I am on the plane. Along with the meal, the steward serves Champagne and because I didn’t taste this exquisite drink for so long time I accepted a glass, wich made me feel a little bit tipsy. Watching a Spanish movie telling a love story, I can only think of you, I see your face, remember your smell, your voice, recall the color of your skin. It’s nothing material but inspired by feelings, just like a painting where the paint, the colors, the canvas is only the bearer of a comprehensive inspiration. Of course it’s a dream, a dream happening in reality. Life is build on illusion and we will build the most beautiful one and live it with the energy it requires. The guy in the movie takes the wrong choice. It’s always about this one, this one and only choice, and this moment of choice is decisive for the future and happens only once. This choice builds beauty or it breaks the dream down to mere dust.
The remembrance of events from the past, the pressure from the persons surrounding us urge us to be strong and not to succomb to them because we know what we want and with whom and we will not hesitate to make the choice to make this happen in it’s unique and pure way.
I love stories because dust hasn’t any soul but imagination has. Music is not only notes or frequencies, dust. Music can be born because of the wonderful relations between these note and vibrations, music is living because these relations are produced in our heart.
The past and the relationsships of the past have become mere pictures. I can remember them as looking at a photo album. But now, although it is still a continuous photo shooting, it holds on the living and the evoluting story of the present.
I am reading San Mao in the plane. She writes in a way that I have the impression of hearing a voice. I don’t know if it’s her’s, I never heard her speaking. I can even imagine a friend reading the text and I hear the voice very clearly. This doesn’t happen often while reading text. I think it has to do with the writing style. Do you know what I mean? Also she gives me a warm feeling of being at home surrounded by the people and things I know so well.
I want to share a small text of hers （三毛）:
In the plane it’s pretty cold. The wind blowing from the airconditioner is blowing directly into my neck and on my head. I took the plaid they give to everyone and wrapped it around my head and shoulders like the arab women do. I think I look ridiculous but I don’t care. This way I take a peaceful nap.
This day is so long. The bus to Granada will only leave around two o’clock in the morning so I have to wait another two hours in the busstation. The worst thing is that I am eating and drinking all sorts of junkfood. At these hours of the night the restaurants are all closed but I am hungry as hell. I eat ‘out of the wall’, these food and beverage dispensers. There is a small group of boys and girls waiting for the same bus at a small distance from me and apparently they are telling very funny stories. They are laughing in a way that makes me laugh too, although I have no clue about the reason for their laughter. You know this feeling? Very funny. It’s a beautiful life when one is free to share laughing and weeping, happiness and sorrows with other people, who ever they are, and not feeling any psychological boundery building a wall keeping the cold distance and making us a bit inhuman. As a matter of fact, there is few things we cannot understand in the other, therefor we can be compassionate. Oh, a man is passing by, he has no hair. His bare head’s skin is so shiny that I can bearily discern his face.
Life is like music. One has to search in tempo, in nuances, in timbres, in the coherence of all the elements until having a vision, an overall vision where every element can find it’s due place and function. And this vision can transform the soulless dust into a amazing piece of art.