Noticing #1 [volume]

We were the last ones to arrive. Hungry of bodies that we had seen before but had not touched. Thirsty of smiles with volume. The volume of more than bi-dimensional experiences, the volume of textures that describes one another in touching by the volume of the sound of skins greeting each other. Scary moments of impulses of bodies calling for bodies. Flesh present and opening, inseparable from volume. Sounds, shapes and rhythms made of deep volume. Softness and roughness of skins who recognise each other in stuttering movements. The uncertainty of touch, the dangers of owned smells blending with the smells of those who had arrived before, alchemy-ing with the drunkenness of overwhelming volumes. And in the midst of it all… You! 

Noticing #2 [spontaneous combustion] 

The phone call interrupted the flow right before the story showed herself to her audience. A gap made of silence followed. Uncomfortable. Rushed splashed washed, a story came to fill up the gap. Awkwardly. Risky. The words, almost but not quite made up the sounds, they were too loud, too quiet, too heavy, too light… they just didn’t. 

Stories are living creatures. 

Not to entertain but to heal, composed of weaved threads that make tapestries of medicine. From romantic marshmallows to travelling chatty monkeys, story requires a type of attention, and it has little to do with the meaning of the words that we use, or even the actual words. Respect radar patience improvisation humour tempo silence… all of those are part of the song, even before the song is told.

Stories are living creatures. 

They become. They are born, they live, they die, they are composted and recreated… In their living cycle they can seduce and kill as much as they can seed and grow. Some are like summer rain, speech pouring down fat drops that start and end so sudden. Others are like lamb skin on snakes, they just aren’t ours to tell. Others take turns, and turns, and turns, getting us dizzy. Others are charged with conscious poison. Others are spontaneous combustion, they loudly explode, burning what they touch before they had ever a possibility to become in space, to materialise, to give rise. I noticed a humble dose of self-enquiry that came to find me that day… how many stories need to be told before being able to be told? 

Noticing #3 [the card deck]

The round shape of the cards gives the words a gestural meaning. Contexts are dancing in front of us: family, politics, education, art, religion, spirituality… Their phonemic matter making up the music, touchable. Fingers moving them, holding them, pointing them… Every round goes around in rounded shapes inviting the touch. The depth of the words written on each card are far from representational coding. They don’t own meaning. Meaning is swirling in the vapour of breath, in composing sounds, in the divergence of gestures, in time. 

Yes, we can touch them, hold them, make them ours. Palpable. 

Yes, so easy to objectify them. So easy to want them, to carry them home. So easy to critique. So easy to shut them down in a drawer. So easy to pay attention to the packaging instead of to the sound-shapes of the echoes they are world-ing. 

Noticing #4 [Don’t make me a persona]

I looked around and everyone was listening, paying attention to every word she was saying. I looked at her hands, at the tone of her tilted head, at the sudden dark depth in her eyes. I wondered… How can you transmit such a compelling message without putting yourself at the centre? How to become one of many when the tower is being built around you, even if you don’t want to. How to swim through the watery affects surrounding the castle that won’t let you know what is going on where the many live… in the forest. It is in the forest where you can make yourself unnoticed, where you can fall asleep in the dream of the trees, where all sorts of creatures go out at night. We are monstrous beings, but we are not really scary if you get to know us. It is in the forest where you will be able to give everything you have, because it is in the forest where we will be able to know you. 

Noticing #5 [Meeting Mr. Weather]

Have you noticed Mr. Weather lately? Since I came to the place who saw me first, I became aquatinted with his breezes, his flares, his watery sounds, his calmed pauses. He would bring aromas of milk, and rhythm of not far distances. After a while, after we met every day, every cell of my all cells would know his moods, his truths, his suddenness, and his constant-ness, not matter what season. Weather and I have a long history, and many stories. I becoming with him, who has been here longer. He changing with me, if just a little. 

And here we are in another land that is not the land that saw me first. I asked Robert, what did you notice first? He answered ‘That I never knew what to wear’ later he also wrote… ‘Cold weather is conducive for solitude. The scenes were dreamy. The many jokes about sheep-pieces of fallen clouds spread across the hilly landscape… Body sweats heavily contrasting with chilling winds. I left that land without a clue of how to dress for its days…’ The first time I saw Robert in person he was wearing two jackets, one and then another one, and a jumper around his neck. It was July. 

Noticing #6 [I couldn’t say goodbye]

We woke up early, something was not arbitrary that morning, everything moved in slow motion, till the clock said: it is time. Breakfast was served. We made ourselves useful. Some of us doing what we were told. Some of us joining here and there, clearing, cleaning, cleaving… Some of us holding hands, some holding tears. In the midst of it all… You! 

Aww but we thought we had time. We thought it was not the end but a pause. We thought… Aww how I missed those thoughts when it became clear I wasn’t gonna be able to hug you a goodbye.