A flame bursts into being; a wave rises and falls; sounds enter the air and, soon enough, they fade away. Each event leaves an immediate and resonating emotion for awhile. There is no thread, no connection. Only final emotions, among the gratitude that somehing existed, exists, and the memory; we look for a pattern, a story- surely we will remember one- but- soon enough we see this is once again a game, child's play-which is enough but can never be complete, only somehow a cloud from which emerges another burst or perhaps some notes behind a pattern of spray.
Not much traceable in the thread- in the sands where the patch of fog settled there- maybe a bit of moonlight wrapped in the fog-no message- more like a brief and complete arrival on stage, a definable face or presence followed by its immediate disappearance.
[with a wave to Claude Debussy and Nico Vassilakis]