“Next memories.
Seems that we always write the same story.
Previous dreams? incoming dreams? “Croisés”. After two proofs about three matrix rings. The old audio tape inside the car radio. “Libertés”. Already on the road, it guides me and invites me to travel.
Does music exist in dreams? Yet, a few good rather bracing notes often send you easily trippin’. They captivate you. They invite you. Another sound in the winter… Will they stop when you’ll dive your feet in the water, taken away by the wind? Will they continue whirling on the tempo of a flaka three sixty? It helps.
Auto-reverse. New album. Next memories.
Entering the dream. Choosing the itinerary in the winter to gently switch into summer. Time is relative. We need to put wood in the fire, to heat the spirit, to warm up. To take time to order, choosing the ferry, scratching the ski to slide better, fixing the sandwich of the board for the next trick. Let the paste cogitate… Softly, evading, clearing the head, filling it with next memories. Putting another log. Writing the road. Letting yourself go. Spreading the dough. Entering the dream. Evading. Savoring.
Then, waking up, eyes glued to the sun, to the sea, salty hairs already dancing among the wind. Two minutes since I got up. But I’m dancing to wake up. A dance between dream and reality. And it will start again, repeating the same mechanical movements.
To accept the travel, you need to unfold it slowly. I like it better by the road, sinuous and annoying, long and majestic, slow and captivating. The destination only exists across the clouds. But it is the progress between islands, between vales of mountains that will bring us there. I need this journey to accept the arrival, a need of the travel to enter the dream. A need of days to roam the distances.We fall asleep, we wake up somewhere else. We take a look at the map, we are moving upon it slowly. After having run the finger on the luminous globe on the desk, the distance of the paper map, the road map, becomes serene, less in a hurry. I need time to savor it. Need time to find myself back. In the dream or the reality. But often at Karpathos.
I need time at the awakening to appreciate the wind, the sun. A need of time for the two or three “frappé” (coffee). A need of this wake up again, the sun directly is so good. A need to get used to the reality of each morning. I can’t just jump from the moment, and bam go straight in the water getting excited over the last failed kabikuchi. Entering the world needs some respect maybe. A need to say “Bonjour” to Virgil, to Max and to Natacha, to greet the day, to sit in the sand, feet in the water. To lay there watching.
To read possibly. A few lines, outside. Reading outside is different. There always is something waking me up. Impossible to lose myself like inside. Is the access to the dream different? The winter by the fireside frees the beginning in the story, I get on the other side for more long times. The dream is real. The summer in the shadows of the trees, I am staying awake nearby. The real forbids the takeoff.
Karpathos is the type of place which marks you forever. There is no real route to get there. You need a journey, to lose yourself, to run aground, start over the next morning, the next year. Finally to make it, to spend there days which resemble, which assemble into one. To stop there to leave, to leave again. To come back. Local people stayed, left and came back, along the stories, along the seasons or years. The people who stopped seem to suffer the same fate: to stay, leave and come back… To live it, “libertés”, “croisés”, “rêver” (dreaming). To live and dream. “
