Memories Of Machines
Warm Winter

I love Sundays when relatives come to visit us for lunch. I've always been struck by the vertical dimension the city takes on during the November noons: the clear and deep sky seems to draw the clouds upwards even more, and they exhale snowy puffs of glacial breeze. All the contours of objects, sharp, seem to be outlined with a cutter. From the window, chewing roast, I am always captivated by the blue-marine sky and the magnolia trembling with cold.

But I love it even more when, satisfied, I retreat with a good book, seated in the corner armchair, and enjoy a good record from the small stereo placed on the floor kept at minimal volumes; for me, it is the sweetest dessert.

Subtle exhalations rise beside me and gently shield me from the chatter emanating from the table. Light guitar embroidery and sulfurous keyboards hover all around. Suddenly a drum set materializes and unleashes its birds of sadness in the form of sweet electronic coos. An unexpected sense of peace overwhelms me, and I immerse myself in reading. Soft vocalizations protect my corner of paradise from the grandpa's curses as he comments on the formula 1, suspended mid-air on the shiny, brilliant threads of perfection. Only the buzzing of those annoying bolides can partially reach me, though I'm shielded by a weak barrier of gentle chords.

Gradually, through targeted yet measured volume increases, the sound creeps along the floor like a scent, and if it can't touch the sofa and its occupants, it joyfully floods the table, where the women sip coffee. I like to think that sweet refrain (Hear the sirens / Through the rain...) is the reason for the smiles that suddenly illuminate their faces; and my gaze escapes outside, lingering on pink spots bravely challenging the brisk air. Don't you also think there is no more romantic flower than the one daring to bloom in November?

The pages turn quickly, as quickly as the slow verses of this music, which more than any other, promotes reading; I feel as though I see it flowing between the letters like fresh water that purifies the sentences from the machinations of language and reveals the rounded evidence of the concept, clear for once behind the bars of n's, of m's.

Suddenly I sense a familiar presence in the air, and my senses are heightened. It's the Soundscapes.

Immediately, like a benign vibration, the sound expands and transforms the environment, colors it, immerses it in a fluid adamantine, making the things you love shine. The room is flooded with light.

Immediately, everything seems to crystallize. It’s magical. I can no longer read, I'm like frozen. A flute awkwardly wanders over me. Slowly the singing, courteous, leads me out, brings me back to the armchair. Where have I been?

I can only remain still, petrified, eyes on nothing and everything, and softly reflect on my entire life. The music aids me, it facilitates my descent into my memories, and shows me the past, perhaps in a light even too intense. But I like this; I reach peace with myself, within me.

Finally, everything reduces to a static blanket pressing down on me, and, as if I were a sponge, it squeezes out all the clouds I had inside. A handful of guitar notes expresses all the unease that in a state of grace I had forgotten, bringing me back to reality.

I turn curiously towards the stereo. What has the random spotted for me? Ah, yes, the Memories of Machines.