I hear the music, my fingers move to its rhythm, flick and tap on the table, clicking together in harmony. I feel meditative and in contemplation. Calmness invades my body and my smile precedes the very desire to smile. I am happy; a happiness of being, a happiness of understanding myself, of resolution and permanency. I didn’t know how to start this text but it didn’t seem important to know how to start; it seemed important to express. This is a text from me to myself, but mostly from the world to my soul. Because through writing the world also communicates with me. It allows me to do so.
I see myself in that music, as if ever note, every tune, every instrument were a piece of me. A piece that echoes through it all, constructing a melody…I am a melody, fluid, continuous, with no beginning or end, I am infinite. I recognize myself in the ups and downs, the high and low notes…even in the silences. I make my body dance and my body is led by this musical sequence. My body is lived by its audience, heard, felt. The music doesn’t stop, it never stops; sometimes it follows several paths, different interpretations and ways to listen to the same tune. Different ways of recognizing and understanding each trait that characterizes it; however, it exists only one, a single one. Silence is its continuity, the changing point, the moment of restructuration. Silence is existence. An existence that is transformative, that refuses to be inanimate, inert, it moves with action, with charm, enchantment, delight.
My hands run through my hands, they touch themselves, feel themselves. They, too, feel each and every one of my atoms, each part of my self. My body reacts, gets empowered in this dance, the dance of the world. Through and through, my body is a sea of notes, traits and chords, an ocean of endless combinations. My body lives to touch and be touched. To create music, to create constructions and reconstructions of itself, of space and time. There are moments where my body appears as a symphony, others where my body recognizes itself in the violent passages of unruly drumming. There are times when my body appears to be medieval, and there are times when postmodernism kicks in. My body appears to be everything that it wishes to be. My body is like a radio that does not die and was never born; it follows the melody. My body is a score written in orange blossom leaves. Soft and mellow, but resistant and robust to the passage of time, to change, to erosion. My body does not disappear, ever.
My hands go beyond themselves, they run through beyond themselves, they look for themselves in the infinity of possibilities, they find themselves in their own capacity to recognize themselves, hand in hand. This is my instrument. It is my machine of being, my motor of life. My hands run through my whole body trying to find their destiny, the moment to be silent and the moment of transformation. Because my hands are like strings that swing, tied in their identity, loose in their discovery. A beginning and an end can be the same point. My hands find in me every way of being, every way of feeling, every way of listening to myself. My hands are like piano keys, soft, sensitive, strong. My body is like a piano that lets itself be carried away by touch, by the movement of my fingers, by the involvement of emotion. Because my body is like an instrument that doesn’t let itself be destroyed, it re-materializes itself, over and over again.
My hands desire and crave, my body desires and craves. My hands and my body are the musician and instrument. My body is meant to touch and be touched, the music never stops playing.
Original text in Portuguese, here.
Translation by Cat’astrophe.