the same concept seems to materialize in the blue duffel bag and the laptop bag—which refuses to stay closed—that have been tearing at my left shoulder since morning.

The lady with the trolley, just off the metro at the Central stop, looks around bewildered and wanders along the platform: her suitcase follows a meter behind her, out of control, slicing legs and wobbling on every tile. I curse because I can't stand trolleys.

The Cisalpino at seventeen thirty-eight is not its usual self: instead of its comfortable seats, its hateful buttons that buzz the curtains at every move, and its nauseating sways on the rickety lake railways, I'm left with a pale intercity. With difficulty—I’m really tired today—I reach the door of the sixth carriage and get on.

Damn, the compartments.

I used to love compartment trains, but back then I was small, perhaps more enthusiastic; today, I simply detest them. Also because I don't like talking to strangers unless they are beautiful girls, and stranger beautiful girls often don’t want to talk to me.

In front of me sits a young woman somewhat beyond her ideal weight who won't say anything throughout the trip except a timid "goodbye" before leaving. Next to her, an elderly Venetian couple grapples with modern technologies and an amiable discussion on chakras. A guy in front of them is just there; maybe he’s asleep.

I soon put aside the "24 minutes" and find myself, still sweaty from the heat, scrolling through the albums on my yellow iPod. I don't know why, but I feel like listening to Jon Anderson's voice.

“Olias of Sunhillow”, stardate nineteen seventy-six.

The rarefied musical metrics and cherubic vocalizations of the British artist, encapsulated in his pale turquoise arrangements, blend with the reassuring and monotonous metallic progress of the train, which fails at being overshadowed.

The ocean expands around me with its dynamic sensuality, warm and enveloping in its iciness. Galleons sail through it to the sound of delicate percussion and ethereal keyboards that arpeggiate, clear as the sky.

QoQuaQ gathers the people of Sunhillow for its exodus.

Vast deserts of light bathed by raindrops like sistrum vibrations; and still the pulse of a quiet bass grounds Anderson's crystalline voice, fragile like a Bohemian crystal.

I open my eyes; the train is now stopped.

The garden of Geda remains only sound, while the shadows of red ivy stretch over the walls of the Chiasso station. The couple, phones in hand, discuss animatedly—more he than the distracted friend, really—about the rates they’ll have to pay with the Swiss operator whose joyful name now appears on their display and which, for their sake, they can still read.

Moon Ra.

Delicate chords reveal to you that the flight of Olias's Moorglade Mover is perhaps ended, and now in the solid space remain only a voice and its reflections, echoes in the chirping of small solemnly majestic bells.

In the end, it’s another Friday.

I look at my lake, and still the high voice of the Englishman describes unknowingly the thousand matte blue reflections of its waters that I miss so much in the humid grayness of Milan.

I would almost start dancing, light and gentle like Jon Anderson's singing, a shy dance of Ryanart; after all, I have nothing to say to the dancer, let him continue his search with peace of mind.

It takes little for me to be happy.

I want to get home soon.

I want to hug my family again.

I want to see the smile of the girl I am falling in love with.