I remember sitting down beside freshly cut grass staring intently at the Palmera in front of me. During the days prior, I would wake up and my most immediate thoughts were of what I ought to do that day. I had no plans, no goals, no anything but this crazy faith that I would be brought to wherever I ought to be and be led to do whatever I ought to do. But after a week or so of following my intuition on loudspeaker, things got quiet. I woke up with nothing, spent hours crossed-legged with nothing but except for my uneasy breathing. Much had already been done, but… there should be more, right? What was next? was all in my mind.
Yet I didn’t know. And I couldn’t even write about that lack. I felt I lost all my rhythm and syntax; my mind was as quiet and agitated as a typhoon on a sunny day.
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Now: I terribly miss recording, but my voice isn’t at its best state and neither is my work set-up. Instead, here is to hoping that the noise behind the earlier track adds to the feel of the wind when I first formed those words on that grounded day. (Groundhog Day?)
Some days, they don’t speak to me
I mean them: the leaves, the trees
in front of my house, my teachers
who used to speak to me magic, foundations of alchemy
I look at their silent greens
glistening with dew
facing the sun, long, aimless curls—
nothing! They say nothing
The wind blows and they move along with her
howling, whispering to themselves, each other
“Tell me, what do you speak of?”
Nothing! They say nothing.
Nothing! Until I understand