Nobody wants a woman with tin burns
Text written inside a dream of Duchy Man
At 3:22 a.m. on April 30, he did not know who Pierre Daven-Keller was. I don't know if it was urgent for me to meet him, but a message late at night always seems urgent to me [due to superstition, stubbornness, mania]. At that time I got the video of The Fiancée of the Atom. Beautiful image, input. I have never been the girlfriend of an atom, although at times I have noticed certain combustions inside, and although I have felt the bonds of my atoms tremble.
I suppose that I am made of dark matter and that I do not know, luckily, the particles that compose me. It is better to ignore them [due to superstition, stubbornness, mania].
At one point during that cinematic click, I felt a dissolving euphoria.
An alloy, a weld.
(Kiss the 4×10-⁷%)
In the video there are three characters, although I think that after all there are only two. perhaps one...
The lady: She arrives at a huge house, a kind of mansion. He walks in like he's walking into his childhood home. She looks like a goddess or an oracle who for the first time loses the gift of divination.
The woman who sings: She sings and has sex with a pianist, a sex of atoms, an introspective explosion. She sings as if singing were a sexual act. [Singing is a pretty severe sexual act].
The Pianist: Plays the piano with superhuman serenity. He lets himself be looked at. He lets himself be done, and he does. It's a particle accelerator.
The atmosphere is dense and sexual, and dark, and murky, and peaceful. of crystalline structures. I like the way Pierre Daven-Keller plays the piano, I like the way Helena Noguerra (the particle woman) sings without singing. I like the way they move and moan, like they're singing (because they are singing).
By 3:40 I had finished watching the video (I know from my reply message). I played it more than once. And more than once I stopped in the footsteps of the lady who entered a huge house. That place reminded me of the figure and density of the Santa María de Punilla psychiatric hospital, which has been abandoned for years and is in danger of collapsing. Both places seemed to me to be the image of abandonment… [There are places that have always been alone, even if they remain neat and full of flowers, because everything that falls into there is going to collapse sooner or later, until the walls end up collapsing. (least worrying, actually). There are places composed of dark matter. Places that contribute to the orphanhood of atoms].
That construction was a kind of very sad electronic envelope. Imposing in its sadness.
The lady enters the house where the pianist and the woman are singing. The lady kisses the woman. I believe that she is death (which they both are). At some point I thought it was a lady visiting herself in the past.
That kiss is sadly beautiful. It seemed like a reconciliation. Atoms and mouths being the same thing. The lady contemplates sex from her throne. He moves his very old fingers. The lady knows that oblivion does not exist, that sooner or later we meet the little deaths and we are kissed by the little deaths. No one can run away from himself and it seemed to me a horror that this was a fact at the same time of the morning when it is forbidden to listen Dido and Aeneas, at the same hour of the morning when we are so close to kissing our own mouths. Solitudes bring with them the most corporeal forms of death.[Have you never felt your own kiss? Have you never felt that your own versions visit you? Have you never felt in the middle of the night how a memory sits on a chair and looks at you with a voyeur's rictus and explosive certainty? ?, have you ever felt a memory that hasn't happened yet? A hunch occurs when death kisses us. A certainty is an aged mouth. It is distressing to look at oneself from the outside, to kiss one's own version, to have sex with the body of the melody that takes place while we have sex.
It is better to stay away.
out of stubbornness,
the atomic shell
Obviously Pierre Daven-Keller is a silver composer. (It's not silver like Dvořák, nor is it aluminum like Bartok). It is silver like tin, and it is painful like a tin burn.
Now I remember, with some nostalgia, when my radio broke. I was little and I wanted a welding gun. I dissected that artifact looking for the possible errors that made it silent. I went to a place behind my house, opened a glass jar where the tin was, and with those tiny hands I melted it on the plate, aided by the pistol that I also stole. He had seen how adults did it. Right next to the house a man fixed radios and clocks. I got little burns, because I was always clumsy. I have tiny spots on my legs, burns that look like moles and are already part of the skin.
I relived those moments because that little girl was trying to fix her radio with the same deadly hope with which Pierre Daven-Keller plays the piano. Everything is confused in my memory, and now the pianist places his fingers on a plate and I play the piano somewhere in the courtyard, in 2005.
Years later, a friend I lived with played a tune in C minor and told me that my life had that sound. That friend gave me a blue tin gun. (Hugo was called). He played the piano like he was dying. And once I fixed his landline phone with some tin that Vlado gave us.
Life, after all, is an uninterrupted series of scenes that repeat themselves, in another way, with other images, with other chords, but always with the peculiar sound of things that are about to happen, with the peculiar kiss of the future, with the strangest reminiscence of other times.
It was exciting to see that kiss through the mobile screen. A kiss relatively resistant to almost neutral solutions. I had never heard a song so similar to tin. I've never been so relived by broken spokes and fateful fixes.
I stayed close to myself for a moment, breathing down the back of my neck, looking like myself (and suffering from the abandoned psychiatric hospitals that inhabit me. Being one full of dreamlike flowers and my own kisses).
Pierre Daven-Keller contains a welding and metal flower sound. From childhood soldier. Broken piano.
After I had heard the song I had a conversation about him, and about Thomas Pesquet, and about a radio station that I now listen to every day, and about the life that goes on in an atom, and about the ways in which one looks at oneself from outside, and about extracorporeal deaths and about weightless sexes and about songs without lyrics. Days later, the dreams were mixed, as if a lady with long fingers had put some music in the dreamlike delirium of another.
I want to think that I put on that music, I want to think that I left some beautiful flowers, or some fish that are happy because they have color and desire to have color, and even desire to live.
A tsubaki, I would like to leave a tsubaki in someone else's dream.
A freshwater koi.
The moss flower.
I want to leave flowers in dreams that are not mine.[But we end up talking, as almost always, about not wanting, and abandonment, and loneliness.
Nobody wants a girl with tin burns, or a girl who puts music in dreams, and believes in it fervently. Nobody can love the monsters who score raves where there are soundtracks behind. And it is better that way.
It is better to stay away.
out of stubbornness,
I would like to say that my radio was fixed one night in September 2005.
It is arranged now in a dream place that I know—with what certainty—contains pianos and moss flowers.