ALONG the body of the flute, the notes enter. Along the corridor of the monastery, light comes from open doors. Along the formation of our bones, our ancestors enter us. Along the cracks on the outside of the abandoned monastery, plants grow in its talk. And along all the songs, the parties and the lamentations that inhabit us awake inside us. Along the drafts of air, the universe touches people in the monastery. Along the playing of the flute of vulture bone, the sound rekindles the body. Along cuts, falls and scratches, the body changes its pitch. And along the cuts, the falls and the scratches, the history of the world as it really is enters the body. Along our gestures, spirits that conform to our intent come into us and, depending on it, bless or curse the walls of the corridor where we live. Along the corridor of time, the paint of what we have done in one place falls, bit by bit, on those who pass later. Along the sound, images enter us: an old train raging against progress, passing between the neighbour’s flowerbeds; when the bell rings to go into the jealousy class, leave the guitar in the courtyard for another to play for us.
Along the living corridor of hearing, voices enter into us that terrify us, that call us to the room of delicacy, the room of forgiveness, the room of nakedness. Along the drafts of air, the universe plays the sound of people in the monastery. Along the silence, attention to the truth comes into us, the background conversation of the plants, on the invitation of the still background of the heart. Along the printed flora of the fabric, an ancient carnival enters us, when our grandmother still sewed our suits and there were pvc blowpipe wars with dates for bullets. Along the electricity-less trance party during the fourth world war, the bagpipes and drums of the future enter us. Along the contemplation of our own hands, not knowing what to do in view of the present state of the world, an army of raging angels enters through our joints, lodging between our bones and making us dance a strange, electronicolyric dance of spasms and pvc flutes, a dance of long hugs between strangers trying to curb the greed of global warming and an dance of irreversible opening of unconditional spaces. Along the singing of our collective throat, all the powerful angels we can summon enter the space. Along our singing we clear the corridor, along our flute we play the ancestors, along the sound of our backbone, what touches us is the lyric of the backbone’s connection to the world: a connection made with party flags, lots of sellotape and mended telephone wires emitting intersected songs which no one can remain indifferent to.
Along our road we go just from the chapel door to the altar. Walking under the vaulted ceiling with rifts between the stars painted there, walking between the paint always falling from the walls and walking on the ground which burns with thirst and longing for plants: along our flute road we play just a brief song between the air of the entrance door and the reverberation of the altar of sound giving itself to the world. Along the drafts of air of prayers, the universe plays people in the monastery. Here we are, opening here today. Along the night, birds are heard whose path recalls our true face. Shall we let the world play that one through us for the people?
