Mandolin

As if drawn from a heavy sleep, as if escaped from an ageless fable or from the cardboard album of a long-dead child, a few musical notes rise like a genie out of a bottle. Quarter notes, eighth notes, half notes fly away, transform, flatten, slide, transport themselves further, further away reappear and metamorphose again. On their way, the Inanimate objects become active, beings feel shaken by a shiver, a sensation, the beginning of an idea, of an action. But the time to sketch a gesture, the saw alas slips away, already the anthem passes to the ace. Ignoring, making the flute of time, the notes, in a thousand unpredictable transcriptions, farandole of tiny signs or charcoal fumaroles, freely cross the eras, the boxes and the pages where beings and things remain stuck in a dull heavy melancholy. The refrain passes, its notes sometimes caress heads, sometimes cross them, move them, move them, enchants them and immediately leaves them, leaves them to their languor. In these watertight spaces where not a word is exchanged, where no sound vibrates, vividly the notes are whirling: they have slipped silently through the receiver of a phone, they will come out, graceful scribbles, from a pipe or a conch. In these graphic volutes, through these vanished notations, nothing will have been communicated, no secret betrayed. Shh! What do I hear?... The writing.