I want to be still (2003)

I want to be still and run and listen to the silence and the subtle hiss of the air in the grass and the rustling of the leaves and the rhythm of the waves and the ripples of the water on the stones and I want to dive off the edge of the rock and feel the air and the blades of grass on my skin, I want to lay still until the animals passing by don’t pay any notice and brush their soft fur on my face on the ground while with closed eyes I sense the clouds go by, merge and float into each other and change the colour and intensity of the light and I want to smell the lavender and jasmine, I want to sit by the fire where embers from the previous night still pop and click every now and again sending a tiny spark somersaulting on the stones and I meanwhile sip dark ruby wine while rolling ripe figs‘ pulp in ham slices and hold my breath to avoid disturbing the stillness and move in slow motion so that the wolf relaxes his muscles and slowly turns around while still looking back at me before smoothly blending into the bush again and the falcon who is looking from atop an old chestnut tree bends his neck to follow the scene then sprints up in the sky with a single shrill cry and the crickets start their lullaby again as I slowly crawl inch by inch observing each pebble and its texture, the tiny world in between the cracks of an old worn fragment of wood and a fossil shell that has seen eras go by and I want to forget and be forgotten in the peaceful silence of the afternoon, immobilized by the dry heat and blinding light, in the shade of the wine pergola with buzzing bees and busy chains of ants decorating the edges of the wobbly table and along the wooden post and the line where the washing hangs idly flapping when a gust of breeze goes by making the kittens half open one eye or quickly twitch an ear, to then lazily roll on their backs and resume the sanctified nap, curled in their basket in the shadow of the big rock and there is no need for anything else and the vague memory of other more complicated events pales and fades besides the essential and real, the timeless and human, as I try to see how long I can make things last, how slowly I can walk the steps from the spring to the clearing, how to make up for the insane rush I left behind, how to abstain from articulated thoughts and go back to the insight of the child who can see through another layer of reality and I remember when I could talk to the trees and understand what they said and now I look at my son and envy the absolute concentration he applies to his task of collecting sticks, each with a meaning and a purpose, each to be kept as a precious find to be looked at and touched and turned into a thousand different magical contraptions that change meaning and function as the day progresses and the light sculpts ever changing shapes of mellowing curves slipping in between the notes leaving the strings and bouncing around the room and into the fiber of a body, ready head to toe to receive every shade of subtle vibration, tickling every pore and nerve ends, tingling tiny sparks of charged energy in the noisy silence of the breathing painted by sun beams and dust particles while I strain my ears to listen to the lilliputian thud these make when they land slow-motion on the wooden board and the concert can continue forever…

Comments 1

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