ebb and flow: Boredom forces the tide to play its tricks, but who does it dance for?
first coda: On an amateur’s canvas, the tangerine paint, oblivious of its vivid nature, bleeds beyond the outline. The painter shrugs and carries on.
rest: Pregnancy hidden in a paper cup, held to a curious ear. “Messages, messages! But I cannot hear them…”
piano: Half-drunk on a tipple or two, his feet wanders as much as his roguish restlessness. His laughter is first a guttural cackle, impeached by innate carelessness. Then, melting into the seamless transition of laughter – it flies up a mellifluous octave, then down the descending scale of sarcasm, soon disappearing with the wind. Hopelessly lost, his body now finds itself hanging near some precarious peak, first tilting an inch or four towards immediate, grievous loss, or another half step or more to the supposed divine – but where and what on earth is it…?
untie, unfurl: Faure stretches, smiles and simply beckons. Arms hang limply at his sides.
© Zelda Reville
Day 11. Frankly impossible to capture Faure in plain words. I’ll just stick to the listening 🤣